Tuesday, 29 November 2011

      Most People Feel...Left On The Inkjet
                                                                   Scanning Screen

Even Standards Noticeable
                          Sucking Along The Floor
"Slightly" ----------------->  Courtroom


                                    M   O   S   T
Trends                                                                  People              
Pretend                                                                 Feel More
To Be                                                                     Face-                                 
Found                                                                    Purpling  
Pressing                                                                Pa$$ion About
Out Old                                                                 Power Cables
Soft Pulp                                                               Leading To
Pressings Of                                                         Lighting
Flat Old                                                                 Ill-Sized
Rolls                                                                      Concrete  
Cranks                                                                   Creative Blocks   
Heads                                                                          /   \
Hearings Keep                                                        /       \
The Inbrains Ticking Over Social Seed and Window Boxes

        Made Outside The Itchy Park In Mind and Word

Saturday, 29 October 2011

Die Auto-Sluice (The Feminine Article)

60 years with black bags for
eyes in bibs desperately scuttling
round pathetic excuse for a bakery
slash come-on tit-bit side-sales,
cartoon animals and stupid cocktails
sticking up to get the husband-
runny to buy the display wine:
you gotta stand the dustbin-bunny by;
ignoring the following face and eyelids,
the unstoppable auto-sluice,
the Ice-Dream Machine-Juice,
the fake Hawaiian stick-rug things
and stuck-upperrings of bunseeds-in
thick frames, that are painful backdrops-in
her struggling somnambulish visions -kick in
the frigging thing quick
and ditch the bib you dead bitch!
Run for your wife Flora before a
grave thought slithers under your life,
and the cracks open up beneath you like a knife!

Crap Reg

Because of this fucking
pen they think i'm writing
reports the whole time and
i can see the black dress dummies starting
to treat me with more respect already.
i'll write down this show was good if
you let me do a shit somewhere.
i know they couldn't know i know
i'd rather inspect a dog's shit than wade
through these rooms with
The Crap Regurgitator
round each corner.
Buttake a substantial leaf
out its commercial history into
its inescapable diseases;
its unmasked social sleazes;
its fossilized wrench;
its traceable imaginative stench!

Chronos: Saves Love Production in the Airport

Policing the only distiguished screen between coffee shop of universal furniture and behind screen authority business,though man walks through it who wears jeans and suit jacket and vaguely homosexual high street mother-teasers. he wouldn't do anything wrong even if he could. man in middle of circular toy train track doing serious electrician job on his knees- killing floor- with 2 elders starting on appreciatively and mindless of his job description. the announcements over the music bring a  tear to my oozing infected eyes.

Celebrating the 55th Anniversary first flight from our history terminal.

What is this for? Watercolours look. And as i spit into the heavily stained box of mud chunks the guards almost jump backwards and i felt them groping their guns. Only a demonstration on one of my pencil drawings was sufficient to get them off my back but only led to my anger at ruining a perfectly satisfactory work for these people's ease. They are comforted cold blooded functioners by whatever small tonal ranges come from music telling you about taking your girl on a shopping spree on the streets far from here. Nothing new in the queue. "i've got the postcode of my office Katie Twenty Two Seminal Y." Numbers he spoke into his mouthpiece were 64 and 54. Asked for replacement function. Back in office tomorrow. Is there a branch in leatherhead still he asked his mates simply. There's no one there at the moment I'm being looked at with what i construe to be suspicion by his well trimmed office boxers.

Rollerskating girls passed 2 blonds, wearing two brand t-shirts- unrecognised joblets. They can't be serious seriously- isn't in their programming. Anonymously they roll out permutations of crushes and promotions and lifts home. But i dream of the mental juices inside them both; of some truely deepreaching gossip; of one of those who-gives-a-flying-fuck jobs where they actually manage to mutually screw their bosses over somehow.

Anonymity among insecure national identities. No history which is itself a cause of this prolonged staring match can talk anymore. "A bit of a shrapnel head". I mistook an emporio mannequin for a poor man working. Went in to price check inflated waterbotz. Different boundaries i almost forgotz. Staff stick out cos of unbelievable stench in uniformout. Stick together and chat. Walk accidentally into open private cash area. Funny looks. Scat act- only path to innocence- or sex act. Show slavishness to their positions. Seems to be almost police station in number of policedoors and comfortable manner of patrol connotes local shop protection racket over any feelings of international air law. In the perfumery itslef the stereo is off or broken- lone staff kneels down below counter whistling the same 5 note jinle over and over in frontless show of customers.

Chronos: Save Love Production.

No going back now. Non one has X-rayed my baggage. If i vomit here various isolating factors will come into play (the boyish police psychic seemed at me knowingly as i thought about it):
     -Inspection of vomit- looking for unusual PH levels with his dipstick from his handy belt pouch.
     -Seizure of notebook- evidence. Precise description of its purpose. Ident Stamp- idea store id.
     -Fforced fill-in of incident report form to explain reasoning behind happening before check-in glass.

At the moving belt i accidentally flung an important tissue over into the official Xray zone,

    "in yiur bathroom sir? how many am i competing with? as i said i am confident- we can make a new business model...i'vev been selling pl_?_ for over twenty years...i've bitten off all my fingernails..."

O.K Dick is bad here. And so are the crap poets that use the O.K Space Tool. Too much of the same, common interests. Might be a talking point to sway me through to the classical zone. I can't picture the outside anymore.  It's dark reflections only show me and the moving colour people up. Total submission. Maybe i could use a fake knowledge excerpted rightless orchestral overtures to threaten them with copyright infringement. I know a few names to bargain with and i can count on them never having noticed music at work here or having foreseen any cultural insecurity arise. Social law and nothing else is between me and my being lynched by the onlookers. Saddeningly, the medium of restraint hovering above us, fostering bland domed thoughts, is the message. And it is this restraint -and desperate distraction through anything warped like the fish in pedicures- which is my seperation from them, brothers, dripping saps of my life and blood.

Again, maybe i could show them my most benign example of draughtsmanship as a sign of my humble service to the illusion- this unbelievably uncontrollable web of value-?
shattered cosmic marble
spins the blocof time,
builds department stores,
pumps the light through
green plastic escalators
to the distracted shopper;
notices empty sections,
tries not to think
about the spreading
tied knots of the recession-
strangling themselves from within
the recesses of the shop's mind-
the depressed furry rolls of fabric.

Monday, 17 October 2011

Muzeum Scare

Steep park road wall giants
the creeping Sacre Coeur monastry-hotel.
Little piles of sweepings slash residents
like they’ve been there for days.
Lawnmower pitch changes blades,
appearance on the static sexroom monitor,
stuck inside social security tramlines,
X Joe KGB Murphy Borders Bar,
Little david stars everywhere,
in regional brain patterns and
forest city paths,
leading laid back terror
even more morose.

The castle, the shrubs and
the Vietnamese shops.
Different dogs on different levels,
different slavish breeds,
leftover empirical noses up
here the new middle ground
is a high walled republic,
power-down signage syndrome.
Where’s the energy of the high-
street proletariat?  

Burrowed-for signals and
ridiculously steep walls
demand god lawful sediments
of poodle and granny shit,
various treaties in hand
over the toilet
trading creators.
Crapper still now-
with pretend partitions
to protect the invisible,
flat behind curtains &
the sleep forced
divisible wealth source.
Did you ever
Do a sprint run up
the thousand royal steps?
lung humbler & hunger
leaves you begging,
for state blocks of
polished slate, humane objects
of shallowness & introspection,
old workers relief
don’t take their heart
& lungs out,
40 years ishy
wishy thinking of days
today- reality,
frozen food,
empty yoga minds,
endless rolling cling films,
great adapting cronies
down there-
didn’t see a silver servant
converse with this
glazey-eye fat-nosed
10 krown gene vincent,
knacked out genes victim
since the feathers
in your hair
grew back there-
Glams no pockets,
Soviet Rockets,
memoirs & motorbikes,
halfway house postcard
streets- never given in
to floating dignity-lie
dead in some grace-
filled land-fill.
Child-stitched up
Swayed to deathby
brilliant ideas-
when mum’s away,
show us some self respect.
Role model is a doll-model
Sour Nanny don’t talk none
-no parents or teens-
just dyes roots lemon to death.

Cat on the roadside,
gaping jaw maggots
rotting granny’s manuscripts,
pissed itself into a flying car.

Mentally ill woman
behind us all
only exists when she does
makeup & hair,
plays around there
with her station name,
The Muzeum Scare.

Tapping tiles
under the ground while
dislodged members creep out
in a private public freak out.

((((((((((((((((((((Sonorous Squirts))))))))))))))))

Sonorous alerts program within
Compatibility with the continuous
Mind frames squirt out,
its public prams in.

New German base
supermarket opens
Peoples rush in,
characters freeze
on looped sound coming
from the new bread-lift.
Did not two jingles overlap
to no. one’s noticeable concern
with a tonal squeeze?
They wouldn’t accept it
in their music system;
No music plays through
people milling focusedly
up and down low aisles

Down the same road
a place plays on its audience
-the demographic sponge-
the idiotsyncratic talent.
The nothing rules.
Hits on new
Hits lodged-in
most populated regions
of the brain
and activate only this
 segment wit
semi-cohesive purpose results.

Bread ladies converge,
Relay codified information,
w/a gloucomic glass cow’s glance
psychic carrier nudge,
settled hair nets
 who reach the top of their lift
only to face eternity
of first shifts, fists first.

The hot yeasty production
The unimaginable underworld
Knows not what to judge
Nose not mouth to grudge
other divisions’ malfunctions.
The faceless umbrella manages
over arching inspiration and ambience.
It goes on till registration.
Out with my device!
Off with my archive!

And in the airpost too,
more extreme times
separate priorities.
Fire in the other part
6 times per minute
its objective offensive:
Sun the face
through the whole
giant green house.
Slow spread notices me
signalling determinated
security bursts
throughout the building.
Say, on polished marble how
do spec insect species respond
to meeting each other?
Think of these hands,
filed filaments glimmering
like a purpose
with whatever’s put in front of them.
Saw one drag
one of its own Queens.
Dead kind
but dry
n 'thout hind legs
across small patches of grass
to the community cremation.

Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Brain Matters; Experiment's Experiences (1)

                                 Dear Doctor, 
                                               My name is Lubbert Das. 
                               Please cut the stone out of my head, 
                                             four eyes,                           
                                                                am dead,
                               and will not disturb the bedspread.

Why not matter? I was asked after the presentation of my analysis. Affect me not its outcome. I remembered to focus sharply on the opaque shell of pretense, not the clinging irritable moral after-sting of some distant rattling chamber. It doesn’t matter to matter what I have seen- evolution happens in the sap of other sapiens. I have observed mutations in other brains, in the neurological shortcuts and contagious plasmas of comfort and curricumulative style reductions. In one case they found him beaten up with half his brains on the floor, so they scooped them up and shipped him to a village in the nearby mountain range. Quite a few brains have passed through my observations and I must protect my livelihood by assuming this role; the small town poly researcher, with favourable access to equipment and the peripheries of high ranking thinkers. People have come to expect certain results – I have partaken in thinning and dumbing out to go better with given flows- to relieve myself in the habitual compartments of my own brain. Most of the clients come to me with brains which follow a standard lapse pattern of organisation. I found a sociologist drinking out of a grotesque goblet glazed by an abused up researcher. The left over emotional crap from the therapeutic properties in pottery for the council’s flatline of breaders, which, anyone who sees what they themselves see, knows it to be the secret probing for the perpetuation of coarse paperbacks on the campus round and round preserved printing presses of new unchecked myth propagating, high steam profiling and celebrity wind whisperers whose names ring like swirling nouveau frames on the poor new riche and lucked out tradesclub dicemen, whose systematic degeneration smashes mirrors from a French collection into a thousand deadly shards of bottomless cerebral prophesies over each others heads in a final dogfight. The social slipper tutts under the “counter intuition. They’d be better off doing accountant tuition.”    
Similarly I found that if they were, say, an artist they would categorise into either Art or Non-art thoughts to think about when accessing and applying functions to certain climbs- outright pantheonic or pathetically paradoxical- all how to's to dead set ends. And the same would apply to the research scientists’ conceptions of the universe within video games or music history or child rearing or cyber sex- turned off without prompting; or the bin men’s inability to pick out value from rubbish when leisuring heavy imparement; or policemen’s off duty dislocation against right and wrong, enemy and dinnerparty, re-absorbing plane clothes and the moral uniform – all with dramatic waverage (heaped together purely by dense formal lines of authoritarian ancestry).

Sunday, 25 September 2011


The producing dregs of
xmas cracker contents,
one winter Britkid crazes,
rushy investment figurines
subtle plastic allure rings
hone-eyed sub-smells
seductive rubbery textures
in proportions of
funky watch straps and
hair beads and
pink-hallframe mirrors and
shiny pencils and
comedy glasses and
pale honk-nose 'tachments- and
one done by women and
two done by children of
three tropical regionsand
fucking four enslaving connections
to frigging five million passing objects
with wonderfulfilling foreign words
building, of dreamlike stages
yielding vulgar urges addressed
nailing unsightly backbones undressed
below the constant inspection of the
pure insensitive attachment head.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

To Stanstead!

Slowly creeking, main ish roads, I had momentary experience of as a bicycle part of the less zig zag and more unofficial slithery way around days. The new viewing angle makes the plastic and grass landscapes, parks stretched across globe road seem cold and distant and its users and characters completely sliced away from my memory and all the things next to it- of the sensation of a half-directed half-sleep dream, that you never remember, but that contains incisions of brilliance as if to make you wish you could learn from it. All the names flash up straight to the coach window and surprise me in how I have stored them. Eg. Mile End road, gardiners’ because of the black swirly font I’m ashamed to have lodged in estate agents prob for resentment in its meaningless expressions of leisure and law. I even retain traces of the passing dusty crest of the set back council's carcass too permanent to conjure in memory. The pub on the main road has shutters down but built only half way up so the lights inside can be seen from the coaches taking their wives to the airport. Lock-in of sorts with a wifecleaner still there, with or without a few drinkers to shield.
Street cleaner differences; Victoria alone, green trousers, orange fluorescence, 2-wheeled bin and wide fat brush. New to area, careful to decipher private alarms using 2d business map with logos. Mind occupies other spaces within the old city walls, besides birthplace. Cambridge Heath- in between courtyard and pavement. Type of accidental thoughtless space he is comfortable in whether cleaning or catching up or trading or messaging. Works at steady pace without a rushing love or hate of the area because well there's no point moralising the matter and thoughts of an old phone box belong to him when assigning him there. Well you’re either gonna find him on the narrow estate path, cornershop lottery stand, outside bookies, or in the cafe. So he might as well be cleaning readers stereotypes out there, going nowhere sciving they think, they know. I encounter him from my slice, sharing the smouldering ash of a cigarette with a male half his age perched on bicycle with an exceptionally high saddle. They exchange little biroed words on a rolled up newspaper, chat and part. His bike goes faster than our coach to the airport. Cleaner walks back away from the road under cover, stops next to the large flintfilled leg holding up this cornerquarter of the estate. Encountering another person this time obscured by the pillar, he refers to his paper again, ticking off or adding to the list.

Further along our driver stops at a junction, exchanges some information with a man stood at a cordoned off slip road, and diverts. We reach outer land of circular grey plants, abandoned guard dogs, slime filled canals, and in the distance huge construction work for a future site of abnormally shaped windowless buildings. One plant seems to be producing large grey bricks, piled up against the partially ripped fence- to go behind it for multinational use. Luck of the Irish cement plant too was miraculously in right place, right time for the end of a business rainbow but they were definitely bought out or sold. Will they clean up a little boy’s forgotten transatlantic tag? Rust and dust surely impossible to suck into corporation when it settles after all molecular disruption to crevices of the machines, grass, pavement and the rest. Trick to avoid the crevices. They can’t drain the canals before pulling out the slime- all interconnected with a substructure of strong tendrils- to give shocks to the disused slime-trawlers that will need resurrecting before the investors inspect the new zone. Again I spot two lone men on foot amidst the wasteland in some fluorescent uniforms, again exchanging details written down by one on a rolled up newspaper only then to disappear behind the dust clouds rolling up from all around us whose thickness told me our coach was the first vehicle to disturb these crossroads in weeks. But in a few months the tanks and tourists will use the same clean tarmac paths around here.

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Internet Doc Shop

Tues 29th March 11

Went with A. to library to watch usual ITV, IBA, Thames television etc. testcards and idents. Library computers are full- saw no cuts posters here but at pensioner centre – thinking about whether it’d be good if mister can’t you see TUC posters were everywhere. Suddenly 2 nightmares appear half asleep where a woman in a black dinner dress spotted my character in an empty chandeliered restaurant but revealed herself accidentally as if her role was to watch me as unnoticed as my unconscious. Her nerves at being caught had such an audible atmospherical drop that I knew she was my death call. Another was realising the person close to me was making eye-contact + nodding to a private detective/policeman in a car opposite the station.
The internet café is something without specific place. All chairs and monitors are different and individually broken. An asian man in silver rushed in to print something- on the phone later- apart- and cannot feel comforted- why does it do that evertime I go to print? The embarrassment was hushed by the man himself just before singing and talking business with friends. The man didn’t even shout at his machine- just wacks it familiarly. The clicking of an empty plastic shell rings out to me as the defining sound of his shop. Rat trap of cheap products- only thing one can hope for is monetary increase in capital combined with decrease in cost of technology , but the two are attached to the same transparent wire and that would mean more of his customers buying sitting room computers and death of cyber café culture, man and wife forcibly accepting. Even niche immigrant market deals will hurt someone in the process. Computers still need a user. Singing, how to start a business and a woman 40 odd and normal inlikely jailbird has just come out and proclaiming to her friends here that they really stitched her up, the police -fro some strange justifiable reason- forced, and I wondered what they did her for. Daughter following up the church street too. There isn’t really a time to limit like the screen clocks of the public sector- this abides by feelings; moody business, intuition, star confidence, man-gambling, wife’s stature, her family’s stature, their whole stability, health, plans, aspirations, movements, aways on a clear day- the poor man’s sickness, like hope, fluctuates and takes turns, immediate comfort insurroundings; friends, computers, connections, glimmers -in objects, in music- access routes, foresights, no cracked walls or subsidence or even like next door’s pediment falling off, I remember, they closed the whole street off for a bit of manky plaster sealed pigeon shit. All this in turn is controlled by the puppetry, obscured completely by codes, riddles of governing words dribbled into every domain- sparing nothing personal- more intangible than just made-up science symbols into everyday worries, panics, trusts, faith banks, games, mobile phones, signatures, middle names, contracts, fluid, running in and out of you, your shop, your wife, your sexlife, your money, your social shape, is precise in propelling that a speed of life must run parallel, evolving continuosly but forced to relax without heavy thoughts for more than a split second (except when awake in bed) to slow momentum gathered. On top once and for all you feel -?- flicking portals of old meaningless visions from the 70s, dead forgotten, pink powdered faces and dead smoked wigs and bobs, pastel make ups, bikinis, forgotten athletes, colours, toupes, clocks, shapes and particular sharp sounds, graphic shapes and reflections, and flexing of the most advanced computers, imitations of things like puddles and golf courses; symbols associated with dynamism, fluidity, competition, leisure- but without a point- small world folds Leeds and Bombay inside a 3000sq ft office warehouse into feelings shot around us into the shop, cables, all the pressures to keep up felt. Still smouldering from pan-world plastics you’re able to smell here. Smells like old un-soldering tvs are nightmarish to small business symbols; capital dropping you like slow voiceless sacking stained out of real and legal existence. What can we offer the self propelling haze that engulfs all energy within the relations of things? This man doesn’t flinch at anything done by people on these monitors, healthy desensitizing- adapts more skilfully, skipping from skin and dance and love and death to morphing social codes and endless silk-veil sentences and controlled tonal vacillation for each new occasion and creed- momentary absorption and eternal respect for these strange crevices of life-drive purpose are uncontrollable. Ingenuity he knows in buying and selling monsters whose tentacles stick to greasy restaurant ceilings for years, baby-shakers, toy shares strictly on the ground outside the shopfront, on top of everything in subsistence life below it receiving warm decimal shocks- even to some part of the African continent house and garden, family and love, virtue and security, comfort and compromise. The most absurd industries can’t afford to be snuffed- don’t ask me why- just look at these figures walking alone to the bank silently <*>

*the dregs of producing- of xmas cracker contents, of one winter Brit kid crazes, of subtle plastic allure, of honed sub-smells and seductive textures and proportions; funky watch straps and hair beads, pink-frame mirrors, shiny pencils, comedy glasses with pale honk-nose attachments- are all done one by women and children and two in tropical regions whose connection to the passing objects is wonderful and filled with foreign words that build the dreamlike scenes that make them feel they are naturally the unsightly backbone to the pure and sensitive Head above them- but nevertheless they are happy to share the same organism. The closer their contact through these plastics the more regularly they can be comforted by this feeling of belonging.  Or they are just so beyond the emotional range of Taiwan’s called it industry that they see them as direct enemies, sped up colourful signs of a speeding fixed seat, torturous things more to do with keeping them tired and gridlocked in the huge purposeful district, of scooters, of vegetable oil scooters, its granddads living off the roadside bamboo of a whole process of distractions, numbing, and hazy land’s function whose diametric position to your side of your road, mind, body. Made natural by bashing nature like getting sick days from parents and doctors is not useful to anyone. I say sod off rods of metal constantly carrying me these trinkets whose existence is more than mine, can I express the stomach sinking by naming these things directly? Just vague visions hang in education, dreams and suspensions, discipline and aspirations of catching trains and qualifying and telling the world to not be lazy for consequence that your sorry face’ll end back to basics where it started. Anyway this is just part the puzzle logikey incidentally keeps noticeably stupid prods (which even the downtrodden sack of envy and bitterness confuse religion and work, forcibly have to deny in themselves the thoughts of uselessness and what they could mean. They could try and tie a primitive connection to it with usual honesty and the way they measure days away from the bond of its digestion n lifespan. I’m guessing its harder to drill pride into heads The Great British Proletariat who are producing mini jumping frogs + gold plastic infant rings, mentally handicapped folk-theft and a-normal spinster women down on their knees speaking in funny no-land voices at playgroup.

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

Tamsin on Kool London


Sunday, 9 January 2011

The Rush

All four branches of the conjoined families are here in this multileveled townhouse, the façade being at street level still, with the back at least a story or two below, looking out onto a great sunken moss lawn of church ruins. Just columns, and the shell, with seating east and west, left and right wings sloping alike down into the same section of bank owned by the property’s river.

Looking out the window from the room of mine and my father’s residence for this wedding night of my sister and his daughter, I was at ground level with the street behind me but with a dramatic balcony overlooking this view of what felt to me like a miniature forum. Father was making the beds and arranging the bedside lighting for the single beds. He then steps back when he has finished the arrangement and comments on its satisfying completion in a way completely unlike he has ever said or done in my presence before. I would have thought it a parody of a grandma had it not been such an emotionally formal day. All doors are opening and closing with people milling around half dressed, half done-up, bottom up bottom down, half hair sprayed; the other still pegged or bagged, pinned pastel dresses in satin style, men nowhere to be seen, and the strange tunnel vision of every woman makes my father and I unnoticed, even in their inappropriate show of deconstructed womanhood. It is an early evening into dusk ceremony. Still no sign of anyone from my branch- not even my father now (whisked off somewhere). All to do is imagine the strength of connection to each of these women after the ceremony, and grouping them into families and generations. Quite easy general palette handed down + excitement / stress levels were obviously inherited. I meet a few males perhaps queuing for the toilet. One particular friendly male, who I conversed with, stood out with his un-wedding-like get-up and bleach and gelled blond hair. He clearly belonged to none of the clans, not only by his style but by his carelessness and shifting anonymity. Soon it was time to be escorted out onto our seats for the ceremony inside the forum shell. Hundreds of seats- each one nametagged. I made note of the clans seating arrangements against my predictions; the pastel colours were so together that their area (that which I faced) hummed in the soft sickly tone produced by a pinkish glow under the deep blue spotlight against the backdrop of the bridge wall behind. I noticed members of the public were already gathering on the bridge above. Words seemed not to be words anymore but kinds of bass mutters before a great orchestration. Never had an isolated feeling of a crowd been so blindly individual. How manipulable the crowd seemed to be by such transparent artifice and formality! I hated the restraint and choreography of the whole thing that I looked at as the bridge shadows of people and the flowing water of the river right until the first words of amplified speech. The sound travelled in an unlikely way. I tried to see speakers but obviously they were hidden. I tried to follow it and work out the reverberations. The combination of the lighting of the bridge and forum against the pitch black surrounds and now the sound design inside this otherwise open space, created a masterfully theatrical claustrophobia. The acoustics were so disorientating that I dared not open my mouth or cough for its amplification. I just realised I hadn’t seen any one of my family since sitting down, hadn’t even looked to see my sister, the bride! I haven’t been digesting any of what’s going on until I’m shocked to see that the guy with the bleached hair and hi-street costume has got up to make a speech. It turns out he was a good friend of both my sister and the groom whilst at university. This welsh boy with glazed eyes told some vague and typical anecdotes about the couple which were expected of him, when suddenly the tone seemed to change. The speech degenerated into the most fascinatingly inappropriate description of this person’s rare and incurable disease until he was removed from the altar.

As an interlude or distraction from this speech, the organisers seemed to be sorting out an emergency filler. The audience then either had to turn right around or face directly in front of them to observe a performance taking place on the bridge. It was almost impossible to tell whether it was a projected film onto the bridge of some filmic couples romantically engaged on a bridge or whether we were witnessing real life actors acting out in front of us on the bridge itself- the light was that estranged. Each couple looked so happy that their time and ours seemed to drift around like a film, where all chronology has been concentrated to the most intense and straightforward moments of a lifetime. Everyone went so melancholy in themselves that everything else seemed forgotten.

After the ceremony, I guess from my disjointed memory that the intoxication must have taken hold of the crowd pretty quickly, or at least myself. Having said that it was impossible to tell whether I had forgotten the insignificant events prior to this state or whether I had unwittingly been in this state for sufficient time to have only half-consciously experienced it. The combination of catching my reflection in the window and digesting various alien words about myself from strangers (I am young, a glasses wearer, moody, excitable, cynical, impressionable etc.) gives me a strong sense of myself as the embodied product of some shifting machinery that I don’t recognise as existing and which I have never seen in entire form.

In the height of this state people seemed to be entering and exiting my field of vision and comprehension too rapidly to form a solid view of the whole event. It was then that there seemed to be some agitation coming from within the townhouse. It wasn’t anything in particular which brought this agitation to my attention- instead a sort of shift in the atmosphere that, more connected to pitch, seemed to immediately unnerve me. A residual drone rippled through the building out onto the dramatic ridges of the lawn, originating from a series of heightened pitches in the reception area.

The storming of this place was softened by the fictitious feeling it assured me within this dizzying state. At least twenty young men of central asian origin were wielding swords, but without much strategy or cause. After some very disorientating shifts in mood, and more confusion as to the authenticity of the storming, I was handed one of these swords for myself.

I was forced out of the ceremony and into the surrounding streets, which I had viewed for the first time only when driving through to the wedding. By this point I was with this asian group, or at least I was pretending to be, running through a dense maze of alleyways when encountering a 12 year old black boy. Not knowing the procedure I shouted to the boys behind me ‘what about black boys?!’ and before they could answer I ran him through with my sword between his arm and torso. After, what must have looked like an attempt on his life, the boy quickly scurried off.

The mood again shifted, this time getting dingy and more sinister. Although no one was to be seen, it’s only a matter of time before I put a foot wrong and get found out. Still in the same alleyway, came towards me the same bleach blond whose speech seemed now to be the root of my profound detachment from the fabricated forms of reality (the social obligations, employment arrangements, timekeeping, public image, guilt, regrets, personal history, respect etc.) and into this rushing tunnel feeling. I can’t remember him telling me but I certainly knew at this point that he was dying of the disease and if his grave eyes were any kind of symptom then the black boy certainly had the same fate. The best way, I gathered, to exit this un-navigable network of alleys was actually by hopping from roof to roof as the crow flies, as we now were. Crossing several alleys below we stopped at one with a small gap in its corregated roof. My guide friend swung down with a sexual confidence, at which point I imagined that if there were a narrator (as I was acting to my removed self) he would say now; this is where the story gets adult.

Inside it was basically a dilapidated shed adjoined to some long since abandoned shop. Out into another alley, but this time with an opening to a main street. I noticed my friend was fixated on something in a small pile of rubble next to us. I assumed it was the half-corroded aluminium knife that interested him. Then, I noticed something which shook all the dizziness out of my body, grabbing a root of shock from my already uprooted sense of self. A baby of porcelain doll proportions wrapped with, and held up by, cobwebs against a tree stump or ex weed. Apart from its strange sized head the baby looked fleshy but dead. I connected the baby to the disease, aside from the confusion of morals, but to do with evolution and force which I couldn’t place myself inside yet.

We both looked out along the alley towards the street. People were sprinting from right to left only, throwing and shouting. In its most doll like moment, the baby’s body came detached from its head- with the aid of the pale hands of my present company. As soon as the body hit the floor, the whole sky’s lid shut leaving us with nothing but pitch black sky above.

Friday, 7 January 2011

Demolition- What About This Love!?

At least the Event in its cause-n-affect fabric means buying more records is identifiably distilled within fake identity. Any feeling of mass is so strange and thrilling that I ran frantically but stopped when I saw myself running without direct purpose and contact with others.

Smooth fingers are so seriously inappropriate that I start to see why the capital depends more on fluid music and cuticle cream than anything else. Softened the other day to the idea of bars not being directly something to avoid when the floating suspension of belief that is comforting womanhood is concerned. A certain degree of either evil wool or silkiness is required if only for the compromised act of man’s promised  community. A painfully repentant must. Mirror music is interesting here. Forget deconstructing your own success under the great shining stars of the glass sky scraper, even when noticing one’s little brothers still cleaning inside it, like thoughts of a giant penis. Say nothing. Make light, pronunciation, foreign food or compromise for the senses’ sake whilst in the precious mood.  Everything mindful must be suspended for things to flow no matter what the consequence…