Thursday, 20 December 2012

Moholy Silence

The moholy silence on the dreamboat of the bourgeoisie flickers off the water, not in the squiggly self-deceiving way of its forefathers, but in the framed light of an industrial ferry boy in the window producing great mechanical structures along the bedroom ceiling. Sharp, dashing shards quicker than film will never repeat themselves twice. The lightshow is light relief from the stagnant waves of artists standing by.

Monday, 3 September 2012

Smokeshaft Smoulderblades

                                        working edit;          

                                        warmth of winter
                                        bed cold isolation
                                        dead till  
                                        proven warmish
                                        riot  rotting stench.
                                        belief belies beneath us
                                        wrapped-up in law sucking barricades
                                        and pillow smokeshaft smoulderblades.

beddrom, churchdom, parallaxiom

Largely out-of-place huge spired church
(Vassal Rd red brick / German Collage)

The Cemex Gangster (Last Scene)



Sunday, 24 June 2012

Touring Makes You Crazy

‘I’ meant something different in the private plane. These brief visits to the African states had no fixed meaning to me. The organisers whose 3 letters could have been anything were long gone and the contracts were all jumbled. Accelerating already with no checks on who we were. I looked out on the huge gated runway. We were 
new type missionaries. Sofas lay around inside the stripped green shell, moving like oblivious friend types on wheels. The side doors slid open and a soft toy fell out under a military vehicle. One of the idiots threatened to jump out after it but luckily there was some state awareness from our vehicle thanks to our pilot, a real classic rock roadie. Doors were only closed with nails and bolsa wood but we were somehow cruisin’.

I could smell my bloody relative round the back of the modern artaste ruin, being BBQd. No sign from him. His mother calmly attended to me.
“I can’t see him...” I said
“…but I can smell him” she finished for me.
Mothers gotten used to the situation. Her son’s wrinkled into a baton sized action man and is now either residing or being medicated inside a white bottle with sweaty alcoholic juice. She carefully rotated the bottle so the bit of juice round the neck and head bubbles and joins the rest round his body.

From there I was escorted into the city via the backseat, through the giant broadway of the city into the initial heart of arms raising. In being shot at, my driver gets it in the head. I steer over round shoulders as his dead foot pushes me on and I lodge bodies under the shassy and dodge burnt out vehicles with a windscreen wiping of the brick dust.    

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

The phone rings:

You are you am y’I,
It says
One of the books
lying on the bed there
is an external brain.
It has died
green edges
facing the park
You tell it that
through the metal grid
a terrifying friend
or neighbour is
observing your part.

In a fluid sequence later that day
that childish man holds out
his arms in a head cupping motion
as a zombie suffocates with laughter.

Sunday, 15 January 2012

B  U  S                E  N  C  O  U  N  T  E  R  S                C  Z

1.    couple- stuck out- alky- x- slouch, drugskin, space travellers, not heading-out skirts and shirts, boil faced parchment, towards village fun fair, over her shoulder notes, barks or blurts non-human volumes, passengers hop to hold back the sick amusement of a sharp elbow. Both oils yellow hair on pink and white facemasks, ponytails up. Interests lie in their own words, mickery, not giving two czech monkeys, watching a petty mind-squirm, crawling involuntarily, achieving alien code by-productively foaming public thoughts, causing untraceable materials to fly out behind them and blowing up their own sexual waste.

2.    wholesale male, a bit of new dull cloth, thick skull is soft, thickened hair, hyker-pants, leather utility belt, tassling-out, strong bonehold, a principal contract, competitive thickness of cock- whose farm growth, thick package, wage-packet, and property separate him and the fat around his jobless brother. Unsettled, eyes stare like a doctor's call or righteous ticket inspector. My dislike repellent sucks in lonely widows and teenage girls, shakes his head at confusion, pretends to  programme nobody's judgment before witnessing signs of unusual behaviour. Likes to channel wayward ditherers onto any given path  whose force is driving out doubt.

3.    blond boy. 10 years old. grabbed the exhaust pipe to face the driver, not remotely showing off- what are the forces driving him forward- into the city, into his endless ticket, into his proudly guarded brain. Piss off, someborn, i'm someone who pities everyone i meet. Being incorruptible, as a muse he would smash your brainstorm to bits-  throw a conker or anything to hand in your face. Deliberate instinct, solid distrust, half-life mum - half-dead dad, respects nobody openly, palms off the stench of lessons. Sheds-free cloaked commodities; he couldn’t tell you what he was wearing, only that you have something embarrassing on your chin and that your fruit's rolling down the bus.

4.    A lad comes on too strong, something’s wrong. He leans slightly on half his overshowered arse, careful not to fill the seat into the bumpy aisle whilst pulling an arm out of a toy bikerjacket, stares overtly into her sharp eye who knows for seconds over what we'd call coach material. Brilliant viewing. Asspurgers maybe slipped its hand, I don’t know. He looked back without pauses till space tilted up with the rootslumps in the road. She stared stiffly out the window pretending to observe the country's  divisions.
If you can detect, without looking at the paino what hand plays what note, you are listening to a bad player. This man is the very model of a collapsed dualism, or rather a collapsing one, since the two hands remain distinct despite their similarities: the left hand is more repetitive, the right hand more discursive. This is the collapse into the spiralling control of trust in historical fateliness.   

Listening back into the music hall portal of Gyllene Cirkeln, Stockholm 1962, into a unit that makes my closed curtains and stock-home bedsheets look and feel great. An early unit that unites the world with my image of it: my close movements under the duvet, under my jeans, under my pants, under my skin, to my arteries, up to my aorta, through my cortex, brain and eyeballs tied to the following flow in proliferations;

A4 printouts, clothes, satellite dishes, control rooms, tinkering workering fingers, their brains and eyeballs, their control rooms, the traffic heads, the dead signals, the secretarial trade lines, the constant recalculations of worthy energy times courting. During side a did I dream of a flat triangle of

    Money earned, working time + quantity of willingness to part with former to        recuperate latter?
Or was it:
    Money earned, working time + quant. of will. to part with former to increase     the former?
    Money earned, time working and quant. of will. to part w/above to recuperate     below?  
    Money earned, time working and quant. of will. to live inside a transparent     optical flat, with polished surfaces that refract light internally and a thin     slithery door too bright to open for the beam expanders weekend supplement.

Thursday, 12 January 2012

Evil child comes home to convince his parents that their time is almost up.

World Warr II  will be a war won with psychic telepathic technologies.

Dense house party. “Five wacky English proletariat idiots” I sung to a german man following part s of me through the crowded doorways. He laughed as if it meant more than i thought. We headed instinctively for the back of the house for what we imagined might produce a garden or balcony.


A Hex is put up on the Stuttgart Parliament’s krystal house. No paramilitary is needed for these minds, just thick glass, revolving doors and a cracking lawn. The MPs eat BBQ sauce out there. Their children run free and fearlessly. The public don’t even think of talking. They don’t seem too confused about anything that's there. There are faultlines of boundaries that only voters can pick up. The tourists don’t dare ask for a sausage in the concrete valley down below, where the cars are driven straight from assembly lines on the hill above. For residents, the airport is as close to its parliament as model-life itself and people were getting the most smeggy about the architecture of their train station.