Monday, June 26, 2017

On Bomb Scares

And then a bullet replaced all of history. We couldn’t recognise ourselves in it - all of its dates compressed to a phalanx of immaterial noise. And then we ignited, were permanently stained. We had always guessed it would be cities that would fall, but how wrong we were, transformed in our sleep to an alphabet rearranged as a disc of cranial time. You can be this letter, someone said, and I will be that one. The separation was endless. Let none of this ever return. Oh cancelled dreams, let those who know how to sleep close their mouths forever, and remember to never again open their eyes.

Saturday, June 24, 2017



love poems in great sadness - Abject, Abject 2, In Fever, After Pasolini

after Pasolini 2

It was around two in the morning. The wind was blowing through Kottbusser Tor, as if it was a kind of church. No garbage anywhere. Usually the only thing about by that hour. I was talking to a couple of guys, they wanted my cash, though I knew they had no dicks. I was trying so hard to touch their hearts. Then you, you showed up in a car, with a guy holding some kind of knife. I don’t know why I got in, but I guess I did. You drove me to a beach. They found me in the morning. Recognised me by my teeth, by what was left of my fingerprints.

There was, deep inside this so-called world, something that had no price. No gold could buy it, no church could sing it, no-one could understand it. It appeared directly in the middle of life, and it meant nothing but itself. For a while I hated it, like everybody else, then all of a sudden it filled my entire reality. I still don’t understand it. What it was. Why does it matter so much, and what is the nature of the hole that is left now that it has gone. But most of all I can’t understand the rage with which we tear it apart, such hatred against a love so broken.

Friday, June 23, 2017

after Pasolini 1

Of all people I hate straight people the most. Especially the old ones - they hold hands, they share their love like some kind of cowardly bond, Decades it lasts, like some kind of comet, some kind of prophecy of some horrific disaster. An illusion, a pact with a devil. Our love, of course is nothing like that. You leave me by the graveyard, no blessing, no love, no stupid cryptic reasons. You hold my heart in your fist. No blood, nothing there at all. No mythology here. Nothing but a frozen frown, held in a bloodless fist.

I can’t even tell what it means, I’m with friends, and you, like an apparition. No smile, no frown either. Certainly no disdain. So hard to see how once we were happy. Whatever. Its later, and not quite farewell. How I wish we could enter the time before we had ever met, to burrow like some foul earth-beasts into the soil. How the night would have no light whatsoever. And all of our gods such stupid lies.

Friday, June 16, 2017

In Fever: Notes on Les Chimères de Gerard de Nerval

for Eva Collé

Don’t wait up for me tonight, the sky will be black and white

Yeh I’m in a bad mood as well. Cops are everywhere. But we know that - we murdered them. Lets talk about black stars.  Something stretched strings between them, and now they flutter like chords. Stars, a very bad mood. Pasolini wrote about singing, called it the “divine wind that doesn’t heal but rather makes everything sicker”. This is the fifth day of our fever. Cops make everything unreal. Songs get sung outside their cellular systems, from the centre of some kind of secretive world. Whisper those songs, then scream them. After that, kill all straight men. You know they want it.

Was thinking about that for a while this morning, then I thought about the human world. I’m sick of it as well. Was thinking that murder in the suburbs is the only real expression of the continued need for human love, where everything is turning to ice, yet everything is frozen in gold. When the sun hits the earth it shatters into all human data, calendars of the places music goes when its notes disappear. The same places the dead live, I guess. But this has little to do with what we say when we’re wasted, and everything is flooded with animal light. The human horizon covered in ashes.

A guy walks into the ocean. Kill him. The gesture is futile. He walks out of it again. Won’t shut his mouth, talks for several centuries about the devil and the hunger of screaming birds. Don’t waste your sympathy. The sky is packed with them, terminal birds that screech of all the terrible things that might happen. And behind them, timeless bells transforming all to the metal stains of what has already happened. And behind all of that are stars tracing out the fixed raptures of what ought never to have happened. There is no death anywhere. Our hatred of the rich is entirely justified.

Toward the end of his life Antonin Artaud wrote a poem complaining that no-one ever touched his body. But he seemed to think it was a good thing, that if anyone did then it would split to a million fragments and fill the known sky. Poor Artaud. Little did he know this goes on every night. There are bodies that fragment each dusk, that split into countless wild lenses that fall to earth at dawn and form a strange calendar of imaginary incidents, frozen cities, addictions, etc. What this implies is not utopian. The straight world never touches anything. It’s victims never do anything else.

Because I’m fearful the sky will shatter I would like to turn it to stone, to turn it to seven pebbles, each to mark a day of our fever. As in set fire to cars, put glue in locks, sugar in petrol. Also include bodies. Also include the shock and the curse of our loss. As in recite that curse, until the voice becomes a song, or the word becomes something outside its borders, the barricades we built across this life of great mourning in which the seeds of our hurt would bloom. The fascists who murdered Pasolini are now the owners of the world. Do not mourn or forgive. Shriek one time. Shatter glass.

The thirteenth returns, and everything we once thought inaudible. There is gunshot, there is fire in the suburbs, the fixed stars falling like cops or roses, the darkened rituals of the middle class. We replace them with pinpricks, with new forms of arson, and the dreams of a thousand archers haunting Trafalgar Square. Nothing returns. Our bodies, the names of stars. But nothing is forgotten, everything falls. Thirteen the only number, the sounds of thirteen fevers crackling inside our dreams. There are no dreams. We never sleep. An unknown light in the corner of our room.

Tuesday, May 09, 2017

Our Death 35 / Abject 2 (after Baudelaire)

Oh great love, that will crush the human world, I wish we could do something to help each other. But today I am surrounded by the most tedious of enemies. Look at him there, for example, leaning against the wall, asking me again and again about my fever. I would smash him if I could. I would explain to him that fever, in the way that he would speak it, is merely a strange reflection of his smile, his sense of rightness within the so-called world. That fever, when he uses the word, is merely an arrangement of five letters, whereas for me it is closer to the five senses, to all of human history, to the cities of the sun and the devastation inflicted there. Oh great love, if only you could whisper to me the language needed to describe that devastation, so I might fill his mouth with the thorns of our great loss. It seems that everything we once knew has been stolen from us, and now idiots are reciting it, idiots who don’t know how to close their mouths, and the sounds those mouths make are razors scratching words into our chests. Oh great love, I cannot read the language written there. I wish I could say to you just one soothing word. But today I am the filthiest of brides. Only the stains around my mouth make me less repellent than those whom I most despise. 

Monday, May 08, 2017

Our Death 34 / Abject (after Baudelaire)

Wine is a dull disk that encircles the law. It will check your passport, will make sure that your sense of rhythm never exceeds the accepted patriotic patterns. Opiates, meanwhile, will run subtle holes through the length of the calendar. The city’s windows, your systems of memory, both of them become an alien landscape, an inaudible language that speaks at times of human love, which apparently is all we are ever supposed to desire, a golden net about as plausible as the sounds made by cash, that fictitious mirror, that city of no language where every night you lock the door and scatter coins across the floor until they reflect the farcical stars: “oh you tedious razor'd meat, you pompous junky filth. When will the day come when you can die beneath some weird lovers’ fists”.