Sunday, April 27, 2008

Commons 1 - 12

work in progress . . . .

The cuckoo is a
he was a big freak:
weirds have wrappt his
hail & gunnery,
his pronouns & his minds:
watching some documentary
scales, words stalked them,
warbled as they -
equated money with intelligence,
used the word ‘reverie’
clean as a dipped saint -
I don’t eat that bread /
yesterday I was still dead.

My character was taken
was not yours, who
secretly my small thighs
& the british anarchist movement
stayed indoors:
halt, magnetic sea
& shun mad company.
halt, intelligence
I got my goose shoes on
& talk eclipse, the town is stupid
love fool love,
or we could brick their windows
the aged parents broken,
exposed to annoyance & danger

Back when I was still cruel -
OK, say that again
this time with malevolent roses,
some specks of lords, some
totally harmless character:
the town’s last cinema is broken,
& the rest were maimed & slain.
OK, say the word brain,
this time with malevolent roses
mumbled as in a ‘reverie’
like lingerie & a clean blade
OK, do that again
we got from London what we needed
slaughter the fascist BNP.

O bitter magnet, we shine
inside the most vivid colours
-archaic pop reference here -
but my methods are scholarly
like many a gallant gentleman
I lay gasping on the ground
magnetic & flashing
as any wild-wood swine
we spoke with hail but
my methods -
“most fertile yuppie scum”
my methods are -
I seem to have anarchic tendencies
but I hang around with Trots.

O bitter mag -
what her lawyer called a brain snap
was a naked man, was cruel
after suffering: you can’t have
your eyes / ran trickling
although she is your wedded
weird -
I bet he did I bet he
ran trickling down his knee, by fire
I bet he fell down those
warbled thighs -
you cannot have her eyes -
the final host of the murdered soul

obviously they read books in hell:
they are passionate and scared,
intersected at bitter angles /
the british anarchist movement,
its scales & documents
splintered under a false full moon
embroidered over with burning gold
we don’t know who they are
intersected at oblique angles,
the power to hurt, for example
splat -
in London town where they did dwell.

Anyway, eclipse, as I was saying
with my small brain broken
inside the most vivid moments
with hail scales and etc -
yuppie characters -
slaughter the suffering moon
or watch some documentaries
flashing like zombies
or intelligence
inside our rumoured eyes -
oh pity / aged anarchists are scared
but obviously this reverie, intersected
the police system of knowledge
gargled with gold.

I bet she did I bet she
got up & performed his ambitions
my malevolent shine
gonna build me a log cabin
night of the living dead
jokes about gordon brown
something called the english democrats
on fire:
she would beat them to ashes
with a ring of teeth
& roses -
say cuckoo -
got up this morning
performed my alienations

Meanwhile, in the fast world of banking
they are thinking in blocks of sound
blank ones
reduced to little knots
of hair & teeth
we were speaking
like any gasping swine,
the still full moon
his character
splintered under a london town
that didn’t become power:
I, trickling down her ‘reverie’
of impending cash doom
& how to eat brains.

History is irrelevent with
- archaic credit reference here -
the sun has been disconnected
& we, with our downturned mouths
are maidens,
our credit ratings threaded with flowers.
& we are bleating,
& we are fucking immense
shrieking with gibes & curses -
history, too, is a sort of zombie
swallowed by insatiate fiends
packed in every domestic second
forgetting to pay the bills.

The cuckoo is
these moments of sobriety
icy fierce spikes
through the centre
the burning hedonistic disks
our lives are
intersected by police brains
joined in flat orgiastic
newspaper headlines
this is hideous
to regret all knowledge
this tongue of seething rust
to be born a thousand years ago
stupid as a seagull or a sky

O enchanting metonyms
you don’t know what you’re getting into:
anyway, it cancelled my passport
& I just took some, yeh, whatever -
ok, say it again
o enchanting ring of coins
inside every nation’s sobriety
slaughter / credit / passion
& bleating knots of
ring a ring of
go out to buy records
give up all this english blood
trapped in such a mindful stillness

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Do What THEY Say

Here, Christian Bok is speaking with brilliant banality. Like any cop, he assumes that business reality is the only reality / and that only by incorporating yourself into the spectacle do you become real.

Young avant-gardists, know your enemy.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Consumer Report

Items currently being used and recommended in the seaport hideaway include:

The Sun Unwound: Original Texts from Occupied America (trans. Dorn & Brotherston)
Aime Cesaire: The Collected Poetry (RIP)
Coleridge: extracts from Anima Poetae
Maggie O Sullivan: A Natural History in 3 Incomplete Parts (in BODY OF WORK)
Valium, cough medicine etc
Christopher Hill: Liberty Against the Law
Iain Sinclair / Ed Dorn in ED DORN LIVE
Languedoc Variorum: A Defence of Heresy and Heretics, in Dorn's WAY MORE WEST
Freddy Jameson: Late Marxism: Adorno or the Persistence of the Dialectic
various songs from the Harry Smith Folk Anthology
Casillero del Diablo red wine, with its little picture of Richard Makin on the bottle
Khlebnikov - The King of Time
paintings by Natalia Goncharova
home-made meatballs in spicy aubergine sauce

and a whole bunch of other stuff too. oh I do like to be by the seaside . . . . .

The Fall -

The Fall So It Goes 1978

Von Sudenfed - Fledermaus Can't Get It

Pere Ubu,