Tuesday, September 29, 2009

(after Rimbaud)

I can’t tell if its Regent St or Jupiter.
Blue ink from the Sahara.
Apartment blocks infested with cages.
Spiders screaming like birds.
Ancient houses, abandoned passions.
Kiosks for all the dull young men.
Shadows & Juliets, a thousand devils.
Smashed windows, broken stars, silent gardens.
Ridiculous songs from the past.
A fraudulent, symmetrical harmony.
Ruined boulevards: no commerce, no drama or comedy.
A fractured collection of infinite scenes.
A few people I used to know.
I stare at them blankly.

Brussels 1872 / London 2009

Monday, September 21, 2009

(after Rimbaud)

The wide avenues of Baghdad.
An attic room, sealed from the outside.
A pronoun cluster, incinerated by dogs.
A bitter sky, on a sober landscape.
Regrets are stupid, and exile is a matter of degree.
A matter of harmony, or hierarchy, like everything else, and as arbitrary.
Like a flight of scarlet pigeons, or a few wild nights where your thick skull stopped you from getting, you know, really out there.
A graceless trepanation in the soft earth, the collapse and realization of all literatures.
But what is the accumulation of all human knowledge compared to our corporate stupors.
In a volcanic landscape we were fed to mercenaries.
In a house in the country we heard the tricks of digestion.
In an alley in Paris we learned all of human history.
Constantly speaking of our mythical entry to the world’s cities, on a diet of medieval bread, we became businessmen, conductors, the entire universe.
But thats only true from the perspective of one or two outdated formulae.
In terms of a different set of harmonics this could be anywhere, Haymarket or Kabul.
And we could be pigs.
But I’m not going to let any of that stop me from enjoying my retirement.
It ends in petrol, rags and ice.

London 1873 / 2009

Saturday, September 19, 2009

The Commons set 3 // 16 - 17

in this recent knot of days
the vile prickle of pills
is entirely political / these
grimy days, yeh, their static
preposterous symmetry / so
the side effects are, well
like this: its 11. 58, precisely
an entire molecular assembly
a ring of executive flats
a cheap solar monopoly. But,
I dunno, from another angle,
here on public transport
skirting the planets rim
pretty drunks are crackling

as I was out walking
the stiff prickling days
their numerical fallacy
gaunt fascist symmetry
ok. fuck that. lets see
we were in the anxious
centre of us, it was like
plastic fire, fuck your cars
& the moon, strangely
as I was out walking
it was like five layers
a small town, a feather
bed / filled with weapons
o hell / my burning thighs

Sunday, September 13, 2009

The Commons set 3 // 14 - 15

but ghosts are necessary
a chart of / a collective
inarticulate harmony
i.e. minor surface noise
item: a basement strata
its bibliographic shell
I mean, its celestial arc
has got us surrounded.
Anyway, here in 1917
we’re having a right laugh
no point in waking you
love’s solar boat is slashed
is trickling down our thighs
the chatter of the past

meaning, the surface sector
or London, just sitting there
we’re not criminals, no
but the dead are, inaudible
these songs of burning circles
& then we saw medicines
trickling down our world
its membranes & posterity
weird, this springing speech
was blood in another circuit
not ours tho, so whatever
crackling in our tombs
we are warm & empirical
when we’re frightened, we

Friday, September 11, 2009

The Commons set 3 // 12 - 13

here in Poundstretcher / we are
- blank -
we are building nebulae, falling
like, I dunno, wages / but anyway-
“how old are you, my
sweet critique of poetry
burning, prize-winning factory.
True, we were entire galaxies
but now its 11.58 in London
its AM & PM, both. No point
in waking your oblivious storms
I mean in Poundstretcher
ten thousand were drowned
on discount / cosy & warm

but here / in the solar eclipse
we are kicking off, big style
- wet heat, petrol noise -
“& we saw no sun nor moon
we heard some screech
the sea” / meanwhile
we were listening to some
records: “the demonic tones
these songs blank, unimagined
o our delicate spheres” /
o delicate crash, hyena splat
Stop talking about the fucking dead
Burn the EDL / slash boiling lead

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

The Commons set 3 // 10 - 11

here / in the centre
of the squealing world
original and peculiar
a small town, far from
here / this scratching rack
non-dogmatic / a guide
to action: “last night
I lay sleeping / all by
myself, was a thin leather
den of countless bandits
for theatrical exhibition
here in the centre
of the squealing town
medieval / a gated world

for scratching executives
use fuses / inside their office
membranes, posterity, a den
of countless galaxies, a net
of iconic repulsions. Nah,
the denials are in the post,
we guess we think we’re sorry,
here in the drugstore, filled
with mercury, made from
glass & plastic. Their era
is not ours / our dialectical
tilt circuit / our ferule / our
- BANG -
can come over / or rather