Wednesday, 30 September 2015

No Clarity

Clarity is obscene so choke me
with abstraction. Clarity is decisions is
your friends
and equals dying it's your work
as figures lit up in your dreams it's
your bladder painlessly shredded
with a steak knife

is your managers fucking your sister
from both sides it's your burning
for revenge is the stasis of the vulnerable
it's the deliberate failure for profit
vs workfare
is Lauren's tears it's burning in my veins
&,, & years of straining punished

for the expulsion of stress and pain yes
clarity is your payslip & you cannot
fucking sleep and clarity
is disgustig and I want it all to die
& clarity will cut you it's your muscles
& your brain death
so clarity is spat at & clarity is locked

& abstraction it is sanctioned as a
perfect holy knot
& it is guarded & is cherished
& will warm you up in peace
it will maul you and berate you
for a very tiny death;

Monday, 21 September 2015

David Cameron put its cock in the mouth of a pig

Legitimuse the antidote: at three AM wondering the streets wrapt in a crap blanket liberalise the schema take, say, a Scharma or an Icke, take, say, on overlayered fog horn: brutalise the lot, then say "pig rapist" then "satanist" then obviously let out the noxious gas "Crowley" to understand the tendency:(ahem) that any Crowlyite would rather bend a Cameron (ahem) in public or in bed (bend down my love) that loosed up in the land of Bohemia "simmer down", that the pig itself that lets the cock go sliding in and out its mouth is not the slightest cheek, not even the glint, but rather that the Satanism is, that Cameron's ritual cock is not the same as his work cock, that the work cock couldn't fuck a pig, just you, just you could be slash out are fucked by the work cock and sometimes the leisure cock (smaller) all day and every fucking day. But Cameron's cocks: he likens them to "Russian Dolls" and "Pigs in Blankets": one small leisure cock nesting in one giant work cock - a chiming clockwork dick with a sieve gauze all around oozing moral pus, and wrapt in those the tiniest cock of all: David Cameron's Satan cock, the one that follows you home to nail you to the floor, the one you say it's unimportant to be hurt by, the one that I saw first when I was tiny, or knew it existed, and every time you allow yourself some slack he says you remind him of the greening dead pig's tongue not moving but being lapped against by a tiny erect mandate whether true or not it fails to be less true. Pig. Higgs. Fuck you.
Now stare into the night stare into your emptiness stare into the noughted distance and when you feel like you're about to die or as you are ripped from your sleep by a terrifying jolt, caress your hair and lap and whisper into these empty fears "David Cameron fucked a

pig" and when you hear the forests
blister in the wind and when
your hair is frozen soil and when
will this noise finish say David Cameron

fucked a dead pig like a prayer
he fucked its dead face like
a prayer and call it out in your poverty
and whisper to your lover

and when the prayer jaw clamped
in a death lock on the leisure cock
and when you are lying
and broken and your morality is beaten

he will still have fucked a dead pig's
face it is more useful to say a dead
pig's face and nothing else the moral
higgs, the strapped on voice.

And even if it isn't true it is and even if it is true the facts are bolted shut it is lost in time the origin of hatred of values of teeth of heads of growth of security David Cameron fucked a pig. David Cameron fucked a pig. David Cameron fucked a pig. David Cameron fucked a pig.

Sunday, 13 September 2015

You ane Whose Dildos? (for Tom Archer).

Ballad crangs out bang on
strut nowt
                     fifty lights coined
             face trans* manifestations as a
                     blister with content
as a wasp does flag it
paged with intention seventeen
big hard men swirling on their
dildos lament: I hate you, jokingly.

Each light is a man
hurdling no content
jaspered load up scuttling.

Am: disposed to leaves

am: am,, armor
dice et lamina love heals
nothing is healed by it itself is just
              a feeler
to the wasp grib her back up
open to not light swivel chair
19 percent expectency. Wrestle
it open.

The walls of the
words bend in. Like it or
don't fucking like it, as they say.

Friday, 4 September 2015

click click away

so i lit a candle
for nothing

go on you
light it nothing

    sickness took on
  new forms they told me

i was ill, that i'd better
                have to work

i remember my mother once

     says they just sit there
    with a smile
                           & i love you

    still doesn't mean much
i lit i watched the smoulder
         they gathered up some cloth


   & wishes hurricane for you
       concrete all the time
    how i despise you for it said
anachronistic shit like that because
i could say
make a better world & put yourself to sleep
make a safer space for us and lay down
   my head. but i am frightened. i know

it isn't right
                     & that i don't
                     know what fear is
more like
wanting after life

& forgiveness never

rocking with your head
   in your palms

that no one
                      knows is beautiful.

& i flinch

another dead end. no escapes

my naked body
     i know it's wrong it isn't wrong
     revolting or something i can't look.

Thursday, 3 September 2015

The Possible Song

& we never hated this place so much
we burned it,,, mice huddled in a rat
hole,,,, told we are so luminous, we made
the cosmos and its guts, every intricate
detail. & love, not that, together we
can make the abstract noun a verb,
the idea of a street & all of the people
in it: colleagues and endorsements

they came in and showed us twilight
after twilight, ritual correspondance
sun boiling the sea at high tide
words bled across it, violent persuations
any sense of rhythmn shot & perished
sent us to the sewers with cut up hands
took all of our life's work, didn't even
tear it just threw it in the ground where

it could take years to rot, terrible heaven
environments and charms, not there:
mind inconsequence. feet: to be
cherished. Dolls: sat properly, total
fetish: deportment: enforced and not
before time. We were physically sick
refused to do a thing and now there is
nothing we can do,, save your breath.

Tuesday, 1 September 2015

Call to Scrap

remember my
love that complete is
allocated, clang graft
remember you're not
so special just

hold onto the thing
that noise they keep
eating it you're earning
a future a noise
don't fuck with it
the natural laws cleanse you
ungested,, iron, horrible god:

you're not wrong neither
are you stupid remember
complete is a verb it isn't
finished till it's finished.

Friday, 28 August 2015

Not Better. Not Enlightened.

We realise we can be deliberately antagonistic. Okay to go with that sometimes though, seems to be the flavour of the century. Moan moan. It was just the other day that I found out that the new Banksy tautology is called "dismaland". I laughed like a fart. But it did lead me to think about the current stress placed on street art. It feels like every broken corner is being cleaned up and dragged screaming into a world coerced and monitered by schemes of false perfection. If you go to Athens you'll see graffiti all over the walls. Little messages in different languages. Symbols and sigils. And none of it is polished. Every slogan overcomes and physically detains another. Now think about the imperative of a contemporary British street artist. Cleverness. Juxtapositions. Tesco and a starving child. The entire affect orbitting around the comfort of being shown what you already know, and that showing is also the relief of not being, in that being is in itself nostalgia; pining for not being which is made momentarily and accutely possible only within the comprehension of an imagined elsewhere; dependant on its spectrality. Not sure about that or stating it. Just testing it. Now think about counterculture. Think about what actually lasts and performs any kind of alternative. At once remaining and altering. Martin Rev made an album based on the Catholic Mass and it's amazing. Possibly one of the most damaged/hurt/hopeful things I've ever heard. Every few minutes the rythmns fuck up. The synths are unmistakably false and the vocals are usually just mumbles, sobs and slurs. Now think about production values, which are work ethics based on the idea of a limit and perfection. In dismaland you can remote control overcrowded refugee boats. For all we care you can drown yourself. You're so cynical, aren't you. Top fucking Brooker. On a wall in Athens we saw scrawled in haste the words "I am sorry for what I said when I was hungry". That pretty much does it. Instead of going to a white gallery why not just sit with your eyes closed humming those words over and over again, louder and louder, until suddenly you apparate in the middle of a conversation about ethical banking with massive slabs of granite for hands and you smash the walls and there is no language left except "I am sorry for what I said when I was hungry" jutting out in every direction, opening and closing, ringing, screeching and humming. Like anyone can tell us where to move our eyes and what they should do. Like art is not full of suffering. Defying cleverness. Yeah. Moan moan moan. Get back to the point. All I really wanted to say, Mr. Watkins, is I hope you're happy and enjoying your hols, but I still think we need to batter these arts council shits when we get the chance. Lots of love. xx