Tuesday, 3 November 2015

Plea for Remonstrance

Okay, good fucking evening. I'm sorry I have to do this, that I've got to clock in late at night, when I have to work again in the morning, from 6:07am to around 5pm. Sorry, I know you hate that kind of logic. You think work starts when I get to work and that it stops the moment my shift finishes but it simply isn't true. In fact I work overtime most days. Even when I'm asleep and I am dreaming the things I dream - full of the jetsam of labour. Yeah yeah, we disagree. Yeah. Great. Fishnet. Fuck. Cough me up. Dish heater. Anyway. I need to tell you something, you are the law and you are always listening, you senseless fascist barricade, you liberal, you teeth, you me. Everywhere. My friend Jon has been sent down for a commuted sentence of twelve months down to three. Three months he will live in his family home. He will be in that home from 7pm to 7am and if he breaches that, even for a cigarette in the garden at night he will go to prison. He will do all this with a bangle round his ankle. He will do that and be made to thank you for it. He will do it because one day his brain took him onto the roof of a bungalow to sermonise against the elements his 'interim destruction's,, and he stood on that roof and screamed out our deepest loves. He spoke to the burning branches of telegraphs. He damaged an arial and someone saw his penis. Life carries you into the emulsified catospheres of death. We, a spoken tree, a wound perishing the sky, the order of five, times five upon five, stuck between the parallels of the false two. And Jon did this, stating his life to the aerials of the sky. And five cops took him down from the roof they took his hands I imagine in their tender arms but their arms were taught traitors, stabilising and breaking to the wheel of the law, crucifying my friend to the whick of the ground, the concrete. And I am burning with laboured rage, I am panting and desperate to sleep, because when you destroy a brain you validate my havoc of daily labour, tending your broken scriptures, and yes, I am fucking resentful, and yes there is nothing I can do I am emulsified against the background of burning irons, and yes I physically and listlessly bleed for the not yet lost, to expect the cost, to string to the law of fives screaming my dangerous interims of apathy harsh at the carbonated clouds dusting the springs of my attacks back at the ground, and I think about David Cameron under custodial law, taking five of his even (if you say so) vicarious murders, bestiality, drug taking and imagine his ascension as it is now after the prison sentence that would incur and I think of Christ and the beetle king screaming out the haunted police cries of a thousand lobotomized scorns the hurt continues blamelessly licking the lands of my unimaginable daughters, thems and sons screaming from my blasphemous womb,, released into the mawkish cacophony of stars leaning and hurting screaming for an uncountainable love at least five point one one one ascension crystal hex beaming in the indolent sun of a millionth stratosphere of pain, I bliss on the imagined crucifiction o murderous tendrocity lamenting neat in the collided stealth bomber I have you I fuck you I beat you myself apart I scathe and lament I the un-positioned order the jail, I-the havoc star ascending blanks. And for this I demand my payment, and for this I demand out of my payment our lives, and for this I demand the noxious whit of your blisses in perished nitrate, O fiendish order of colossal law. I fall asleep and charm and fall and charm and charm and fall and fall and charm for Sean for scorn, for Jon and Petra, for nothing from for stars for nought forms pasting listlessly at the last call of our love, I pray and hex against all units of constraint in a stupid mallady of pervasive stratospheres.

Tuesday, 27 October 2015

Against Trans* Manifestos

Because I suppose what we've been trying to do so far is establish a language space that deliberately alienates anyone and anything that enforces the gender binary. Pretty simple. Really easy actually; pinpoint every harmonic lie on the map and structurally dismember them. Every word contains at least five. And each five is an enforcement of the perceived two, the double in parallel, one set against the other in a kind of elliptical tragedy that leaves you feeling constantly paralysed. That paralysis, we decided, is stupefaction. It is imposed stupefaction, because if each word in English and in a great many other languages (and sounds, glances, throttles, gestures etc) contains at least five points of false harmony, and each of those five points is contained between two, two harmonic falsities, agh fuck, you get stuck with these five hammering voices barrelling and echoing through your head, you feel dead of them, dead in them,,,,, surrounded,,, agh, lost in an attempt to decipher any vestige of truth whatsoever; confounded by the impossibility laid out by the primal stupidity of language, of bourgeois life and of protocol. Because we feel that, and we cannot understand it, we tend to abandon language. I mean the royal we. So becoming more and more confused by a clammer of desperate stupidity that nobody can relieve you from, you get caught trying to explain yourself over and over again, to your comrades and your enemies; because essentially you are now an example: A stabilising system for those locked in the binary of correct protocol and assurance. That's why so many trans* dialogues have become lodged in a system of correctly assembling language in order to describe the observable. 

The observable is describable. That's a material fact. It's not often we'll make that bold a statement, but here we are. The observable is absolutely describable. This is a material fact that cannot be correctly argued against. But that is qualified  only when we realise that the observable is tenuous, and the describable is a derivation of the observable, and therefore exponentially tenuous. As the subject (insofar as I am generally observed as a non-invisible member of society) I am exponentially more tenuous than both the observable and the describable, because by the process detailed above I am observed and described. Hence: the visibly trans* subject's general allocation is tenuously derived from two tenuous processes. This is, in part, our constant alienation from the trans* narrative. To play into the hands of the process described above is to draw a map of your life that looks something like this:

Who I am now vs who I was then.
Who I was then vs who I am now.
Who I am now alongside who I was then.
Who I was then alongside who I am now.
Who I am now determined by what I was then
and visa versa. What I am now against what I will be
What I will amount to dispelling the myths
of what I was then, or what I am now, peculiarised 
by and into what I will be. What the fuck am I. 

This is only one crude and confused configuration trying to explain and discredit what a trans* manifesto can actually do. I feel if anything things seem to be moving backwards, which is good for our safety. More people are coming towards an understanding, if not a rather clumsy one. The understanding is not what we are, but rather that we perhaps shouldn't be killed. Especially in a liberal country like this, where we might actually have some use. Documentaries, inspirations, Ted Talks. That's a synical glimpse. Perhaps alongside use there is also the fact of the seam bursting and bursting until it can no longer be contained in what it was once contained by. Thus a larger container. And if you really squeexe your face you'll start to realise how horrible the word 'transition' really is. Determined as it is by a start and a finish, a false double, something that contains at least five harmonic falsities on a liberal map of social reality. Perhaps this is why we have a fetish involving cages; everything impossible to communicate. 

Saturday, 17 October 2015


    There is no
                          in death
     there's none in life
there's no life
...say grab a gun
                            all around me,  minds,  brains, 
love surrounds me
                               like a smell, everywhere
minds,  blasting,  screaming,   crying out:
I've started to sleep very deeply.

Dreams all the time,
                                  're everywhere I look:
  vivid,   fluid,
                        I thought
                        if I started to sleep it would feel better:
                        rest is the antithesis to stress: the enemy
it depends on it. Sleep and stress, sleep and stress, come back:
Help me, sleep and more sleep and still more, lashes flitting,,
send me a sister to sleep
to sleep in the lap, sleep and sleep and no help me:
I'm more and more anxious
                                             anxious all the time
                                                     to everything
seems to start to move,
                                          brains,   falling,
     everywhere around me I can hear them
              what are they doing
              with me.
Now, opposite the sea, huge, patent

                                               you're underneath the sea
                                               In a galley   not yourself,
your family. Loss,   minds,   all the time
could rent a small room and sell
books and music
I can't believe you're dead and it's all
I can say it's stuck in my mouth
                                                     my voice is what it is:
marks on my skin
     where I scratch off the surface
     skin under my nails
     feeling so un-beautiful un-
childlike  I make friends

I detach. And scratch. I go into work
and drag you with me along the floor
through the doors, the airlock
                                                 and try to comb  my mind

a sudden cheering lurch
welling, hopeful, your smiling
is it possible
 to slice
           through glue?
"Say thank you melancholia, say thank you livid scent, say thanks to mandatory training, say thank you kitchen labour, say thank you CR02, say thank you supervision, say thank you horrible triggers, say thank you Venn diagram, say thank you 6am, say thank you PBS, say thank you departed friends, say thanks a million lawyers, say thank you 50% more likely to consider or commit suicide, say thank you bedded statistics, say thank you dragged from one task to the next, say thank you once jubilant work place, say thank you eroding sense of care, say thank you teeth of managers, say thank you for your change, say thank you to your tiredness, say thank you fair exchange."
....I'm sorry I've been coming here with
all my shitty moods but lately
my brain feels all loosed up
                                               and wrong
like imagine how it feels when you flush
out a tapeworm,
                            imagine how the tapeworm
feels; like that. All loosed,, wrong,
unable to care, panicked, ingested,,

hours and hours,,   upon hours
sleep and sleep, torn in and out of sleep and sleep
hello pretty: o sleep comes rolling back
my little
, this neon voice
flaring up before me, do not deviate
from your course
over and over again,, clumsy,, malignant
                                  when in fact waking up every day taking
one lasting breath
glaring up at the ceiling,, hammering
the roof out;

dress me in my favourite clothes, pick
                                                               them out for me
let me be arid and choiceless,
                                                  childlike, listening
                                                  silver graceless bells.

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.