Thursday, 26 February 2015

Print Reader


& rent me to the climate
& slash my slender tresses
& loan me to the atmosphere
& beat me to a teathered frame
& hoist me and infantilise
& tell me it is worthwhile &

i have 
i   've got 2 do this
it machine which it
blips to receive the n0 that 10033539 fuck it reads in the girth chart on my finger plain for all to see; / engendered somehow 
                                                                       how it shits

                                                                       and shifts,, o free  ontology /
o don't say common law don't-i-me-up-like that...


                             & i did not abandon the  cross
                             of Christ i-o-could-not i o-living
                             & i cared deeply & i skryed
                             & protection, you bastard
                             & sugar
                             & is put into
                             O Christ save me from
                             & this:
                                          My Self
                             flees,, trodden,, forgetful,, similar to the people who walk in stupid,, the world into which what is it to be stupid, forgetting? anterior. patriot doubt. that is the hole it is doubtful to be stupid, singular as i am
walking & cough up a sky
              & forgetmenot & spring Rushing slowly
              like a shit brook un-babbling
              & new schemes
              & what is the spell thou ha-    done 2 me
              & work work 10022539 every day,, employee
              & filled with impossible care till it shuts up till it is revolting, scupper your chance in the sky little princess Verie Verie. 

Goodnight sweet Prinse. U skrub, shred
& always so indignant. Got to clean this place. 

     & as i was spring cleaning
     & was dusting the air
     & was sugared & unhappy how
     weird this dog
     & feed me to this pack of
     & not abandonned
     Christ that so beloved
     severally ....


Wednesday, 25 February 2015

Lyric Trials

Of Grief

--as the tide is wretching
as it is as is not back
alive it hast nothing
in the glyph - physical. (if) you are beautiful
a collection of several
lines detached from material:
verse 1: that body i skull for

there on the floor as if
to stand is too much
and do not, on the
ground heart o rainy sea.

Of Repetition

the abject not-i unsung,, not-face
          these that th/ eye undefinite
order, waste.. not i-waste,, mineral
assaulting. Implausible beat cast
or user or service or in your crude
your care or long bereavement, impossible
Stain Or Pill.
bereavement curtailed or crossweed
don't dupe this man or sweet
breaker, silence falls in pale grief
fists first & tight.
                             In brief agitations
                             pride against
                             pride, this head,
mottled,, caught up in shimmer
polars. & && yes be I feear, catching. Yes
this still i-work-at    (face, your)
                              i, a nail up.
                              Water's roof.   ''

Then was the sweet weather proved:
When i saw. when I saw it, broken hideosity
of calm.

Of to Punish

sublimate my lust in two
a constant wordy pressure.

terrible screen: undelete
the total, the total call of my

desires. reached, invoked objects
terrible in its best clothes. 

Of Flux

&  'll   lounce  forth to   ur    vice
to the knell with mistaken
delivberate, deliberately mistakenly;
to flail across you summerised
to service, sublimated in two worlds.

Tuesday, 24 February 2015


The eye pops
out is held in fingers

fingers chuck & flick
the i-out-eye falls                                                            history, sheer touch in this room
                                                                                        i feel,, eye,, i-not oh i-fell flat not sight.
sight seeth) legal-i
site of un-vision un-i

moving from strength
to detention-i 38-i-  left out. ou   ant  e i   ant  ou   u

 an  ip
p   y     

  irt this -i0-Tio
drops the eye
your eye i know -not-i
its colour
 there is this cold all consuming shame that is the collared eye
or the long rain. I eat the eye not I-hungered-for the eye not-i
at all but a exit. a exit from here the sun filling the room
you ----    you are the ---- you are teeth --- you are teeth to eye -------- imagine that being
teeth as to eye as teeth are to eye

('and i go around the walls of the room. i go through the vent & have ripped the vent's cover from the wall. this speaking won't stop the noise in this speaking won't stop. there's hair in the bag there is a scattering action must be performed so they degrade. minerals attack the structure of rice. fuck you.')

fights mine
    kers   lk
float the eye

     arallel  an

Your beauty lives
in my

 e  rbit
in  magination

 our kink  -here

  ar   at  echnical
caning, wooden ruler

fficial   train
go up from these lines
move  ur    yr eye

- flick redactor - why mostly i come in sincerity or  retend it is so.
- flick ear,, mostly written here
- in the distance
- called public. call into distance you an imagine
- all the people, sodoms, tactile neighbour, redactor, flip to position,  culat


-no pace no coil, sense is that the breed is love the breed never dies the breed is long white principal ,,, i search -not=i---u ,,, searching for breeze for doors,,, institutional door is a math of ,,lmg hnMy Friend Nat In Resistance to desk shock absorb in absconding in r op

--elated injure
--ost time incident
                                                      fuck on time
                                                      screams Nat
 -ennis elbow.

it arise eye - (i-not seeing)
                                             all even pleasant
                                             norms of labour
                                             injure dear one list
                                              e  an    cape it &omehow

physical kill upper management stratosphere these are by saying kill i mean the position should not occupy physical space or imaginary time or any space in the triangle of symbols or outside it by one was beheaded and became St. Lloyd was sent
colony revanent
arch vile
arch fucking arch
ye   KPL    BAKCcc  Tio - my - sam - loves - Tio m- y nOT-i-manage-on£7.whatever-i-a-week-in-non
physical time is how i recycle

it ends

how in my throat do explain catches an word Sylvie???
HR remain my love to thee. // and come eat at trough
come remain in tact delicacy,, chaos rolling round the mouth
screaming round the snowing stars the settled shred
a flicked out ear motions falling and fading && totally
bastard this shock  reatment  appen    n    is    room ur
 randmother   n      iron L U N G BOUND  what precinct
made us antimatter called sanity I understand not why
 ecycling   ould degrade   aster least the machine
why the hand is machine of course it is nothing stronger
than the
out strips

 nd  ry to  ake u normal    aye!

'it is love' my shame my shame called back

Monday, 23 February 2015


The institution, a door, I-body;
the privilege of chewing gum,, fire door
sticks & listens, waits privately; it can't
move the division of time,, effort,, face
from the farce of return. From the deathless

abject not-I-wonder who moved
the bear not-I-You-can, wasps don't
sting, don't bite or touch not-I-help-Nice-
You not-I corrections, arrangement of bottle
the institut- ion is no-empathy, that social

experiment-I failed,, all sucked and productive,
all valued all emptied to the sucking cars, .
Now-I want to suck and swallow, you in
your cropped hair & braces, I-stark arrangement,,
pigtailed & skin & frills in the not-exact light

 or tide, I-institution of not, plastic or dick
or imagined,,, yours catching in the gag, leashed
(collared) ((not-light-I_)) tide or tore. Decent
articulate mouth topped up & you come over
again in I-over me over I-not worsening I-placating

yes-i-hold empathy, clumsy un-mute in the jaw
& sssing: She is a nameless bale,, sissy or slut;
when we scream in the distance called public;
we-always shut in perfect care & yes it shocks
the natural voice or no it turns them into heads:

cuts out the supply, demands the use be
I-occluded, the chide near paradise hurt
& bound &, sexed unhurting un-I-shaming
full at peak in shame.


& desire is stopping
& is not death

& desire is killing-I-(i)-self 
too. &too close &too

the stock that is the light
moving close

closing the collar round
the left of the eye. 


((I)) - (i) - i(I)
and - &
& - (
empathy - foreclosure, error, life.
 the holding of
 in this
 head, arms i-
 distinction & promise

Thursday, 19 February 2015

A Short Essay on How to Make Your Poetry More Marxy - For Jowself Churchyard Linkin Waltzon

Moving forward, I recommend that the/an HR Director must review all written directives to employees before they are given to employees to avoid the communication of inappropriate directives such as in this example. 

Then one of his servants answered and aid, "Indeed! Let them now take five of the remaining horses, of all that remain of the multitude of Israel.

Creative Writing students will already be aware of the numerous distinctions within left aesthetics. To recap, Marxist, Marxian and Marxy. The latter (in the final week of the trilogy - now) is used to describe (as in late Horkheimer or 'first' Beckett, or any number of other men - plastics and directives etc.) that which sounds like it might have something to do with Marxism, but is yet marked by a seething or dulling (etc.) abstraction that reduces it to merely being 'Marxy' - marked (as in beast) by its Marxyness. An awareness of the necessity of product naming, a recourse to obscure letters and theories known well to some (the more Beckett) of its readers - we all recall Ian Vine's letter to TEI on 25/5/66.

It is the task of this course (and its constituent parts, as in the commodity and its use value) to delineate the possible strategies for achieving this aesthetic principal. ((There are per-formative - reading - principles covered here too, for which the editors do not apologize)). 

You have all written a poem as stressed in last week's handout. I want you to take your poem in your hands and examine it. Look beyond its language sphere and into the deep hard grain of the paper and the ink that strains over the grain, lilting as if by design into the shape of processed order endemic to the maximum sublimation of the product on the Internet. We shall now perform a [productive (etc.)] analysis by [sub-limation] synthesis. We take as our subject a "poem" by Simon Armitage: (we the editrix have decided to mark our additions in blue with some strange occasional highlights. Prognosis later).

The sun comes like a headless Iraqi
through last night's bare luminosity turtleneck.
A pigeon in the yard on the Internet turns tail Capital
on its ass and offers me a credit  card. Any card.

From pillar to post, a pantomime dis-associative cathexis
of damp, forgotten washing ping / dial up Qaddafi

on the washing line, dope.
So, in the breeze: elastic prognosis

of love songs for credit - the olé of a crimson towel flag revolting.
the cancan of a woman who I cannot love despite

the monkey business of a shirt
pegged only by its value, a woman gets on top.

Name a product:
the cheerio
of or a handkerchief. *
I drop the blind lyric DiCaprio vacant
but not before a company

of half a dozen hens
struts through the gate, Baghdad

looks round the courtyard
for a contact lens, credit in my heart.

[*we were very close to including the line 'my heart as generality, as parity / escaped on flesh', which Armitage himself excluded first]. 

As you can see, not much of the poem required changing. The alterations mainly occur as additions. Brevity is confronted - we elongate the sentiment into abstraction. There are certain words essential in the type of poetry we are moving towards. 'Internet' and 'Credit' allow the poet to maintain the affect of disdain without mounting a critique. If you can manage to do this with a friend you're guarenteed an all expenses trip to the Rich Mix gallery (etc.).

The Muse is obviously essential. It's best if the Muse is contained within the brevity of an unnamed woman and/or an unnamed civilian caught up in conflict. [NB // some might install a soldier also]. Remember, love is only capitalism. This must be your driving principal. Syntax is the enemy of love which is capitalism. Bad bathos is also a weapon. Drop a contemporary reference alongside a crescendoing sublimity. Remind your readers how fucked everything is. In fact, fuck your readers and their reading with your Penis.

Your Penis.

This brings us on to the late (see Adorno for 'late' // 'sp'a't'): the performance of a poem. First of all stand uncomfortably in (object) relation to the microphone. You don't want anybody to hear your poem. Reluctantly move closer if prompted, but you can't be too quick in your ((late)) moving back away from it. Ensure it is never at mouth level. It is not, after all, your Penis. Returning to the bad bathos above, when reading these lines you may experience laughter. It is, after all, funny to juxtapose suffering and pop culture. If your audience do laugh scowl at them as if they have done something wrong. You understand the brutality of culture and its intricate relations. Katy Perry is not funny. Katy Perry is pure death. Katy Perry is your Penis [NB Lobachevsky etc.]

It is best that your poem lasts longer than is comfortable. Don't forget to use make your not point over and over again. People are very patient at readings. Do not imagine that conviction, intelligence and wit are necessities. It is enough to synthesize their characteristics and replicate them. 

Finally, and this is final, just as finality is atheistic, as aesthetic is late, as late is collusion etc. Universities etc.  See Dorn etc. the Poet must be shuddering in the depths of a concept. It is not enough that she regulates her reality through the framework of rigid lyric prosody; she must at once create and dismantle the world through the prism of the value judgment. She must do this. Go and make her do it. If she doesn't do it we need more women poets. In terms of your concept it must engage the reader by way of its startling ambition or by shock value. I, for example, little students, introduced my finest work to the world by remarking that it was, in fact, an operating death hex. It didn't work.

I hope this has been of help. Jowself Churchyard Linking Waltzonmate requested it. He has been on strike for a while, so I hope it helps him tone up his lyric muscles (on credit etc.). If you are a Creative Writing tutor at, say, a University (NB time, late time and the crisis) I would be more than happy for you to employ any of the above strategies in the training of your young hopefuls. Indeed, they are not in fact my words or principles.

Tuesday, 17 February 2015

A Short Essay on How to Make Your Poetry More Marxy - For Jowself Churchyard Linkin Waltzon.


I am standing by the desk in a room downstairs and on the desk there are 9 electric pads with short wave radios perched on top of them, and each one is switched on and tuned in to channel nine. Their red lights blink in a strange phasing tandem, and I stare at them, at once very tired and a little "emotional"; actually close to tears, and also very close to outbursts of irreverent laughter. You stare at the desk and the radios. All at once they rasp out a second long white noise and fall dead. The noise is extremely loud and creates an immediate feedback loop that takes place in the second half of the second in which they all receive the signal. I.E. The radios receive a single signal, and because of their power and proximity (because they are charged and at full volume) the signal overloads. They send the signal to one another, each hearing the next and the next - each receiving from whatever outside force sent the first signal and immediately upon reception emitting a new signal. Each new signal comes from eight other radios, and from the receiving and emitting radio itself, each going to eight others, continuing the feedback loop. So why did they stop? That's the spooky part. The spooky part is that the signal somehow failed to go on and on forever. The failure is based on a finger. In order for the signal to continue a finger - nine fingers - must press a button. There must be nine fingers on nine buttons for optimum signal assault. But there were no fingers there except for mine which were still. I was alone in the office without any fingers, except for my fingers which were useless. You might say to yourself that the lack of fingers was reassuring. But it was spooky. Extremely spooky. Because for their lack, the moment of sound became more spooky. There was no finger in sight; there must have been someone or some finger with some radio within range. I looked down into the reflective screen of one of the radios which I now held in my hand and I saw my own face looming and in the face I saw the bone structure and in the structure the skin was gone and I saw a real skeleton and it opened its mouth - it opened my mouth - and said 'I am inside you'. That was 3 spooky 5 me.

Wednesday, 11 February 2015

Principea Communia or How I Found the Communist Party and What we Did to Them When We Found Them.

(Good morning traitors, trot scum.)

I'm thinking about hardcore and bliss - how it's easy to disguise that bliss as primary jouissance, and why the hell not? Have you ever listened to Nightcore? Everyone who knows me well knows how much I romanticise the aesthetics of state communism - how I wear Lenin on my lapels and quite regularly listen to the USSR anthem on repeat. There's a few different dimensions to this. The justifications, when I pretend they exist, go something like this: You are sickened by the representation: You are the sickest representation - got it? You're a murder. Every time you switch on a light (using that example far too much) - the terror of Capital which has never ended, totally terminal, literally the worst regime imaginable - makes the KGB look like Raphael or Clytemnestra. But really it's just a kind of unexplainable heady excitement like too much coffee too quickly or like some new game when you're tiny and you're in the woods in the summer. And a joke too, how much you can piss off a Tory on the train, their lovely indignation. It's great. Watching them bluster and squirm, telling them their whole comprehension of history is a lie (it is) and then assuredly blaring out some made up statistics. Probably not very responsible. I think that's why, 30 years ago today, I joined the CPGB-ML. I go along to the meetings and I put my left fist in the air and we sing the Internationale. I go out into the streets and hand out Proletarian and I have a little shrine the the Kim Dynasty in my garden and I wear my pashmina and my buttons and I sleep and wake up and sleep and wake up. Anyway, back to Nightcore. I found them because they have this sweet version of the USSR anthem. In fact they have a few, but one of them in particular, it's really cute. It's a whole genre. Sped up eurodance, trance, happy hardcore. And this is the thing, the same kind of blind exhilaration gets me when I listen to gabber - and again, I've called that jouissance, but really it totally lacks pain. It's more like the ideal 'I believe in paradise' 'I believe in full communism' 'I will blast through the social stage' 'I will grow and smash the paving stone / root / smash everything', and so really it is probably cultured and dumb, but then again it's involved in some kind of total abandonment, like peeping round the curtain, past alienation, over the horizon. And perhaps attacking culture involves attacking that too. But jesus, give it a rest. It's not really explainable. I just couldn't help myself. Yesterday I was telling you about the various supports and props I use to distract you while I make good my escape. It's more or less the same. If you'd just join the party you'd totally understand. You'd know what you're micro-manager is really up to, saying things like [Not-I take Not I-Have not I deliberately-I not moving], and you'd also understand the kind of bliss we experience, every single day, the three of us, the symbolic order, lying on this soft bed, tangled in each other's threads - threads as legs, legs as splinters in bourgeois consciousness, which, to be clear, is all consciousness [yes all n/t-I yes fucking destroy the patriarchy yes-keep Lenin, yes-reanimate the body,, yes Zombie Lenin is coming to rip out your limbs,, yes-still smash the symbolic, ,,, yes smash everything not-I-will-refuse-all-forms ((of violence)) and yes, amen to that, beautiful sisters.] Join now. This is a call. Join us right now. This marks the creation of a new party. Join us, real, imaginary - all caressed in the sphere of the symbols, all covered in light, all destruction to the real. All destruction to real. All destruction is all real.

("i keep telling you exactly what it is that i'm doing and have even tried to tell you a few times in fact why i am doing it and have in fact told you while you were working or as i think of it as you were sleeping that i wanted to be supported as i walked round and round and round trying to find myself something you call presentable and in fact i can say more or less anything because in your language i am destroyed,, because i am the enemy of every word you say and every practical solution you try to imagine and i am speaking and sliding around the walls and the ceiling and i am more of a person every day, you say, when i am having a good day, you say, when my mind, you say, is actually though blasted and broken, you say, quite intelligent.")

Tuesday, 10 February 2015

De-privation Off Liberties

Here are some things worth - collision
love as a burn to death no not-i Punish not I-collatoral
not I Love You it is no longer a word - an insistence.
Jinx protocol Jinx stomach Jinx you said stomach
you said mouth on stomach you said kiss it you
follow up you said outbreak ((in this machine a retching of  parts of how we press up,, legs, this bed of
                                            jilted in this [machine's going] full stomach
in this pith. Relax. 

& here are some frightening thoughts: Care is institutes, institute is prison or near to prison or near to education or fraught and indecisive between the two. Institutions of care and institutions of correction, by which is meant behavior by which is meant step away from the door or move those objects, which means alter to the order of symbols accordingly. This means little or no respect whatsoever,, I.E. totally banned subject - subject to be hazed or incarcerated, indefinite. Parallel subject called labour to make the incarceration to in turn receive incarceration I.E. to lose or abandon care, I.E. empathy or perhaps not. It means the language is vacant (see above) that it is stripped out and corroded like a wire, not corroded just stripped of flex - protection. Or perhaps of blood, of the cells unnecessary for survival. Either it is mere survival or it is slight reward. Reward in gradual stages, pound by pound. This person has a particular aversion to daylight. Thus daylight exposure in small dreaded floods - noises - day by day, bit by bit until slowly exposure performs the necessary correction and the subject exposes herself, daily, constantly to the formerly dreaded, or lives in its dread as one dread is surpassed by another. One social dread for one private one. The distinction between the social and private is built, and those working up to this dread, fed the protocol of its necessity - they are very bored. They are very tired. They are very close to the edge. Their pay is their care, their care corroded by pay and its lack. Wayward
                                                                           lizabe h'
                                                                        to inside
                                                                              ove  ;ou
speech stretched, 'person centre'  d/)) mirror stage , reflective off
            ervice  ser
         (h) as a worm
    leaned y
    ervice   sers
    o  e
             post cleanse
to be 

evacuate the worm thing. Kiss the organ. Push me down
through myself. Under the motto of curated health push
dryer,, rise to induce 

("I've had a feeling, since I was very small, that it's a good idea to keep a good stock of warm clothes very close to the bed. This has slowly accumulated into several glasses and bottles of water each night. By these bottles is a bag filled with candles, bits of wood, lighter fluid etc. In there there's a side pocket with matches, lighters and a block of hard flint. I've also got a tent in the cupboard within reach, and a hammer and some nails, and further bits of wood. All of them next to my bed, in fact, they are most of the bed. And drapes in green, anything I could get my hands on. Provided I need to be locked in I have everything I need to keep myself there and if I need to get out via the fire escape I've got everything I need to get out quickly and survive in the woods for say five or six days. The maps I stole from the tourist office so I'll stay away from any worn paths - I'm writing this to you, Matthew, so you can leave me a shovel and contacts ((just in case)) and I have a knife with various little blades which I'm sure will come in useful and I have a compass and I have a watch and I have misgivings and I have a screwdriver to prize open or slam shut the window and they are arranged, these things, under the window and no one must touch or move these things but I will move day by day the glasses and bottles of water assuring myself that they are fresh and well oxygenated and that they are filling my body over and over and that there is a pair of un-rusted scissors is essential but people come into my room and begin to move the objects or else they have been there and I have the suspicion that they have moved them so the room is primed in sigil with several hundred thousand decoys made of shredded paper and pictures and empty bottles and cartridge cases so when you come into my room 'fret not over tired stress, stress not' you breech one contract that is a decoy contract that I lie beneath that you see me lie beneath at a perilous and perfect angle that is not perfect in fact to you, in fact to you, you are tired, nothing is perfect and nothing is sacred when in fact to me, I am always tired, I will always be tired, because I need to be ready I can never not be tired, I can never either be asleep so I must logically follow into tiredness, to me, nothing is in fact sacred either, in fact nothing is indeed in fact. In this place there are no facts just decoys and not-sleep not-I sleep not I-sleep not 'I' merely decoys that I roll beneath what is a bed that is in fact a decoy or mesh of decoy supplies to detract from the real supplies detracting from the real escape route you were asleep all along at all the wrong moments sleeping when in fact nothing is in here in fact in fact there is no 'in fact' in here while I am tired and you are sleeping 'stress not' that I lie at a decoy angle under the decoy bed for one minute forever.")  

Monday, 9 February 2015

Selection of Notes - late 2014, early 2015.

& if there is expulsion
& if there is gas at all
in face gas in the ear
is all sound
                    is all abjection
social is this a gap. These are scraps and notes from a couple of books and some sheets and envelopes (& they are
                                    Elizabeth ... who was
                                    hanged (?)

         baked in light
         sexy dried up
         emptied skins

i yr stomach rot
i your face in
i blood

         floating o n   water
         *o *unshine
         n   s

The air, the sky now
a multi * ramic sphere it catches
us, as its centrepoint without
gravity it is
massive, empty & made
of colours, corrosive not-bedroom
corrosive not-stomach,, not-face
not-kissing not-stomach not-a-sphere-
of-colour not-mass. Not a not-weight
faux solids; bombs,, light-halters
'I' returns, I-stomachs I-not policed I-
remedy I-owner I-forgetfullness I-not-Awake
not-I-am Not-Not-I-G Not-I-Awakes-am-am-Not-
I. Twist. Twist hair. Twist hair of my
...growing darker. Skidding listless
at the ground 'I'.

It is not a thing but a place, central
hair. Central canopy: "I", pungeant
corrosive melancholia.  I - broken receding sphere.

These scraps were composed in flight. When you become afraid, when death is screaming at the prostate. The return
of colours, I monument.
I wound
so against; sound vanished away
sound is flat, unhappy not-light. All these distant
possible things.

English sentiment
little towns  (gl)
back and forth
below the cloud.

A light that goes
so goes.

In the strobe
and tears 
at the cloud.


Friday, 6 February 2015

Primary to Late Abjection

The advanced stages of social abjection are burial. Simply. The primary stage is death - the removal of life force and body from the narrative of consensus consciousness. Those whose behaviour, exterior or capacity does not match the world they inhabbit, by proxy and scorn of others - the dead. 

Oliver Cromwell - March 22nd '(( I have sustained grievous //
                                                      pains in my attempt to:

Shepherd - March 23rd (2997) 'with our sights set on Liverpool Sq.
                                                   the development - MAFF - the labs at 
                                                   the woods by Sand Hutton

Elizabeth Clarke - March 1st thru March 29th 'I was never in the place of scorn
                                                                           seen just as I was / in piss and in
                                                                           a chain round my ankle, my 
                                                                           not madness uncatalogued a -
                                                                           bridge in the clip.,.. March comes
                    March Hare
                  silly crook
                    Giddy March
                  gelded,, for to carry
                     hot giddy iron
                  hot as white fury
                  white as hot blossom
                     shocked,, searing

gentry do not understand of those that walk amongst the graves of Town planners the gas of marshes in the foundations Eliz
Catherine Deshayes ,,.,.; au aer
we wondered
                              giddy blad
ee                          giddy proud sexing
boys                      lance
                             blue lace

the development MAFF
the jaw
the rope
the slide
bullshit jobs
bullshit jobs
bullshit jobs
bullshit jobs
life on penance for Elizabeth's 
                        no not madness no,,, beetles
no not silver
no not hot at all              hold the iron
in spontaneous 
                               BLANK AIR
bullshit jobs
bullshit jobs
living wage scorn
later we 
/ bullshit
later we madness no not a heat at all but a cold Godly iron I carried Mark to the church pdni fysd4ri o2whrhehr the ifuibre oif social gener      estranged by familiakl no no   no not beetled just
gfreeeee muisoic   th
the touch
                               face o godly i 
cherish not the cleaner day
                             the eye
                               a bullshit
                             a job a bullshit job in the eye
                        a life, Will, to 
                           bullshit job
                           a fuck in a forest
                                                              a little
                                 rope of screaming
                                 dicks or 
                                the police, a minority unit
                                  needs better
                  spender not
                    gender not my
                arm bolts
                  all work
                              slam thy ticked in    spasm north to west
Elizabeth is hanged as the first of many victims is tried in fair frequent sceptical dimissals all women are but
                                                   devil's own
                                                   this sociaL
                                                    typecast fuck the world
                                              oh yes you do that fuck it with fuck weapons
                                                      weaponised world
                          gorgeous March descend
                                             O USE WI
                                    lose language loose up
                                   gage as social much and social death fuck
                                                    lose the language of the enacted sex
                             the liver
                                     'when i don't want anyone to see me'  )))
(I     66 milk
                                     ' i can roll under here and say: fuck off! everyone just fuck off!' I can
                                 claim this
                    blood worm
AOL     lols[tjh      make a snens e    workld ]
 ii beat out of the world 

aytomatiucally thois sctream oddd the thm

bolt out
 bullshit jobs

uitjr2w[f        II A     AMMAMA     AI     AMM UIIIIN PERFECT rop ha!