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.
