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

Terror

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.

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.")

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

                                                                          :spit

                                                                         ';spirit

                                                                           lizabe h'

                                                                  go

                                                                        to inside

                                                                  let

                                                                        s 

                                                                              ove  ;ou

speech stretched, 'person centre'  d/)) mirror stage , reflective off

bodied 

            ervice  ser

         (h) as a worm

    lates

    leaned y

    ervice   sers

    o  e

    ut 

    thru 

washer

             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.")  

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
         llaww
         *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.

                                         Though

I wound

so against; sound vanished away

sound is flat, unhappy not-light. All these distant

possible things.

English sentiment

little towns  (gl)

                     floating

back and forth

below the cloud.

A light that goes

so goes.

In the strobe

terrors

and tears 

at the cloud.

*

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

                  towers

                  gelded,, for to carry

                     hot giddy iron

                  hot as white fury

                  white as hot blossom

                     shocked,, searing

what

gentry do not understand of those that walk amongst the graves of Town planners the gas of marshes in the foundations Eliz

Mark

Catherine Deshayes ,,.,.; au aer

we wondered

                              giddy blad

ee                          giddy proud sexing

boys                      lance

                             blue lace

                                   jf9-rg

the development MAFF

the jaw

drops

the rope

cuts

the slide

bullshit jobs

bullshit jobs

bullshit jobs

bullshit jobs

life on penance for Elizabeth's 

flat 

mind

                        no not madness no,,, beetles

no not silver

no not hot at all              hold the iron

in spontaneous 

                             eruptions

                              blancir90

                               BLANK AIR

                          cursive

pursuasion

scorn

bullshit jobs

copier

scorn

bullshit jobs

living wage scorn

power

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

fazing

                               face o godly i 

                                                           chye

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

                                ethnomusicology

                  spender not

                    gender not my

                arm bolts

                  scam

                  all work

                  scame

                              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

                                                   bullshit

                                                   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

                              crisis

                         laughter

                                     '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

                             living

sceptical

elliptical

harass

acab

                    blood worm

                   surrender

AOL     lols[tjh      make a snens e    workld ]

 ii beat out of the world 

aytomatiucally thois sctream oddd the thm

bolt out

 bullshit jobs

screed

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

 

And There You Go...

The snow is very deep today. But most days you get up you go out in the dark and you walk in the dark till the light comes up and you leave the light and behind you a long trail if flotsam and ahead of you flowing over the air or in the flotsam which is all around from all the other people and signing a line and managing to cope without the daylight in your little wooden precinct you think perhaps it was only earlier when the light was coming up when there was something like a triangle under ground as a foundation and every time you move or are still it is there just like your nice face. It is there, and each sleep takes you closer to every movement you make that takes your sleep and makes sleep a moving thing. A moving thing that happens and takes the sleep off detaching it, slippy oil and eyes that you  scatter and throw into the flotsam on the road to work and sleep where your thrown out oily eyes squint back pleadingly or in fact they reassure you because you see in them a sublime simplicity and never take them back. When all you want is what you know: that the journey from yours to work is startlingly complicated. You want your chucked out eyes to look on in sympathy understanding the hardships of everything which is simple and attributed vacantly to humans.