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
heave
complete is a verb it isn't
finished till it's finished.
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
I've got to admit it, a lot of people like what you're doing. I can't help but think that perhaps it's because you feel reassured. There's nothing wrong with that in itself; we're not a pack of anti-culture fiends. But what we've been thinking is that perhaps the most conservative thing you can do is be Creative. Because the most reactionary thing you can do in a crisis is fondle the pristine notion of progress. Because everything you create is a vicarious celebration of capitalist production. And most fundamentally because what happens when you "Create" something is that nothing is interrupted, the process of facile cultural accumulation has, if anything,, been stretched out,,, stretched to fuck,,,, and I have a serious and stupid belief that while you do that,,,, you foul maker,,,,, you hacking cough,,,,,,,,,, you are partaking in a retentive satanic ritual where the recitation or whatever it is you say is simply a valorisation of work as it is: by persuading yourself you are some kind of alternative you're pretending you own a business. Like a kid pretending to be a police officer. Or in fact like a certain class of traitor who wiles away a couple of years sucking up to management doing an inordinate amount of work for fuck all money in order,, he thinks,,, that eventually he will climb up a ladder and land a decent career:: in fact,,,,, the conditioning of that thing,,, let's call it a sentiment,,,, means that your only real aspiration, the only one left at the end, is the stifled retentive and bitter decree that by whatever means you will fuck over the people that disagree with your conceit. This is what George Osborne has called the lower middle class military. Probably why people find those TED Talks so helpful. Like listening to George Osborne's neurons firing and bouncing!!! All the fun stuff he wants you to steel. But instead there's not much to do. My romantic persuation says that if we continue to destroy moments in time, order and decency eventually people like you will realise that you don't have to be conservative pricks: creatives. That you can in fact take a hard amount of slack,,, so much that you become inconvenient or better useless, that your intrinsic value exceeds your productive value. That you start caring about things. I know,, I'm spitting in the wind and yes, I no longer have a face. Alain De Botton is a sexual presator.
after a day here what
you are covered in not
a day at all a rise at
after effort & strain
you are covered in
a strange layer or sink
work comes crashing
furniture forever loud bangs
clot & mimic it is all ok
hang back a slap
shocks out and laugh
arranging scraps & receits or
there silent amongst the bang
crater the door
stuck to the floor
no recognition now
your work goes quiet
staring daggers late early late
early late mechanised leave
forget to clock & treated
what remains is
no ruling the sphere
of care forgotten pretty up
they are coming
the rooks screaming nest to
best a twirling heap
of flex and mirrors dying for gram
money chucked in neat available
*
in you go sick of life
failed doner we do what
we do for nothing
fuck the unit
tensile sliced in the harrowing
next door I am really
afraid
of to entry of any room:: fail. Not
what you do but when
clocked u. u. slice and spoil
or anything damage lives
to investment no one gets
this perished miserable look on
stuck on the face in a child
my have not fucked up resistance
No they are pretending to and die
anyway agree with
find:
find the throat of an investor now when you
firmly hate it tear out its blood over
your body strobes when they will recover
doubt the whole move the
person centred resistance to love &&
passion fund cult.
...You smash out buried glot
in fear of attack there
the skin
falling the skin is the note
the static bone I hate you generated
palm off when your arms fly to
challenge garter in a duct
the hell munt screaming these
are they noises
broken up am I fearful yes when
people u love scresm u. u hate when
cut in rates off board on the collision line
gastro fuck you leverege to death on.
Rest destroyed pumped eye to amonia frig to damage.
Eternal decompress falsify remedial sweet tooth. Hurt for nothing.
Hurt everywhere they took it all rain pulverised banksman hate to stop.
Tethered a thousand hog a brook of
shit resting out where care is. In shock for. In shock for. Nothing fucking happens.
Ended this mane swot passion of the nail I hurt to explore. Dent in meadow nothing happens slowly colded, die.
I would you
b b come back here summer knots us
ups hurt to a thousandth gain do not decree
feeling sorry
move the heat patch back
move with myself hard. On.
Hug the pillow, mist it,, be getting
better off brain limbic in minature
sign, sky across sign it
moving under
pair in the water surface up at
stare
report from the scrub
reach to rust your hand
scratched
at report the sky across
muzzle on a mouse
pulsing.
Down into the stomach
what? the mind
casts out
give me a slant
a cry bangs off the tree
to tree.
Generally care not taken
on.The sky is wet with birds remove them
one by startled one
hug the detonator to your thigh
in the mist the decoy limbers
up the way
the single switch
listens,, thought at rest there
.. smells so wrong, becomes complete
the choker
smiling
leashed somewhere out in front of house
your sister watching, laughing.
