click click away

so i lit a candle
for nothing

go on you
light it nothing
         is

    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
or
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
comes

rocking with your head
   in your palms

   rocking
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.

The Possible Song

& we never hated this place so much
we burned it,,, mice huddled in a rat
hole,,,, told we are so luminous, we made
the cosmos and its guts, every intricate
detail. & love, not that, together we
can make the abstract noun a verb,
the idea of a street & all of the people
in it: colleagues and endorsements

they came in and showed us twilight
after twilight, ritual correspondance
sun boiling the sea at high tide
words bled across it, violent persuations
any sense of rhythmn shot & perished
sent us to the sewers with cut up hands
took all of our life's work, didn't even
tear it just threw it in the ground where

it could take years to rot, terrible heaven
environments and charms, not there:
mind inconsequence. feet: to be
cherished. Dolls: sat properly, total
fetish: deportment: enforced and not
before time. We were physically sick
refused to do a thing and now there is
nothing we can do,, save your breath.

Call to Scrap

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.

Not Better. Not Enlightened.

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

How to be A Conservative Prick or The Spheres and the Arts Revolting

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.

Four of Cups

for Jon.

this is both a charm and a curse. a curse to six specific bodies: stations of law, and to all stations of law. a charm to those restrained and abjected by the six specific bodies and by all stations of the law.



: the card is four cups it
means nothing there's no
word
          revenged by six
bodies,, pinned

                          tortured
         a face
         in a nest
         the trees

fuck 'em. Cups without a word
might
           so well be a conch when
the mind
                evangelist
blasted,, the ground cannot contain

. Pig's heart - the flat &(&) baron ground

no rehearsal
                      eyes
                      in the trees
bellow: patterns for extinction
    hideous
    as tar,, the wounds form
    a shape, & banishment

  the trees are wounds,, they form up, i pick up a card &,,& bellow grey
abstraction of sky ,, quiet deliberation,,,,,, tortured, a brain into form

as would gravity cajoles from the skies,,

objects,
              willed to 
              summoned

              impossible symbolic
         framework: rain

          it never seems to come
                                  you're
          spitting into grooves
                                  of the brain
         if, rivers tween mind lumps.

Toxic gathering swell
of sky,, nothing comes
to settle: six bodies, they mean
no, mhm,, six torsoes w/ heads
they mean absolute no,, they
six assemblies the arms and throat

no, six tendons six mothers
six coalesce to the roof
                                       the core
                                       gathers && collect
dragged
derag
dropped to the walls & floor
tender law,
                   fly away

terrible sermon
                           on fire
                           the wake
                           when i love
          no

               symbol at all
               the cups
              could be
                frenzied
             eyes in the nest
the wood
shaking assembles into wounds, sygils

this
        an broken charm
        as light would
        cream
                   as
the light that was taken
is present,, breaking thru

w/ out a need to finger, battles
harmonies at choicest feign. Breaking
querent, pushed to un-desire

                four to six six to four to
                flashes impossible w/ abject
                love.

A Bang Over A Rook

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.