Schoolbox Social

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.

The Sound of a Gentle Breeze

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.

A Little Reverie - for Sean Bonney

Whatever happens next will be bettered by revenge. That cautiously flung cluster of words and sound that Ovid of bandage that scar tissue that diseased scrotum that thing we call an ally that limping pus that dragged head that block of torn out neighbours that yuppie in your tongue that screaming little boy they took him to the floor and they fucked him to death that fucking slow and soft that fucking hard and terminal that layrynx that when there is nothing left that adding to the happiness of the world that Duncan Smith we had him nailed to the floor and we rehearsed ourselves with hammers to flatten out his tongue it was a sordid meditation we were slowly and deliberately making him die and behind him close enough to see there was this queue of everyone who had ever spoken in his favour by accident or on purpose and as we sawed out his blood and his words we laughed and caressed one another and we snarled back at them "this is nothing but the natural restoration of life" and we were so fucking gentle and we sat in a circle and plaited our hair and we became stronger and stronger because of revenge and as we stalked up and down the line of them taking random shots at heads like Trotsky did to his troops (that horrible burning religion) we were wearing ribbons and we chattered and we laughed and made oneanother happy and went silent for days and abandonned our minds and we went very quiet and we listened to the earth we are here now it is all we can hear and I hold your head in my lap and tell you that I love you and put my breast to the freeIng stars,,,  and the blood of all the capitalists the world over is spilling into a drain. The night, so still and torrid.

And I will tear down anyone who hurts you
And I will strangle the world that shot you in the brain
And I will summon storms
And hold you
And chaos will burn from my fingers.

And we will all burn together we will  eat a final meal we will sleep in our whisky we will love in our splintered burning atoms we will know ourselves and each other in the whole of the freezing universe and we will live in all those spoiled words like marriage and wound and labour and sorry we will stoop down and kiss the water we will stretch out our lives oh wait that's what we did we will stop the bastards any way we can with our feet and marrow the bruise in the sun the minerals, your eyes, a cacophonous orgasm,, alone again but you were never really there you are everywhere I go a million million voices. Revenge, revenge,, revenge.

Purging the Monarchy

This morning I wake up still a little drunk but with that particular lucidity reserved for idiots at this time of the day. I wake up and I see beloved Class War and the BBC going nuts over a video of the Queen performing a fascist salute at the age of seven. I look at it for a little while and I start to feel like I've swallowed some sort of affected nuclear reaction. For some reason it throws me straight back at my childhood. Brief run ins with these arseholes. Occasionally brushing the shoulder of someone seriously fucking rich. The other night on the way back from a gig walking through the financial district there they are. Horribly healthy old men, moneyed paedophiles celebrating our deaths, and I walk to them drunk and I tell them they should die and I am dying and I die right there on top of them and all they do is laugh becauae to them when I die it is the death rattle of a child and that child will never speak again and when they die it is sanctity and blamelessness and no longer being hunted by the truth and an heir and an immediate succession of abstraction,, a transference of hatred, of tiny genitals,,,, of hex, a movement in heaven. I can't actually bring myself to watch the video. All I can see in the freeze.frame is Edward the VIII coming quietly into my room. I am a baby. I am infinite. I am god. And he is laughing. And I am taking his cock. And he is angry. And I am humiliating myself. And we are all standing out in the courtyard smeering ourselves in blood and shit and food. And the tiny queen is prancing up and down on the backs of slaughtered bodies in Dachau, and she is waving a Union Jack and performong a Nazi salute and I am screaming for the gates to stay open yet they close. And now am I just screaming. I am saying it is a very different type of molestation. I am screaming. My nose is streaming snot. And I am fucking huge. And my voice will fill up the ears of the lost when I die to die a death that won't itself ever really die to sup from, limp of a corpse.

To Resist the (Gender) Binary (trans* manifesto).

Protest is when I say this does not please me.


Resistance is when I ensure what does not please me occurs no more.






To resist is first of all, 1 to never be understood as its own objective meaning 2 resistance reclaimed as a verb 3 an adjective also, to describe the act of a deliberate stopping and when describing the binary 3.1 we must consider a system of deliberate and continued 3.11 sexual exploitation, the grammar of the body, those that would enforce it 3.2 the policing of the self 3.3, 3.4, 3.5 .6 the self 3.7 and that in developing a theory of resistance the primary basis of that theory is its opposite meaning I am / you are / they are in a state of 4 mental illness 5 or ideally bodily wrongness 5 pathologists 6 of the sucker 7 of the cunt of the cock 8 of the face and hair 9 of the pupil 10 those same hacks that condemned the habits of collection,, despots of the artery 11 and in that resistance a mesh 12 that I contain no pride means resistance of the language of proudness 13 destroyed as cutting 14 where and when we consider Gender as labour 15 with wages 15.19 but born in the wrong body 15.19.1, but mentally ill 16 cherished of the bitch plea 17 to understand the binary as one would gravity, naturation as a verb, a gravity be done a 18 done thing 19, units of control as helicopters 20 as a comprehensive illness 21 as a natural limit for voting 22 as a body. Understanding resistance as the possible outcome from which natural truth screams back on its back as its back is a snake a 23 uncorsetted body. Rotting flesh. Gas. A substance emerged from the natural order,, heated, atonement, don't ever sleep.




The binary enforced in all character of language likes, it likes the body (and is like) dead animal, dual carriageway, 4.45pm stiffened && bloated on the curb, mouth smashed, a badger, jaw locked as an A biting the curb. Don't ever sleep.

Ritual for Hate Speech

slice out his limbs means my sisters, our arms,, our
tear from the muscle: this social survival
their pleading eyes their rolling faces O  the birds cut ahead and behind
me, they sing,, the tempers of paradise 0 "I walk about; lie down, but no dreams visit me." 0 we will not bury the corpses is
our agony,,, the unburied dead of Camp 15 o in winter in the winter
they do not rot or fold, my joyous rain,, o our our criming pity
0 our refusing empathy, our steel is made of hands.

Place: In a long strand, digested vegetable matter
Say: The unburied dead, for in winter the ground
Say: MY BELOVED, O MY MY BELOVED,, (
Say: The walls are mere and terminal
Do: The kicking and eating, the freezing soil.
Place: a strand of wire on each of our limbs, the limbs
           as the birds explode in front, as you walk through
           the trees, as you find the soft and silent voice, lapping
           as your peace is murder, as your joy is cutting, lapping
Place: the wire of each limb on tongue. Sing: We with all our /
cut up ground / prop up the leader / their scream /  wordless pity!!!!

Now: Shit in his neck 0 love to the defector
& detonate his pulse means dancing in the winter
& I have come in peace means the slow and careful boiling
of the living body, e.g. António Horta Osório,, his blistered 
hateful screams, o hate speech means love, yes, love is in the air!
& cannibal means yes I was bored of all these lovers. 

Try: The hand to the throat to the groin to the fire.
Try: The head of angels
Try: Marauding guilt with vengeance.
0 THE boss is coming now to swallow up her gold.
              othe boss detesting, digesting sleeping children,
spent as by a crook the tether reaches out to wage.
Spent as by a tether knife edge reaches out to tongue his.
Spent as by knife the tongue is reeling and revolting.
Spent as I was panting on the writhing banking body.
Spent as we were spitting at the sockets of the democrats.
Fucked, as we were walking and the birds that sung were eating
OUT the eyes from sockets of the democrats still pleading:
"O friendly night have mercy for a neck filled up with shit."




 
  

Violence in Writing = "Death to the Oppressors".

For a long time I've been trying to resolve a seemingly complicated question about violence and language, violence and poetics, strategies and enemies. I say 'seemingly' complex, because when people are offended or affronted or disgusted by a bit of writing like this 'and thus we may now call for the head / and intestines of George Osborne and do' (from Gideon, Barque Press) or 'When you meet a Tory in the street / slit his throat. It will bring out the best in you' (Happiness: Poems After Rimbaud - Sean Bonney, UnKant) the discussion often starts to cross the lines set up by the fact that what is 'disgusting' is actually contained within  a poem. Something that is supposed to be (enemy tongue) 'abstract' and full of sentiment. I see these extremities as bursts of coaxial tenderness; on the one hand we call for the real cutting of a real throat, on the other hand we understand that cutting as a cut in social history, the composition of enemy thought and pressure, and the cut as the necessary dissolution of rigid corruption to fluid. To blood. To the symbolic red, the unification of alienated bodies in the purging of their oppressor. And to be clear, a couple of pages back from that first quote in Gideon we have 'a conceptual / enemy body  deranged ,,, you  and your cohorts in   careless magic have summoned forth. /   I AM SPECTRAL  ,,  HARMLESS'. By that, and it shouldn't need explaining (and perhaps that apologetic shouldn't have been there at all) is meant that the harmless body, the one with the least affect, that being the majority of bodies, is / are harmless and merely spectral to the oppressive elite. This is why screaming for the heads of the rich is in fact a very tender and generous act. In the depth of alien helplessness we are at least allowed the jouissance of disfigurement. I think that's probably the first step to writing poetry that makes everybody happy.


The question is not complicated. 'Is it reasonable, forgivable, justifiable to create a poetics that joys in the language of murder?' The answer to that is probably 'No'. And what good poetics have emerged that have been at once forgivable, justifiable and reasonable? Like an election. This is very insincere writing. I'm piling the words into your gullet and accusing you of using them, fine, but that's how I feel about most poetry. The constant pressure of the rightness of purpose, of shape and form. The correct approach, the studied. I wonder what a very loud brain makes of all that. With new "hate speech" laws coming in perhaps we have some opportunities to make our poetry finally break out into the imagination of a wider public, though at what risk? Some friends and I have been speaking very romantically and dangerously about what defending a few lines on, say, the disemboweling of Theresa May might look like. Especially if that disemboweling is staring up and down into line corrosions full of blistering love and disclosure. If those lines are seen as the debt settlement proceeding and preceding a transcendental form of living. I'm finding it difficult to put this into words, to make excuses. But here's a radio discussion where we kicked some of these ideas about. I'll say more about Athens later.

http://beton7artradio.gr/index.php/en/producers/item/189-peopletalk-w-hd