11.09.16

As part of your straw or dust hazard a guess at this thing is hurting me. Me that was doesn't understand it standing in a screaming into a bin on Western Road there the hold tight monograph your face made up is made up.

Sing the notes descendant on a part, a part broken.

First Disposal

   

    of disposal
    of human
    disposal

    hospitals.
    Fuck  the  schools

    we're  in  need  of
    blood
    disposal. No more listeners:


     sometimes   away  the   crossing
     voice. Curling   sea,, away

     where     are     you;     what've we

     lost    you.

     those. Those were   difficult   days
     for    me   I   said   they   were   hard

     they  were  nothing   just
     like  now  the  days  are  not

     passing      are blanks
     signals  of

     what's   what it's like
     to   be  gone  where   are   you  fascists

     like   to  self  identify. we're not;


Community Care reported that over 2,100 mental health beds have been closed in the UK since April 2011 with 468 beds closing during 2014 alone. In addition funding for home treatment teams has been cut by almost two percent whilst referrals to them rose by 16%.e.

Rain for Viola

RAIN FOR VIOLA

to Jazz Malkin


     Dear friend, the rain as we hear it tearing
     from the ground or groaning up into the
greying, somehow swaying or numb blankness.
What are those functions(?); when are they stuck up,
     stapled eye to eye to look forward, out
     across this rattling and rhythmic little
street-thing, when we find out ourselves; if speed
has detached from the motions of speaking

birds soar up and back and somehow nought down,
     zero to street level to level with
your,, no not that there is no hope that we
     cherish in the zero content of voice
one, mine: Splashing its useless words but what
use is speaking ever when there's years, love
     and a borderless range of optional
     hazards, and you are total. Somehow know
that; you are total, a sister nought down
to eye to street level and up, in with
rain, your heart to me, dropping just to rise.

 

Discordian Tenderness - Note on Manifestos

Thinking about the manifesto form. How we've settled for it. How form adopts us; absorbed into it on every level, how in that case it becomes unattainable; all movements unsustainable. How that resistance is the destruction of form that is part and process of the movement into larger form. Form galvanises the edges of the universe. Billions and billions of forms.

That's a quote from wonders of the solar system episode 2 I think - Brain's at absolute peak and he's standing on some rocky cleft with the stars going about him like tiny glinting aristocrats, and he's having this really mild and pernicious orgasm (albeit involuntary) which alludes to a modern commercial festival's version of a rave, in that it cums in disappointment, and Brain's going on about light hitting his eyes, while his eyes are secretly asking you for a bag of Garies, or as he calls them "stardust"; this subatomic Randian multiversalist: planet earth - the biggest planet in the world. Basically I'd like to start a campaign to try and encourage him, and everyone else in that cultural petri dish to have these intense moments of linguistic and syntactic slippage in every manifestation of thought they can muster, public or private. What that slippage would look like is this: the bright eyes become dulled, or the dull brightness of the explanatory mode of address is seized by a genuine brightness, the corners of the mouth peel vertically towards the furrowed head ans the rings on the inside of the cheek flats gallop. At this point the orator (Cox) opens his mouth and states "don't listen to me. I'm making it up. It's written on a board. It's nothing. I don't know. My name is Professor Brian Cox and I do not understand you etc.". And this as a broad brush stroke over the rigid anti bathetic malaise of public culture in general. The only way our ontologists cause us to laugh is through absurdism drawn from the outside.

In this case our problems are environmental. Truth at the centre if we'd only care to look at it, around it all these laughing hacks (us - you etc.) creating a cacophony of indolent hysterical bleating whilst our cultural servants do their utmost to filter us out. You are standing on the underside of the water's surface. What is a derivative. The manifesto is a compressed nebula inside a light dot in a vianetta held tight between layer one, cream, the ice layer, the frozen new formalist movement, three Faber young poets and your dad wrapped around a vote. Those are some of your choices. Billions and billions of them.

Discordian Tenderness - Second Manifesto

for Fern

(after Sappho)

Discord, the blast
                                 mirror
the magic columns,, tenderness does not. There is nothing but the void. The genderless chain of exactitude.. : pin,, "there is nothing
                               but the void" is tireless, tenderness is the gaping void. Is the entropic frontier is this joke called the cosmos is this implacable enemy,, easy the way that leads to the void. The void will loom eternal and intact.
                                                   (Hair)

    Void.
    Intact.
    Wasp.

The precinct of the void is a mirror, the mirror of the precinct, the void.

Some say there are no enemies, no oppositions. They are hacks and liars. Enemies. Your violence is in panic at the void. Violence to us is that we represent it: shreds and blots of the void dapple us. We are feared. We sometimes remain silent in public because our voices will out us. Afraid in this moment. Of physical attack. The void is full and empty. The world is slated with opposites and estrangements. We are gambled for and over. Subjects of the Gay Masters. Our bodies, occupied buildings. Private sectors. I fear those that gamble against our lives. I Hail Discordia those that gamble us against them. Throw an apple at a cop: The queered void is grounded in the free.

Discord & Tenderness - First Manifesto

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tenderness is not the capacity to feel. Tenderness is not lost on you. It is not a supplement for solitude. It doesn’t leave you, but wants you. And in it there is a world of sounds and sound’s ecstatic lack. It is not ordered but proceeds from its mirror world. Tenderness doesn’t leave you at the pitch of your desires, it doesn’t make an argument for or against any new or ceasing world. Tenderness is not a flag: It falls in discordant parts and shapes, heaping up in cheaper disproportions and you sing there, or not. Remain in the lack of its shape, sound; the blast mirror where decay is; it is there, in decay also there is tenderness. In lack there is everything, all given choices promised in the absence of all. Does not linger too long in the realm of parenthood, in the body. But tenderness is, with resistance, with bodies, without them. Tenderness is; rested and illusory.  

And discord is not merely a raised voice, a priapic lung, a red gesturing sack of cheeks and turning whites of eyes. Discord, lush engulf of sadness, broken waters of sky. Violence is there, inside and over,, it is not a Détournement; we’ve not hijacked language. We live there, between the closed walls, the symbolic, the real, the imaginary: All ligatures, heaving our bodies screaming into the order of words. You’ve not taken the violence  and horror in order to disarm it. It is. You are. There are no tourniquets. What it means it means despite you. Discord denies this, denies us; me: Useless impartial anti-voice. Discord is not an idol, neither a mystery, neither a horror. It is horror and joy, supplemented, mirrored,, the mirrors shredded in teeth it is your spit,, my eye with it brimmed. Those corners of un-closable love, and for us all.

Manifesto (10.07.2016 - After Wolf Kid)

Manifesto.

The next time someone gives me that kind of shit, I don't know what I'll do. Probably cower like some polite little scab. But here it is. People assuming your entirety, as a fetish object, a novelty, a commodity. Telling me I'm "brave", that I should be myself no matter what etc. Telling me you're an "ally", be your fucking self like some stupid pithy little mantra that would save me from violence if only I could remember it. Don't assume a thing. I might even be armed. Don't ask me your stupid fucking questions. If you can't treat a person like a person, if your guilt has rolled you into yet another piece of self shaming and self serving violence then that is yours to live with. It holds you and guides you, helps you find more and more lives to objectify,,,, crawling around the room begging for forgiveness; STOP, wondering aloud why it is that what you think you think and feel doesn't seem to manifest. Guilt is hatred. Self hatred turned to hatred of the "other" (as you say) the "invisible" (as you way). We are unified. Your unity is with the ideology of division, social chastity and self aggrandising tokenism. Come see us Wolf Kids, ask for our experiences served up in neat consumable liberal packaging. Tick the box. Assume and categorise our identities. Move on; STOP. Come near us again, start grabbing at hair, recite our racial, sexual and gendered histories back to us. Oh, thank you. I never fucking knew. Or perhaps don't, because we've been here for ten billion years, we'll rip off your face or something. Free yourself of your guilt. Free us from your guilt. Free us from guilt. Triton is a blue line; STOP.