What is Life?

It's no exaggeration to say that all of a sudden an album I have only listened to once is probably the best album I've ever heard. It was with a weird rush of joy and pain that we sat there and listened to the whole thing through. Late at night, after a tediously repetitive work shift, in my deadening routine. Blooms What is Life is a labour of devotion. It feels extremely sorrofwul and lost at times. That sorrow and that loss is broken through with what sound like the sounds of actual illumination. There is such an immensity of expression; such a sense of time - the universal turning in to the personal; a realised separation of those two things, and a realisation of there being no two distinct things. Sorry. I know I can get a bit confusing, and I'm expressing my own micro-narrative which is probably a far cry from what is actually there. What I will say is that it is rare I feel so loved by music, and finding things that have profound emotional effects on me is often a bit of game of chance cards. This album is stunningly beautiful, and I think I will value it forever. I'm going to listen to it again now as I walk anxiously about in town. For fans of the void, masturbation as self love, dancing and jellyfish moving about in the sea.

NPD

The problem is life. Every time you think you are breathing you are fucking the dead. The problem is the midlands. Every time you read a book. Every time you correct someone you are a violent Tory. Every time you think you are correct. Every time you think you're embracing the outer. Every time you feel bad about yourself. Every time you carve up your body image. Fuck, this is futile and imitation. Every time you say "I'm quite OCD'. Every time you self diagnose as neurotypical, yeah, it's you motherfucker. Get your head in my throat in my hands. Every time you imitate me I will do the same to you. Every time "I don't have a voice". The problem with the establishment of "spoken word" as an art form is that even the people who attend it think it's shit. The problem with Kate Tempest is the same as the Midlands and drama school. The problem with me is I'm lost and bitter and a fucking traitor to myself. The problem with every problem is the score of its ultimatum written badly on the sky or on the stars if you look to the stars for guidance or beauty you cannot be trusted. The problem with you is you're afraid of Theresa May the same as I was and that problem is the desire for a neurotypical grandfather who won't let go of your leg whilst he hangs you over the balcony like *********who was a sex offender like the nebula like the sea like the sand under the sea which is, now I think about it, the wettest thing in the world. Stop fucking following me. When you try to write down the thoughts that come into your head you usually try to stop them then try to start them again. William Burroughs has nothing to offer you. You already know. There is nothing here. I have nothing to offer you. Poetry is fucking stupid. You are fucking stupid. That punk in the Blue Man, he is on the spectrum. That neurotypical support worker, she is on the spectrum. The moon is on the fucking spectrum. "We're all a bit autistic", no, You're. Then you can get up and then be sick then you can say some of these words to make yourself feel more comfortable. ************ is a fucking creep. All his poems are enemies. I haven't read them. It is rare that this much disclosure. Oh but it's a special occasion. There is a every time there is a national poetry day you write a poem. A very long time ago Hans Falada was trending in Waterstones. I am running out. I am not a clear voice. Don't ingest me like you would botox. Get over your desires. If you're not reading by next week someone you hadn't heard of last week you are killing yourself. If you can read you are already in hell. The neurotypical discipline is a white fantasy in lieu of visible slaves. Teach yourself not to listen.

NOTICE

NOTICE

Tell yourself the way out; again,

again, again. Force your will to play out;

what the fuck is inside you?

Such a little madam,

ratified by habit. The pulse

of daily loss, arrested little heart.

Torn up one by failing one

nothing left to clarify,

in littlespace you’re quaking

where once you were personified.

What is that left behind you?

Leave until you die.

What the fuck is in you? Never

latch the door. You have not been ruined.

Not quite,

being ruined isn’t shit:

Things become sucked out of you.

Wrongness basted every hole...

Waste became internalised, permission

never given. Take your tiny self

away strangled by your ribbon.

Reluctant Bus Sounds Shanty

Coded Beltane not with Aspartame
called muck splits syndrome. Put on
up On diner no white sick. That disgusts
you. Just build eyesore on a sack lament

churched. Now in new misery put out
anew guilt fresh always crush transportation
methods in the gesture of your silent knell
then split then split back together. On

to new world the object fluid is tear is
split on me On open your aspic hood clasp
to rat out your identity play. No on gate
while the leaves fall tearingly sad its us.

Possessed possessed with a hone of flick
to load into what care I support I do
flat in bed whince upon their hurried
teeth to gangway apart the door.

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.