“The rupture of continuity isn’t sufficient to explain pain” - Novalis
five days without sleep
the law is fixed and burns
we who are captive here
each night the same figure
on the same road, stops
roaring, like a brain
roaring out our ghosts
hyacinth and snap-flower
my ghosts, a river of bones
my ghosts, narcissi, my
scrambled jarrow zodiac
“evil-doing falls like rain”
Who are these judges, who made them custodians? Of what? What are those things in the centre of their mouths, that ringed silence, that crushed clock, screams of dead and flying things: as if all of their verbs, those private plazas, had coagulated, into nouns, and the nouns themselves something subterranean, blind and telescopic, crooked and evil, the paths of the law
all of them, constructed by "suicides", other meaningless euphemisms, their eyes, their mouths removed, more likely murder, their throats marked, the angles impossible, a long and entirely rational coagulation of all the senses.
some grow in dust
are not to be picked
opponents of day
“But for you it would be something of a duty in that you could perform in Tübingen the role of a waker of the dead. It is true that the Tübingen gravediggers would do their utmost against you.” - Hölderlin to Hegel, 25 November 1795.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
through all their doors, we’ll return
vengeful spectres, out from the shadows
with raised fists, we will return”
Because we do not exist the years of our birth are stacked inside the shadows of our mouths like imaginary cities or the pits of heaven and other basic banalities.
Say those rats. Say those rats have names say you know those names. You do not know those names. Say black powder say a lot of things. And then, a fascist victory, say that. And then. Say it seemed like a door was opened like just for a second and we hurtled through that door or was it things hurtled toward us I don’t know and. Say it was just a cloud of powdered blood. Say you know their names and then suffer from beneath those names and live and tunnel inside those names and. Ask what becomes of the motherfucking broken hearted
Watch out for melancholy.
Tell a few jokes.
Blow up Stonehenge.
So anyway, insomniacs or the wandering dead sleep by walking invisibly through the department, yeh, through the golden city. Well screw them. Do this instead: take some sulphide, some hydrogen, whatever you want, elements, elementals, mash em all up and boil the invisible. Just do it. The ecstasy of oxygen molecules, their barbarism, in disputation, with the technical wheel of the world. Or something like that. Because it is invisible and we are going down in it. Tell me about your holidays.
Thursday, May 01, 2014
these desert plains
these tasteful burning
skies, what are they
what has been forgotten
in these shanty towns
these parks and legends
solid, bright, concealed
strange and distant
ghosts, our stark ghosts
pass the soul of your body like water
boiling water that scalds forever
It breathes, the law, and those it protects it sings inside, and they are like flowers, chaste and tranquil as glass.
It stares at us, the music of the law, and its fingers, they pluck us, as if we were strings, golden, and we are their songs, the inhabitants of the law.
And we have no foothold, and we stumble, backward and backward, hour by hour, as stars or buildings collapsing, into the abyss, of their hearts, the inheritors of the law, and we sing there, unimagined, in the ice of our silence, falling.
And their souls will flow like piss in the streets of the great city.
Say they have enclosed us in blank stone. You wake up, you open your eyes, is simple: we have been consumed like blood and water, and our language - you wake up, sibilants and syntax a jet of bleach and concepts. Think stuff up: the enemy is non-material, we are not.
Say they have choked us with black sugar. Ask who are these custodians of yesterday’s rebellions - insist that it really happened, we are not at all imaginary. You wake up, you open your eyes - there is a border separates us, the deserving, the un-deserving dead. Post no miracles.
Monday, April 07, 2014
Burst open the prisons. Roast yourselves, feed yourselves to the beggars.
And if you do not do this we will gouge out your eyes. To take from you all you have broken, all you have taken, what you have made of us, of the circuits of the earth, for all of this we will take your eyes from you, and we will save them, as a record of your vision, as a vessel of deceit and dereliction, that no longer will you stalk the earth, no longer will you invent imperious darkness, a darkness we will never forget, as we will never forget you, devourers of the planet earth, we will keep you in our mouths, and we will keep you there to recite the filth of your lives, and we will do this so you roam forever through the known and unknown hells, and we will do this that the endless solar gulls and the endless whirring of the firmament will no longer simply be money, and so the dogs of the beggars will bark and run, like invisible ghosts will feed on your bones in eternal night.
(after Abiezer Coppe)
Wednesday, April 02, 2014
in the days of our fiercest anger
the precision of beauty
the joy of the whole world
soaked bread in their darkness
enemies pressed their mouths on us
& a snare is come among us
& there is none to comfort us
the rich dead
their rich dead friends
What does it mean. That we are their music.
This city is nameless mist. Is stones and stars.
Of music imprisoned, the insulted and truly wretched.
Of the names of those responsible for the massacres.
A screed against fear and circles, of dials and calendars, co-ordinates and counter-maps.
On the numerology of birdsong. On riot replaced by birdsong. Persecutors swifter than eagles.
They pursued us on the mountains. Laid wait for us in the wilderness.
For the last two years, a hole in the ground, we walked counter-clockwise.
That’s right, tell us one more fucking time about them shooting the clocks in the Commune.
For the last three days, fascism.
Breaking news, different emphasis. And our collective vowels humming like drones.
What are you talking about, the invisibles.
As if they didn’t hover above us. Announce themselves with blue fire.
The law is a mouth.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
patrols the invisible
is dark outside
like on a mountain path
or no not that no
was ash and creaking
there are comets as
we decipher them
as law or radio
as in Richard Branson
in orbit in negative
time embers creaking
as then the cities burn
as ash as simple figures
as the sky is an insult
constellations no longer intact
name this city
it is a bone it is
our bones creak
as pearl fire will
split nets of streets
or bone it is
pearls & Thomas Muntzer
have never not been alive