Wednesday, August 12, 2015

The Chorus is on Fire (3/3)


Don’t let me sleep I’m dreaming. They walk toward me the dreams the phantoms it is lonely here. They walk toward me the dreams the melodies the harmony is wrong. It is lonely here. The years are pebbles and they’re blocking my mouth. The years are coins and they’re blocking my mouth. The years are coins and each one stamped with a separable sun. First sun Kobane. Second sun Calais. The dreams are lines they are suns their angles are vicious their voices are thin they are phantoms their voices shatter glass. They are thin phantoms they speak inside our mouths. They speak inside our mouths the blasted tower the hanging man in Haymarket in Kobane. Don’t let me sleep I’m dreaming. The dreams are years are pebbles are a system of inaudible suns. Third sun Tottenham. Second sun Calais. The harmony is wrong the dreams are hunting us down. The harmony is wrong is filth is drugs is disgust is rage. First rage Ferguson. Second rage Gaza. They are thin phantoms they are bursting suns they are blasted glass. The years are blasted glass they speak inside our mouths in Ferguson in Kobane. Now they take aim. Now they murder. Don’t let me sleep I’m dreaming. They walk toward me the dreams they take aim they murder. First dream Tottenham. Second dream Calais it is lonely here. The dreams are blasted glass they are blocking my mouth. Dreams are a means of speaking. Glass is a means of screaming your nightmares down.

I would like to spin a eulogy / of filth, of poverty, of drugs and suicide . . . drugs, disgust, rage - Pasolini

They will devour themselves in eternal fire. Angels are everywhere - Katerina Gogou

Saturday, August 08, 2015

The Chorus is on Fire (2/3)

improvisations on poems by Katerina Gogou //// notes from a failed essay on Pasolini


one day I’ll come out from the houses
I did it yesterday
no thought for anything at all
a splinter of dismembered oceans
a city, several beloved friends
one day I’ll come out from the houses
you fascist bastards
you pig bastards
the flag is at best a fever
the surface an instantaneous flash
I will come out from the houses
those collisions of oceans and lies
disappear like I have disappeared
“into the void”, you fascist bastards
no details, no social facts
one day I’ll come out from the houses
I did it yesterday
loneliness, that infinite flash
listen, don’t believe what they say
before those bastards kick in the doors
listen, disappear, listen

On a specific date when the pigs were busy burning the witches i.e. dole scroungers she was spotted leaving the house setting fire to every cop car she saw. At a synchronised hour she was known to be transporting weapons to anarchist-communist groups in the Middle East, to be sheltering refugees in Calais, to be distributing certain classified documents relating to the blood-stained and medieval predilections of David Cameron, Theresa May and Jeremy Hunt. Last spotted wearing one red and black military sweater, one pearl necklace, fists clenched inside the pockets of a somewhat dirty borrowed jacket. This is a note on how to become numbered among the ranks of the invisible.


For that is the tragic with us, to go away into the kingdom of the living in total silence packed up in some kind of container, not to pay for the flames we have been unable to control by being consumed in fire - Hölderlin

In his final interview, Pasolini admitted to a belief in magic, which in a sense means knowing how to use anger, how to inhabit the interior of the word “no” which has a geography and that geography is that of the netherworld. His 1964 poem “Victory” has the bodies of the Partisans crawling out from their graves and marching, with all the silence of active negation, into the cities below. Horrified by what they find there, if corpses can indeed be horrified, they turn around, clamber back into their holes in the earth. But in the meantime their names have changed. Their forgotten names have broken apart in the indecent complacent storms of the cities and something strange has been released, something terminal and alien. The meaning of the word “no”, the meaning of “magic”, is to recognise our own faces in the wreckage of those names.


Don’t worry they won’t shoot us. That is not a hole that is not a blast of glass. Don’t worry you can go home now. That is not a red stain not a swirling knife of glass. Don’t worry go home they’ll never shoot us. That is not your face its a scratch a wound its the centuries walking. Class War. We go down like hail and rain. 

You are not absolutely defenceless. For the torch of the incendiary, which has been known to show murderers and tyrants the danger line, beyond which they may not venture with impunity, cannot be wrested from you - Lucy Parsons.






Sunday, July 19, 2015

The Chorus is on Fire (improvisations on poems by Katerina Gogou / abandoned notes on Pasolini)


Pasolini’s utopia is the necropole, what Hölderlin called the nefas. It is a counter-sickness, a naked factory-owner screaming in the desert, a force from the past tearing up the present because it comes from the future. History is invisible, is exclusion and contagion.

A ring of slums encircles the city, as inexpressible distance, measurable only in light years. Memory etched in the boarded up windows, the promises that business will be resumed presently. ASAP becomes ACAB. Bitterness perfected.

__________________________________________________________

Is loneliness is. Not family photos. Not memorials not. Distance is. Loneliness is. Queuing for food and. Crackling of bone and. Hanging of meat and. Calais is. The border is. Loneliness is. Yellow fire is. Glassing the present is. Not you not. Blood clots not. Bruises not. Prisons not. Hatred is. Hatred is. Without a passport is. Not melancholic is. Bought and sold and. Yes wakes up early and. Yes cleans your office is. Not your self-pity is. Nine to a room is. Not your cocaine is. Drowns in transit is. Counting of wounds is. Dances on tables is. Is loneliness is. Planets of glass is. Whirling is whirling is. Knives of glass is. Over your head is. Swirling is swirling is swirling

But the possible which steps into reality, as reality dissolves, this has a real effect, and it effects both the sensation of the dissolution and the memory of that which is dissolved. - Hölderlin

Open the door and give me money.
I haven’t moved. You can still find me
But years have passed and my nails are jagged and filthy
And I frighten my friends and my mind has
Vanished. I left it here. I can’t find it.
And when I hear my name I become afraid
They want me to betray you. They want me to lie.
And I’m frightened of the voices because the voices lie
                                       They say they shot you in the legs
                                       I know they never aim at legs
                                       They shoot you in the mind.
                                       Keep it together. Keep moving.


If, for Pasolini, fascism is the dream of death that, in emergency, becomes capital’s raw force and keeps it alive, then communism is that which scrapes and wheezes at its edges, is the death encoded in traces of historical memory. But this is a commonplace. Metaphor as fixed lie. Metaphor as catastrophe. Pasolini’s era is further from us than Hölderlin’s ever was. The shift in epochs is the nefas. We pass over without noticing. This is the meaning of the illness of St. Paul. The struggle is not, as both Walter Benjamin and Frank Wilderson have claimed, between the living and the dead, but between the dead and the dead. Dead history and dead future: a showdown between the desert and surveillance camera. In Mathew, the devotional is suffocating, is crazed with starvation, fear and atrocity. The disciples have flies crawling on their faces in every scene. Malediction is realism.

God has chosen precisely what does not exist in order to reduce to nothing what does exist - St Paul

Someone has taken our knives. We go down like the sun. Place of birth. Unknown. They have scratched away our slogans. Colour of eyes. Unknown. We go down like hail and rain. Year of birth. Fuck it. Next time they shoot us, we’ll refuse to die. Its raining again. Give me a cigarette.



Some academic once wrote of Pasolini that we should “turn down the volume on his political sermons and listen to what he whispered in his work”, which is obviously pretty stupid, as the politics are precisely within those whispers. In the St Paul screenplay he quotes Corinthians, on “hearing inexpressible things, things we are not able to tell”. And in his final essay he makes it clear what those “inexpressible things” are; they are names. The names of those responsible for massacres, the names of the owners of power as it exists behind known power. Names that it is impossible to recite and still live. This has very little to do with what is still called ‘magic’.


In this arena we’re pushed along like some strange and dark army in which some carry cannons and others carry crowbars - Pasolini

___________________________________________________________________

We are being followed. They are hunting us, are mostly silent. Lines of them, they are hunting us. Their sentences, relatively simple. Our hunters, our educators. It is very simple. We don’t mention the silence. What we keep inside our whispers. In our signals, in our silence. As each of their faces change. As each of their cells divide. In great procession, the faces. Their lessons are endless. Silence, in circles, our hunters. As if we were dogs. As if we barked at strangers. And now they will murder. There is safety in murder. Somewhere are angels. Angels have claws. Dogs are everywhere.

Here come the evictors
They’ve got us by the hair and throat
And bound us with it, bound us
To the floor and the bed, all of us
This is the way they put up the rent
The rent changes, the names change
Our names change, the street’s names
                            40 degrees in the shade
                            Next time they shoot us, fire back



Meanwhile, the Chorus, weirdly absent in Pasolini’s interpretations of Greek myth, but who for Hölderlin could speak “almost in the manner of the furies”, are, put simply, the un-named. Those who eat dogs on the surface of the planet of slums, and scream out their names from the centre of the desert. And “chorus”, when spoken from within certain archaic accents, is almost the same word as “curse”.


Sunday, June 28, 2015

Corpus Hermeticum: On the Revolution of the Heavenly Spheres





 News blackouts etc. This really happened.

Every Thursday mayhem in weather systems.
Imaginary battles in science and strike actions. The bastards had won
as in Vision overload, fascist analysis of human beings
and a slightly less comfortable suburb. Arts and that.
Or science. Black mirrors. Seven dials. Black mirrors. Seven dials. Prisons.

We’re blocking central London. Riot as, in relation to this past
I don’t need a wound. We wanted going fucking mad. Too many racists still breathing
and strange convulsions, I felt it, me and the devil
at first repression and counter-acts, overload Malediction, tried to chart strikes
as Noise, they were still dead. Their galaxies, spinning faster.

Mercury unsuitable for making coins.

———————————————————————————————————

February 17th 1600, burned, “his tongue imprisoned because of his wicked words”


for water say plague i.e. the language of judges, the infinite vowel
for water say fire i.e pulsars and mace. For water say yellow fire
i.e. the fascist microbe in every drop of rain. For water say dust
i.e. negative flames, soluble dust, chemical burns, scars and skies



Forget psychogeography. All its ever been is a ring of protection, a police-thing’s joy, at its centre that bitter knot of strings that Brecht called ‘prophecy’, spy-rings. String One: we were smashing up the Ritz, March 2011. String Two: shit was talked about immigrants, about dole scroungers. String Three: not an ATM a bright metallic wind or real-time alignment of the patterns of non-affordable housing scattered throughout the city and the stereo-optic beating of police hearts. Beat one. Cancelation of Europe and Mercury. Stone circles are police kettles, you can’t tell me different.


for yellow fire say fuck the police
kill fear say fire say fuck the police


For example, take Newgate. Built 1188, directly into the walls, London’s eastern gate. Beat Two. We don’t recognise ourselves there. Beat Three. The debtor’s jail, the throat the muzzle of the city.  July 10th, 1790, burned. Robert Peel built cops from the ashes. Beat Four. Debt is bone. Versions of bone. Version One. Spare change. Version Two. Lock the bosses out. Superglue them. Out. Version Three. Debt One. Those nobility who entered the city from the east would pass through a wall packed with the tortured, the scraped and wheezing dead. London a cursèd city, is beautiful in the smouldering spring.



We’re not underground we’re invisible. - Bernardine Dohrn.     remember Theresa May, that guillotine

Unemployed families were slaughtered
remember Theresa May driving thru London in crackling human Tar
about legal channels, hot pink and petrol flare
Awake at night, in strike actions

or the protests did what in relation to Fucking realism
stuck it out inside all noise, inside David Willets and Abeizer Coppe
bounded by law, David Willets, gored by magpies and glass
Victory to dole scroungers. This really happened

inside Normal matter such as atoms and electrons, orphanhood.


——————————————————————————————————————-



Check the extent of police lines. 1829, Robert Peel invented 1000 pigs to circle the city as walls or gates as cordons. This happened. Those 1000 pigs as calendar, the working day a pyramid as razor the police recuperation of the sun. It was dark and the barricades were burning.


Tiresias the birds. Tiresias who sees what only a child could see, who blunders up from hell and hell is not underground. Says riots are a work of vast and incomprehensible mourning, a border a burning weird as even the fear felt by Charles and Camilla, that crow-bait, 2010, off with their heads - this really happened we have no fucking demands and Tiresias summoned voices of the vast dead charts of incomprehensible bird flight, everywhere we are those birds and it don’t mean shit the cops don’t know this.


We’re not all white and we’re not all men - George Jackson Brigade Communiqué, 1976

Robert Peel still peers down from Broadgate wall and is a blockade, Newgate torched. Police moved in smashed heads in counter-time, a silent musical fixture separates a human being from a cop. It is vital to recognise, to insist on that difference, that fixture - to locate with precision where that separation first appears in the ‘continuum’ where the entire pack of errors, superstitions and blood-stained bullets ram the solar throat of every cop in this town with vile psychic music and we live there, have organised noise. Studied strikes. Cop lives don’t matter.



for “I love you” say fuck the police, for
“the fires of heaven” say fuck the police, don’t say
“recruitment” don’t say “trotsky” say fuck the police
for “alarm clock” say fuck the police
                                                       for “my morning commute” for
“electoral system” for “endless solar wind” say fuck the police
don’t say “I have lost understanding of my visions” don’t say
“that much maligned human faculty” don’t say
“suicided by society” say fuck the police, for “the movement
of the heavenly spheres” say fuck the police, for
“the moon’s bright globe” for “the fairy mab” say
fuck the police, don’t say “direct debit” don’t say “join the party”
say “you are sleeping for the boss” and then say fuck the police
don’t say “evening rush-hour” say fuck the police, don’t say
“here are the steps I’ve taken to find work” say fuck the police
don’t say “tall skinny latté” say fuck the police, for
“the earth’s gravitational pull” say fuck the police, for
“make it new” say fuck the police
                                                       don’t say “spare change”
say fuck the police, don’t say “happy new year” say fuck the police
perhaps say “rewrite the calendar” but after that, immediately
after that say fuck the police, for “philosopher’s stone” for
“royal wedding” for “the work of transmutation” for “love
of beauty” say fuck the police
                say no justice no peace and then say fuck the police


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

as published in the latest issue of Tripwire
recording here

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Mythology (Corpus Hermeticum)


 I had forgotten human speech, it stuck in my throat . . . My voice came from Saturn - Diane di Prima




The victorians didn’t need alchemical diagrams they had factories. Diagram one: abandoned factory architercture. Diagram two: accumulation of years since the early 80s when Thatcher closed said factories. Factories compressed to the size of a small ball or asteroid approaching planet earth with all the historical force of a decommissioned god. God one: there is a cop inside my head there is a cop outside my head and the fact of their mutual destruction is the shape of abandoned factory architecture. Fact five: Rupert Murdoch. Fact eight: Theresa May. Fact three: the cop inside my head may be neutralised by a secret combination of forgotten names and when those names are pronounced and all forgetfulness is voiced London will burn Cameron will die.



Tiresias clambers up from hell which is. Only the noise that cities make as. She used to get information from the workings of birds but. Since we bound this city with threads of light and. They circle and ring like a rain of ragged logic and. Are fat with grease and grief and will not speak like. Inside the laws of hunger there is no grammar and. Loot the supermarket and. Those bones in that ancient ark are not your own and. Hell is the colour of human skin is not your own and. Tiresias her blind eyes scratch at bones are. All those new luxury flats are. This is the mystery of the eating of bread and bone says. Jump motherfucker jump.



Diagram five: fertility rites as emblem of the occupation of mayday. Class struggle misinterpreted as a ring of daisies. Ring one: impact of asteroid as metaphor. Ring two: names of cops as metaphor. Metaphor five: this is really happening. Ring six: Theresa May as symbol. Ring seven: infantile revenge fantasy. Symbol eight: Theresa May as ring of abandoned factory architecture translated into passport control. Symbol nine: abandoned factory architecture as magic and superstition translated into the belief that any of us ever existed. Fact one: sometimes it seems we live only as proof of the existence of cops. Proof one: Orgreave. Proof two: Newgate. Proof three: the class nature of comets the circulation of capital as a decommisioned sun. When those circles are charted and their diagrams pronounced London will burn Cameron will die.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Song / Stutter (Corpus Hermeticum)


takes the blind to see it ///// the voiceless to call its name  - after Lightnin Hopkins

Shriek-birds will circle our songs. First song. The sound of no blood. Second song. A bright and crackling gap inside our mouths. Prison one. An exchange of invisibilities inside the mouths of the dead who speak of death & live there. Prison two. Third song. Bright birds. Disks of sun. The murdered residue of song. Song eight. Song minus one. Feathers of social use are circling the body. Cop one. Cop two, cop three. Haymarket. Shriek. Tottenham. Shriek. And the moon.



an aside: Nigel Farage, in the hell of worms

tear open his mouth
          with all the silence in the world
                     which is golden, and screeches
                                    watch the bastard drown   



God has chosen precisely what does not exist in order to reduce to nothing what does exist - St Paul



The listener is of no real consequence, other than by the shared intensity of its collective irrelevance. This is a lesson in the revolutionary meaning of superstition and paranoia. This is what is meant by a “menaced lie”, its adversarial truth. Sun Ra called himself Lucifer.

The oppressor, formally known as the news, now becomes séance, magic, ultimately madness i.e. the expropriation of a people’s deepest aspirations soon becomes inaudible, a hideous inaudible hiss. The consequence is actually immense, and their lives become only a shattered state of dread, of warfare, unhoped for and fragmented. Breaks upon our mirror, our butchers glass.

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

ACAB: A Nursery Rhyme

 for “I love you” say fuck the police / for
“the fires of heaven” say fuck the police, don’t say
“recruitment” don’t say “trotsky” say fuck the police
for “alarm clock” say fuck the police
                                                       for “my morning commute” for
“electoral system” for “endless solar wind” say fuck the police
don’t say “I have lost understanding of my visions” don’t say
“that much maligned human faculty” don’t say
“suicided by society” say fuck the police / for “the movement
of the heavenly spheres” say fuck the police / for
“the moon’s bright globe” for “the fairy mab” say
fuck the police / don’t say “direct debit” don’t say “join the party”
say “you are sleeping for the boss” and then say fuck the police
don’t say “evening rush-hour” say fuck the police / don’t say
“here are the steps I’ve taken to find work” say fuck the police
don’t say “tall skinny latté” say fuck the police / for
“the earth’s gravitational pull” say fuck the police / for
“make it new” say fuck the police
                                                       all other words are buried there
all other words are spoken there / don’t say “spare change”
say fuck the police / don’t say “happy new year” say fuck the police
perhaps say “rewrite the calendar” but after that, immediately
after that say fuck the police / for “philosopher’s stone” for
“royal wedding” for “the work of transmutation” for “love
of beauty” say fuck the police / don’t say “here is my new poem”
say fuck the police
                say no justice no peace and then say fuck the police