Wednesday, August 06, 2014

Letter Against the Firmament (four)

 Our illnesses are mostly political illnesses - Peter Weiss

Well, I dunno, its like we all went mad or something. That “all” is not at all inclusive, obviously. I mean, a lot of us just continued as if nothing was happening, as if the black wind beating through our minds and our skies and our homes was either totally invisible, or simply something that didn’t apply to us. I became a monster, that’s for sure, intolerant and violent, psychopathic in my hatred for every cop and tory in this entire town. I’d have been an asshole if I hadn’t. That impotent frenzy, that whirling, high-pitched metallic growl was entirely justified, and seemed to me to be the only collectivity still available to us. And obviously, the government too had their share in that collectivity. Actually, theirs was far more solid and terminal than ours: its stupid now to name names, as if those gorgons in power really had names, as if they weren’t simply different aspects of the same bacterial meteor smashing into our faces over and over again until we too were unrecognisable, nameless and, if not defeated, then certainly broken beyond all previous recognition and naming. For others, it was far worse. Actually, in a lot of ways I’m far more reprehensible than all those middle-class fuckers I claim to hate so much. Rage can become very comfortable, very quickly. Obviously I don’t quite mean that. Actually, I don’t mean that at all. Sure it seems like I’ve been living in a bubble for the last few years, a bubble that stretches roughly from November 2010 to sometime around August 2011. That is, not quite a year. But whatever, that bubble is a cell, in all the meanings that word carries, and that cell is injected every day with soil and minced dog, over and over again, and it stays that way until the rent even on that cell becomes too much to afford because some yuppie wants to live there and some landlord somewhere has converted even political anger into a slab of real estate. That’s right, a slab. And on bad nights I start dreaming - well not dreaming because I don’t really sleep - I start imagining that we’re all bricked up behind that slab, sucking at the bread that is only baked at midnight. But its not us behind that slab at all, is it, that slab composed of tungsten and dense micro shrapnel, which explodes in deep, fabular silence somewhere on the other side of the planet, a dense micro-nebulae of our own design, in which all calendars - solar, lunar, whatever - are either vaporised or revealed to be a dense organisation of multilinear bullshit, a ring of roses, rigid and ossified, a foul-smelling network of bones, and all of those bones played upon like holy trumpets, ringing and ringing, a massive flood of paralegal gods, almost, a small but effective blast radius, a vacuum of coins and tourists, a reasonable point of view. That’s right, some of us went mad. Every night I go out and gawp at the stars, those fascist narratives stamped across the firmament, those jumbles of rape and carrion. Years ago, back when I was still a fucking human being, I had the idea that we could invent a whole new network of constellations, could exorcise all of the spit and rancid daisies, all of the idiot alchemy of the centuries. But no, why blast ourselves into another system of gravitational mythology - the necrorealism of the current constellations, meteors and laughing gas, still works as a perfectly serviceable map, an osteoblast completely impenetrable to those we still fondly refer to as our enemies. Once we recognise the calendar as a system of mineralised bone we might start getting somewhere. Because what is bone is also teeth, and when those teeth are scattered across the soil, the floodplains and new build deserts, they start speaking, and the noise is tremendous, at frequencies no living creature can hear, but the dead do, and crawl out from underneath their shattered houses, and the music is intolerable, because the time for tolerance is long past, and at this point I collapse. Rage, as I said, is a very comfortable place. I’ve been living on speed and whisky for weeks. But don’t get the wrong idea, things round here are quiet and very pleasant. Any time you fancy popping over for breakfast, you’ll be very welcome.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Lamentation


it is a storm of monstrous drums

the war has not been declared
                         it only shrieks
the way ghosts shriek &
          ashes are the shrieks
                             of ghosts are
burnt water       are skalds
of coins & lawful slumber
                      
and scarlet stars of rotten silver
                                       
I want to never forget how I was forced to become a monster of justice and intolerance, a narrow minded simplifier, an arctic character uninterested in anyone who was not in league with him to kill the dogs of hell - (René Char)

& this sentence
                   un-pronounced        
must not make you bitter
              it has made you bitter

      

_______________________________________________________________


From now on use only the pronoun “we”. It is not universal.
“We” the liars. “We” the obedient, “we” the imperial teeth.
No birds, no suits, no sacrificial spiders.
This history passes through us like ghosts.
Various acronyms. Nostalgia for electric colour.
The inevitable black hole.
Black and murderous pink.


The ray of light that reveals the whole to be untrue in all its moments is none other than utopia, the utopia of the whole truth, which has yet to be revealed - (Theodor Adorno)

- all this we have not lived through, all this we have never seen -

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Lamentation

“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
and night’s
counter-light

________________________________________________________________

“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

Lamentations (inc. some lines from Louise Michel)

“We will return, an infinite mob
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

Hölderlin after Meinhoff (Lamentations)

these towers and cities
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

Admonition: To the Owners of Planet Earth

Pay it all back. Leave the dead to their natural stations.
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

Lamentation



 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.

Not this.

*

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.
Glossalalia.