communique - (after Rimbaud)

anyway > how exactly does ammonia
does it get into a lightbulb / tell me
before the universe > that phony
paymaster i.e bailiff > it disrupts us
our ring of clicking seconds < is each
encircled // ring of cops & piss roses
it is a plague: & yet to smash the Ritz
is tactics etc < in epileptic time, was
fucked up by a non-violent majority
as in government department, lit up
tossed into the crowd / and implodes
in moth stutter < blame that, my tiny
crowd of wages:: a bone flutter, fuse
inserted < is lock universe, just kill it

“what I write at this moment in a cell at the Fort du Taureau I have written and shall write throughout all eternity - at a table, with a pen, clothed as I am now, in circumstances like these” - Blanqui, 1872

communique - (after Rimbaud)

but, if commodities could speak > their
imaginary friends grabbed your arm, their
barren life > is as simple as blossom, as a
musical phrase < beautiful as driving nails
deep in the skull of William Hague, that
vicious pink < imagine cultivating warts
as if commodities could speak > or fired
lived bullets & teargas, as crackling words
encircled the last of the liberated cities
or the fierce buzzing of flies > but anyway
imagine commodities could think, their
scraping hands on your sleeve > musical
beams of love < barren, respected life

after Rimbaud

it is not the cops > but geometry, from
this perspective is eerily silent about
its more scandalous projections < we
have scraped its clocks clean, we have
inserted a brown cigar, a cheap and easy
proto-tone, we have called it a village.
> oh hell. we are your population, turning
at 360 degrees, where King Charles I is
equal to or lesser than Ian Tomlinson, or
we already said that, forget it > we press
hands together, as scars of circling bone
where silence is also prohibited, funded
guns surround the city banks’ networks
of compulsory metaphors speaking aloud