Sunday, January 23, 2011
I understood money as a knife, would
use that centrifuge > London, rotating
embers of an abstract city, capital
in red & black. It was sleeping, we were
awake inside it > the opposite is also true
has blocked the anti-matter of the speaking I
has secreted memory < confronted its being
as bourgeois love, that cannibal monstrosity
wherein government is at war with thought’s
productions of transparency < a pretty little
enzyme dissolved our face’s history, privatised
the place and the formula > consciousness
in exile, mass without number, insurrection
is value. Meanings excoriate the enemy language.
It is impossible fully to grasp Rimbaud's work, and especially Une Saison en Enfer, if you have not studied through and understood the whole of Marx's Capital. Consequently, none of the poets for the past half-century has understood Rimbaud. - Lenin, Zurich, 1915
Monday, January 17, 2011
Thursday, January 06, 2011
here is a picture > is a kind of glass
a simple stone would define < the year
is that particular and no longer is our
ie friend < specific locks refined our vision
& history returned. was armed > we didn’t
die there, those angles were unavailable
fire is physical time. is absolute unrest
or total war < interior logic of music’s
new definitions. millbank > build bonfires
say we choked their mirror, a heated
flicker > or we know what people used
to eat in pictures < we are eating stones
- There are sirens in this city. Their songs are grim and surgical.
- There is an alarm clock ringing sixty minutes a second.
- There’s a hole in the ground filled with gas and white plague.
- There’s a burning cathedral. A wedding of vampires and stealth.
- There’s a bully van painted red and black.
- There are figures on the rooftops. Archers and cameramen.
- And when you stand up and say 'enough of this', there’s always someone to shoot you in the face.