Wednesday, May 25, 2011

communique

after Rimbaud


dateline x. new cargo. innovative bloodstains in the atmosphere
encircled like language or birds. the point is that you do not agree
certain separations in the poetic word. certain landscapes or ghosts

cash & oil. or maybe / barbarians, a glass
do the leper itch / dig my radiation, love
not you: geezers, alleys, or lets pretend
you cream, the red-haired bombs & stars


or the content of corporate capital spreads routinely across the surface texture
of the bodies of middle class militants aflutter in the heart of cheap pharmaceutics
multiplied by several completed minutes each disconnected by social flattery

copernican drinkers: each city splits
re-orders, entangled, sealed / is laws
& fast money-back panic impalation
& clear love rides our glacial hearts


meanwhile. certain emblematic subjectivities. certain time-zones taken out of commission.
worthless chemistry, impossible melodies, passports and mercury. content deranges form.

communique

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Dogs (after Rimbaud)


------------------ here at the centre of the official world, they’re making a chart of all of our secret thoughts. They know everything about our cities, our rented glue

(a) the fusion of transnational capital with reactionary political power
(e) arbitrary militarisation
(i) a racist mobilisation against selected scapegoats
(o) public opinion’s spectral ditch
(u) a fanatical ideology based on hypocrisy and sentiment

Its all so exotic, a renewal of sectarian violence: like circus tyrants, they are bestial and tender / like sentimental magnets, they will occupy our territory for a single second, or maybe for months, maybe forever.


Trafalgar Square is solid meat. Dogs.

Sunday, May 01, 2011

Metropole (after Rimbaud)


We invented colours for the vowels, rich people live there: a mobile holding cell where reality would go on reproducing and representing itself endlessly where we could not exist, a systematic & carefully charted series of political assassinations. Now study this.

12th October. A sudden drop in consumer confidence, like a ridiculous water-nymph burning on some river’s bed. All hotels, industrial units etc, to be occupied. Nightingale. Polar sun. This is a pastoral.

But how could what we were experiencing be simply down to police tactics - seriously, try thinking about the first letter of the alphabet. For thirty minutes just do it. Those public buildings that will never again be buildings. Infinitely dense petals of social perfume. Methanol, turpentine etc. Physical attacks on all excessive displays of personal wealth.

We flattered ourselves we were in on some secret, we kidded ourselves that ferric aristocracies were not patrolling our networks, patrolling us on pure lymph level. As in a blockage on all major routes in and out of the city. As in electric pink. Or the kind of fucker who would squeal on the gallows.

They who tell the people revolutionary legends, they who amuse themselves with sensational stories, are as criminal as the geographer who would draw up false charts for navigators.