communique

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.

Memo (propaganda by deed)

bloc 2 // bulletin

communique

BLOC 1 (communique - after Rimbaud)

incidentally > one harmless tourist / secretly
was a highly politicised ruling class > endless
their repetition, their endless combinations
& stereotypes / like us, in fact, peacefully
drinking in an ancient city < where “they”
- and we know who they are - where “they”
continue to pelt us with scorn / those living
worlds > from which we have disappeared
endless / their repetition, killing skinny dogs
in relative opacity < public opinion’s spectral
dogs / the eighth ditch is < stupidly burning
like westminster abbey > weird, that formula
or the jobcentre < where worlds are engulfed
mass without number < harmless walls of flame

don’t bother telling the truth if you can’t spit in its face

communique - (Bloc 1/// after Rimbaud)

tactic A: we are channeling public opinion’s
central panoptic > each shop window > is
equal to a specific convulsion > a spectral
split where London can pay to view its past
its face < each face a specific idea / fixed, as
dictionary level A < here is fresh vowels, as
against “them” > plated glass as widened split
the eighth ditch is Piccadilly < is that simple
bloc 1: wherein I have been saying / & ever
since we became their plated glass of public
shit > well I have been saying lies > like we
was the centre of London < I was yelling to
some cop > was an enemy ghost I thought
or trapped outside his circled limpid world