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

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