Monday, July 08, 2019
So anyway, I killed Boris Johnson.
You know who he is, yeh?
Not much of a crime, really.
It was, I dunno, 2005, maybe 2006
he was on his bike
going down the Charing Cross Road
and me, I was on foot, of course.
Anyway, there was a bus behind him
and I took my chance. I pushed him under
the bus went over and then he was dead.
Noone saw me. Noone stopped me.
Everything that’s happened since has been
a dream. A deep and horrible dream.
Wake up. For the sake of us all, wake up.
Friday, June 28, 2019
The name was not Antonin Artaud. Nor was it Sophie Scholl. Not even Walter Benjamin, or any number of others, disappearing backwards into what we once called history, or fairy, or meathook. It could be the names of people, or entire countries, planets, paranormal phenomena. All were scooped up, left in secret sites just outside the map. The invisible, indelible marks of the border where meathook is a tranquil word, and real names are withheld and made irrelevant.
said 2019 to 1933
you the cutest massacre
I ever did see
the rats are in the corner
the baby’s in the sack
they took them to the lost and found
they’re never coming back
the rats are on the table
the baby’s on the sill
they’ll stay that way forever
till we do the fascist’s will
the fascist is the ferryman
from the stolen to the lost
it knows the words for everything
the baby knows the cost
the fascist is the ferryman
its boat is going down
into the seas that bind the world
of the living to the drowned
we’ll be this way forever
the rats are in the sack
vengeance is a pretty word
fight them back
We count the coming of the debt. The persecutions. Our enclaves boarded up, even those of the past. It feels as if the only inhabitable places left in the city are its songs, the forgotten ones and the sad ones. The sounds they begin to make when listening has been made impossible. The sounds they make are destitute and eerie. The names of the nameless, the holes in their necks, running toward us. Their mouths on backwards. Their language clear.
says Mother Goose to the Fairy Mab
old London Town is a Frankenstein Lab
that feeds the greedy and shelters the rich
and burns the poor and I can’t stand to finish this
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
When you were scratching your name into the mirror another few hundred people died. I guess they exist outside the borderline of what you call ‘kindness’. Kindness which in your mouth has the consistency of raw sewage. When you laugh it sounds like boiling lice.
Antonin Artaud was buried alive and while he was rotting he knew what he was doing. Large worms ate into his body. Then came the small worms. Then that species of aroma that has no scent, no history or country or body. Those souls that fascists call refugees or deportees if they give them a name at all.
But wait, we are no longer allowed to use that word fascist.
It is impolite, we are told, to call them that.
And so the silence that used to get called a city gets filled with noises.
Larval screeches that sound like they are alive.
number 9 said to number 4
we”re not living now and we weren’t before
Sophie Scholl never died
Not in 1944 not 2014
not in the years too old or new to be named
She paces the major cities
Hands out dry white roses
Take one. They are good luck.
Take one. She is lonely.
Just don’t ask about the hole in the back of her head.
Only idiots would do that.
Idiots and laughing fascists.
When she died she was in great pain.
It is ice cold in this room
Where the fascists are breathing
No-one has told them
They have been dead
Since the birth of all planets
That Saturn ate his children
for tranquil and safe are the arms of the cruel
and tranquil and safe is the mind of the fool
those minds that hate and those minds that sleep
and those minds that kill and those that weep
but do not be kind to me
but do not be clean near me
call it cleanliness call it kindness
do not call it kindness to me
your nobility your spirit
keep it far from me
In this place there are no cities or noises
Once a year there is a parade.
It is compulsory for the dead to attend.
In this place we call living
Long past the end of our life
for we’ve been dead before and we’ll be dead again
we were dead just now but we ain’t no more
And then there are those who cannot move without shitting bone, standing in the freezing back rooms, breathing inside other people’s deaths.
You can see them in old photographs, as if birds had scratched them, and those scratches are what fascists call history and hammered nails and human hunger and other words they use to express pleasure. The night of the earthquake. The 300 houses destroyed. The mouths scratched to pieces.
and so says the master and so says the slave
who is cooking your dinner and digging your grave
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Monday, July 24, 2017
Don’t take your children to the countryside. Don’t teach them hymns, or tell them stuff about clean water. Make them stand in the rain. Talk about torture, talk in cries and groans. Walk with them for days across the starkest of plains. Then they will know how pointless it is to listen to those who would praise the colour of the sky. They will want to go to Hiroshima, to Seveso, to Fallujah and to Grenfell Tower. There they will stare at you and you will fall to the ground, horrified as anyone who has ever really listened to a bird’s song. They will build many walls. They will make small additions to your memories, will tell small stories about the knowledge of those who know they have nothing.
Thursday, July 06, 2017
You are walking through a city-centre wasteland, a constellation of abandoned trucks, and you are worried you may have murdered your closest friend. The astrological consequences will probably be severe: it will be 5 in the morning, there will be sirens. You will have passed some kind of border but you won’t have validated your ticket. There won’t be any tickets. There will be burning wheels. And in the thickets, some kind of long black veil.
we’re lying on the ground and everyone’s dead
obviously don’t include the enormous middle class
theirs the smoke theirs the vast stone sea etc
all murdered by the sun tho. ha. “murdered”
they all folded up inside the inexplicable sun
It is not a constellation and the trucks are not abandoned. You try to remember the first time you listened to the song “Long Black Veil” but all you can do is repeat over and again the phrase ‘I am not from your world and your laws do not apply’. Whose world, you wonder. Cops in Kotti this afternoon. You wander across an imaginary landscape hollering implausible songs. Where there are songs are dance-moves. Where there are dance-moves are diagrams and systems. Inside those systems lines of burning trucks. Not trucks, burning stars. Don’t sing. Kick till you break.
Sunday, July 02, 2017
and as for those who no longer wish to live
don’t let them head off to quiet places
let them stand there in the middle of the street
let them leap like rats from the wildest bridges
let their ghost scratch our eyes oh contemptible mirth
You try to remember what it was first made you so hate what you still like to call the so-called ‘straight world’. You grew up in the 1980s. Most nights you would dream about the nuclear war. American planes would fly across your town. Every hour, across your small town, huge invisible noises. Planes and missiles. You barely thought about them, but they set up new numbers. Every hour a new sentence was spoken. It would end before our death it would continue long after. Etc. You wore badges, went on demoes. But the noises, you decide, were something else. Long afterwards, you are still making calculations based on the numbers they left in the weirdness of the air. The other half of the firmament, you call them. It was Pasolini’s term for ‘death’. Its ghosts still circle the town. A sheer murderous rock that cannot be murderous because it is not human.