(((10))) --- & yet for Hackney every night stings. the cops here are very strange, and the males especially are shortlived & have no gut. all they hope for is to single out the walls of ‘security’ ::: speaking personally I forget to go through the letter ‘I’, the shit me, and spend my nights listening to the sounds of distant collapsing cancer. the ocean is adverbs. their spines are moveable and hollow. at night they become active, swimming and hunting for food. like here are three smudged cells . . .
(((11))) --- sometimes the issue is as simple as where to put the mouth. lies are the norm & the social whirl is concussion, more or less. after all, it was modern poetry that led us here, or how my own city is made distant & strange. take any letter: ‘m’, for example: split ‘it’ and turn ‘it’ sideways. panic scabies is no excuse: kisses are at times necessary. at times. it is 10:15 at least somewhere or /// you wouldn’t believe what splinter I pulled in my eye this morning.
(((12))) --- London collectively thinks that it is exempt from the world, like heaven, or Paris 1857. it has effigies of Basra and Beirut stashed inside its INVISIBLE hours, they are lead bodies, they are x-rays of all of our faces ****** CLICK this is the real meaning of Threadneedle St. this is the melt core of all there is to say. to talk about psychogeography without direct reference to these facts is an eyeball crack //// or to speak of the flaneur without explicit reference to the co-ordinates of each homeless person and each spitparticle, each spasm inside the letter L //// by this point all of our pulse-rings should be commercially available ------
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