Its still happening . . . . .

SOLIDARITY WITH THE INSURGENTS
meanwhile, in Iceland


Best slogan yet /// "we're smashing up the present because we come from the future"

Open Verdict from Harry Gilonis

The Commons 2 // 13 - 14

for Paul


I have been studying the process
whereby you become a law
its circuits its its interruptions
I swallowed it 17 times
with burning sugar / it was boring
dancing like a murdered cop
his change in circumstances
countercrackling, hobbled
I swallowed him 17 times
asked for an explanation
a system of ancient flinching
understood chemanically
you will have to pay it back
from the future, crack’d


“move along, ‘fun people’,
nothing to see here”
you will have shimmering
a language of the barricades
yeh, I know, sorry
we are all in that death,
that decade, understood,
running thru its prescriptions
its ancient answers, you
my enemy, doing ‘something’,
the police, doing ‘the alphabet’
its secret monarchy, its meaning
its nice dog functions,
its corporate poetry sucks.

Paul Sutton

Watch this space for news of a benefit gig for the very great Paul Sutton, who is currently, & unjustly, banged up in Belmarsh Prison. We're gonna get as many poets and musicians as we can, to try and raise a bit of cash for him, upon his return to the world.

In the meantime, if anyone wants to write to him, get in touch with me and I'll give you the details.

I'm doing a reading tomorrow nite at the Klinker (london's premier anarcho-bohemian cabaret spot) / Maggies Bar, Stoke Newington Church St, from around 9. Be nice to see a few of you there, we can discuss strategy.

The Commons 2 // 12

for Paul Sutton, Belmarsh Prison, no. WN9616


they should hand out guns
on the dole / we don’t know
who ‘they’ are, I have asked
the police, the landlord, but
I cannot leave, who I am
the taxpayer, the violence
of what is called a bully
so I shot them, ‘they’, the
taxpayer, the landlord / I am
a child & it is a statement, of
sorts, in the language of
that death. & I cannot leave:
the police emptied the content
that white / trembling / meat

The "Commons" 2 // 10 - 11

meanwhile, back in ‘british poetry’
dutiful saline monarchy / like
voice it, here’s a burnt person
ringing, puking out its decades
its phenytoin pit / sorry but
its not my fucking landscape
my sweet non-cognitive pal, yeh
beautiful / o functions, careering
most things / cars, heads / o ‘you’,
- cough -
finance recommends / speaking pills,
someone’s city in pretty flames
- cough -
‘birds’ / ‘nice sanction’ / ‘nice decade’


& then there's the side effects -
for starters the skin spreads,
sidesteps the brain dutifully
bends to its own symbolic self
redistributed / knotted / closing
its vision canal, entryway to
doctor or cop or whatever
the prescription parses you
diagonally, & you feel it
as barricades / internalised
masked up / sloganised
a lawful voice on distort gap
in the housing alphabet, a
public service / description

More on the Greek Riots

updates

occupations?

tha bbc

more

Music

Amiri Baraka with David Murray & Steve McCall - "I Love Music", 1980

Cecil Taylor, Anthony Braxton, William Parker, Tony Oxley Live Royal Festival Hall July 2007 (sound quality pretty dodgy, but its kinda worth it)

The Jazz Composers Orchestra - Preview (featuring Pharoah Sanders), 1968

Raphe Malik Quintet (Malik - trumpet / Glenn Spearman, Brian King Nelson - sax / Dennis Warren - drums / Larry Roland - bass) - Companions Too, from 21st Century Texts, 1992

Max Roach & Abbey Lincoln - Driva Man, from Freedom Now - We Insist, 1959

Greek Embassy Occupied

here here and here

The Commons set 2 / 8-9

the report recommends
rhythmic decades / brightly
scattered in rooms, functions
displaced between ‘cities’
secret heads / where
the law goes squealing
its penalties & sanctions
its negative hells
redistribution of people
doing ‘something’, inside
‘birds’ / audible insertion
of dole pill, ‘privately’,
a roaring in my speaking
later, Mr Brown said


think of a sound / stretch it
extract the ‘I’, extract virtually
everyone / ‘you’, my enemy
phenytoin sodium
controls all warped reels
gaps in the royal alphabet
like ‘fun people’ / their gravity
is perfect, no distortion:
a voice / slipped through mine, a
tone control, silent & fearsome
extracts each decade, at
playback, requires no adjustment,
a voice / forks into mine, ahem,
clearly heard / coarse & distorted

more "Commons"

here is a landscape
here is ‘all hell’,
the distance between each line
some kind of ‘celestial ssnarl’
redistributes the city
a strange and bitter crop
furnace / numbers / christians
yeh / yeh / yeh:
you reach a fork in the voice,
the gaps between the lines
widen / like a mountain range
or those secret rooms
where the law goes to scream
have your say, o burnt decibel



every morning I take a pill
stops electricity, stops
most things / so imagine
you’re pleasant in the mall
some shuffling guy bites you
& its music everywhere
communism, dole scroungers
but we go there for money
everything is shimmering
the gaps in your voice
smoke of the bottomless pit
idiots on sulphur
o bollocks
there goes Thatcher again

The Commons set 2 / 1-5

secret history number
don’t / step / on
here is your alphabet
elizabeth windsor
housing benefit ref
cough up & shut up:
here is a room to
here is a serum flight
mouth erased now,
you live in rigged integers
burnt gust globes
you live in fun people
negative numbers
motherfucker



now you go ape
sorry but I feel spit:
now redistribute decades
each insomniac decade
step on fun people
each bursts like a dog
nice dog / nice spark
this is your head on TV
this is the dole, revolving
bright magnetic birds
sweep and soar
this is my frequency
a thin metal screech
non-cognitive


& thats not all:
cough up the alphabet
to one side of, um, axis
the decibel, yeh
burnt number, crackled
just as voices
from ‘near silence’ to
like, ‘all hell’, where you
don’t / ‘people person’
bright magnetic secret
inside speech, from silence
outsourced decades
incorporated what is known
&, as they say, numb



don’t
rim / fun / people
value notwithstanding
as least I know I’m a moron
isolated, episodic.
certainly, this is ridiculous
try running it backwards
cancel the landscape
the imagination of racists
insert symbol
rhythmic displacement
christians, beaurocrats
keep taking the pills
benefit thief


this is me revolving
certainly, this is spit
like ‘all hell’ where birds
prowling dogs
sorry / negative decades
live in it like a racist
this is my silence
big constitutional principle
bright magnetic decibel
nice gravity, nice racist
- yeh -
have your say David Cameron
music / movies / games
finance / cars / answers

There is an unorthodox gramophone . . . .

This is especially for Paul, who was wondering if there were any recordings of Ornette doing Song for Che, but you should all download it cuz its lovely

Ornette Coleman - Song for Che

from Crisis, recorded March 1969 and featuring Ornette Coleman - alto sax; Don Cherry - trumpet; Dewey Redman - tenor sax; Charlie Haden - bass; Denardo Coleman - drums

Went to see The Baader Meinhoff Complex last weekend. Predictably, it was absolute trash, as confusing and contradictory as The Red Army Fraction themselves. But that didn't stop me enjoying it - it was very nice to watch an action movie about a bunch of rather glam revolutionaries offing a load of cops and capitalists, for a change. James Bond can fuck off.

The History of the Russian Revolution

A whole stack of Russian Futurist books are available over here . Handmade revolutionary insolence // Read Marx and Lenin, read Khlebnikov and Kruchenykh

New video

Video of me & Frances performing at Soundeye last summer here and here . Ta to daniel Ereditario for sticking it up.

The "Commons" //// completed

My long poem The "Commons", which has been appearing here throughout the summer, is now available to download as a pdf. Go to this place here , it doesn't hurt. Much.

Commons 53 - 55

if I had a fancy sash
my own true love would
rent me out in earings
but if I had a ribbon bow
in scratches & numbers
he’d read my mind, with hail
burning like a city’s
frozen & vivid dead:
but my method is to fear him,
his scorched & wasted coins,
history’s oppressive line,
my thighs
my anarchic scales
oh fucking tide


in Poundstretcher &
zombies
everything you like about em
they are in pain
meanwhile, in trivialities
fiendish pretty glimpses
we go mad
no you don’t
music love abstraction
the twisted branches
at the centre of our lives
ignite on interruption
fear walks ahead of us
I feel like a dog on fire


“as I was out walking
I met this woman
said she was, like
the queen of the fairies
dragged me under the sea
fucked me senseless
for seven years
& now I’m dead
or rather
I am eating your brains
so tasteless
& bland
everything is invisible
your stupid racist town"

Commons 51 - 52

us, for example
these things
these turbulent shadows
this repetitive sun
between my life & yours
stars, air
a knot of sharp flowers
a single moan
a heresy of veins
keys & thighs
veins & keys
we are lashed together
rotten with love
time will destroy us


the town is eerie
rotten with
the sea is
halt, police:
not notes, alphabets
the town isn’t the town
not notes, breathing
the sea is
archaic opinion
sparkling abuse
the sea is
a small note on
zombies
not alphabets

"what the manipulated repel as all too strange is what is secretly all too comprehensible"

Bad Habits (or how to live, part 102)

Francis Picabia - I Am a Beautiful Monster
Tom Pickard - Ballad of Jamie Allen
THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF KILLER WOMEN
REVOLUTIONARY ENSEMBLE - VIETNAM
impertinent & irritating communications from various official bodies
Phoebe Gloeckner - A Child's Life etc
various poems by LOLA RIDGE, JOYCE MANSOUR, VOLTAIRINE DE CLEYRE, MINA LOY
complete cinematic work of Guy Debord
poems in DAMN THE CAESARS, AXOLOTL, REALITY ST BOOK OF SONNETS
Karen Dalton // Bill Dixon // Skip James // Memphis Minnie // Watts Prophets // Peter Kowald // Johnny Cash // Link Wray
toast, tea
ALCOHOL
the realisation that 'duende' is just a posh word for 'boogie-woogie', and further, if you translate the first sentence of the Communist Manifesto as "an imp is haunting europe" etc etc you get a fairly innaresting triangulation
ALBERT AYLER - HOLY GHOST
The London A-Z
William Fuller - Three Replies
NATE MACKEY - SPLAY ANTHEM

Commons 49 - 50

the cuckoo is split
- the image, cracked -
so its easy to imagine
our masters do tell us
what we confidentially
inside their saying
what ‘they’, hounds
all thinking forgets
outside, o enchanting
we are sparkling things
this brick, for example
its crimson vitriol
their image window
the philosopher’s stone


as I was out faking
letters \ weirds wrecked it:
my character scoured
words gone, locked inside
the cuckoo has no eyes
or perceptual shriek
wrecked inside poetry
its tidal crust
where sickness came
we were documentaries
resident in a system
- HAIL SHIT -
I can’t say ‘moon’
with a ribbon in my pit

" . . . . the cry of terror called forth by the unfamiliar becomes its name . . . ."

Commons 46 - 48

" . . . . something frightening lurks in the song of birds precisely because it is not a song but obeys the spell in which it is emeshed"

“I ain’t faking, no no” -
but put a businessman’s
girdle round the earth
is a dream deferred
like all protest media
& sected corporate urgency
BANG
its musical voices
- blank -
it is not sexual
their guitar strings
a study in asphyxiation
tightened on the known stars
scrawled out, ‘their’


he was a big freak
transformed into normality
all the night through
a specific negation of history
& the sea
where scorn was
recent irruptions of unmeaning
flatter the official town’s
insolent noise making
secretly my small thighs
trickling down our
sobriety, pronounced
as their favourite line:
goodbye, sweethearts & pals


the wind shall blow hurt
inside every earth's
cut-price reverie:
- insert world of banking -
- outside -
pretending that people were
sexual gestures & thrushes
gargled with sweethearts -
I don’t eat your duty,
build money with a system
of mystical swine
& social trickling -
insert your heads,
have sucked your poem dead.

Commons 44 & 45 (plus note)

‘she got him up upon her back’
‘I intend here to drown you’
a stranger, perhaps
weirds had reckoned them -
his lily-white hands,
the only true thing
is what is contained
- ballads of irrelevance -
a specific utterance
a raised glass
a perpetual shriek
alight inside his metal throat:
ok, who are they?
a speech, perhaps?


& then we were letters
thinking cities, even
varied, fierce & gold
but swallowed by events
in rainfall, its tides
& police were talking
in social cheap wine
whose life was ludic
with biting, swallowed
by yuppie reveries,
justice, for example
& simpering passion,
a black & burning pit
half-price in woolworths

Notes on The 'Commons'

Baudelaire in English - out now

I'm quite pleased. its 90 pages long and fits happily in yr coat pocket, so you can read it aloud to people on public transport.

you can get it here. some of it was published in Onedit about a year ago, and there's a film of me reading from it at the Openned site. Over here you can read an essay all about it.

Commons: Working Notes (plus 42 & 43)

as I was out walking
our musical voices
split to a single chord
- reference code -
insert seizure
- unavailable -
insert hope & love
a layered pit of stung starlings
as I was out
‘hold me fast & fear me not’
inside the lower city
I would suck their snarling
- paraphrase -
I would rather be the devil

as I was out
dashes
in ordinary conscious
in parenthesis
the sun
in italics, my
welfare application
met a fair
apostrophe
met a
inside the lower
met a hyphen
a black dot
a

Highly recommended . . . .

Here and here
some excellent visual poetry . . . .

also, The Reality Street Book of Sonnets is out. Congratulations to Jeff, who for some reason, has put a picture of someone's arse here. peculiar.

That would be alright, I suppose . . . .

yeh yeh. everyone's seen this cartoon before, but that doesn't stop it being great. it was even used by a gang of squaresville poets advertising a gig at the poetry caff a few years back, but they substituted 'poets' for 'weirdos'. totally superfluous - all real poets are weirdos. everyone knows that.

by the way, everyone should get a copy of estaphin's brilliant DCLP, from Veer Books . if anything could be called 'conceptual poetry' its this / but instead of being a simple poeticisation of our alienation, or a macho display of pseudo-newness / its a superb collage of language, nastily joyous & righteously exasperated, about cottaging and surveillance, using mainly found material & stuff from chatrooms etc. there's a good bit when the authorities at Canary Wharf (London's premier symbol of the occult power of capital) find out whats going on in their toilets: "men are using public toilets at the heart of the estate for homosexual sex . . . right under the noses of some of the world's most powerful companies", goes the headline. yeh, thats what 'powerful companies' are for.

A Small Selection of Popular Tunes

Clarence Ashley - The Coo-Coo Bird
Charlie Parker - A Night in Tunisia
The Cramps - Human Fly
Derek Bailey & Steve Lacy - Once Upon a Time
Ludus - Breaking the Rules
Patty Waters - Black is the Colour of my True Love's Hair
Johnny Cash - Sam Hall

Some nice downloads for you. I've never done this before, so I hope the links work. Let me know . . . .

Working Notes on The 'Commons'

Commons 37 - 41

Housing Benefit ref 400158161:
there will be no violence here,
it is perhaps where that thing,
queen elizabeth,
was practicing her derivative magic,
burning like a city, a heretic
or a child, insisting softly
on a private & particular sky,
a credit reference, for example,
spotted with Hackney Road,
the dreadful cries of murdered men,
inside poetry,
composed exclusively
for entirely official numbers.


But for now lets have some
gratuitous cartoon violence
among the zombies, fingers &
eyes, you can’t have em
- stop -
- he was a -
- bang -
- ringing -
how old are you,
my sweet preposterone,
a heyena in a pretty frock,
resident in Hackney,
which you do not believe in,
sharpening your love like flint.


Last night I lay
in darkened walls -
I sucked his -
I used to whip him
with a turquoise chain
he was a big freak
o enchanting fucking
trickling inside woolworths
its cosmetic flash:
o false egyptians
& english sweethearts,
trapped in un-meaning,
would too eat blood
my lily-white hands


Anyway, back in the
police computer
they are making metonyms,
ambitious ones
intersected by pretty towns
& strings of words
but we are mouths
stupid
stitched into the language
that resting place
for exhausted shoppers
for used opinions
call it the graveyard
o computer


Those who believe
they know how to read
are easily intimidated
I mean right now.
But who is speaking here,
such archaic pleasantry
& insolent noise making
is mere freakish difficulty:
history is those who sit
inside their prepared vocab,
the comfortable ones,
the executioner, especially,
never utters an articulate sound,
quietly gets on with his work.

Openned - coming up

This is gonna be a good one. We got a bunch of equipment, wires, machines . . . .

Baudelaire at the Printers

My new book, Baudelaire in English, is at the printers, and so in a few weeks you'll be able to get a copy from these cats here. Its ninety odd pages long, and has a nice pink cover. "Document", the other side of the story, is with its appropriate officers, and will also be on your coffee tables very soon. Spill stuff on em. Send me nasty letters.

Soundeye

Hey there astro-zombies, we're off to the Cork SoundEye Avant Poetry Fest, and Frances and I have a LOUD performance planned. It won't be anything at all like this, but you can't have everything.

Commons 32 - 36

recent irruptions of unmeaning
in Kabul etc, where
we have never been,
have made poetry obsolete:
but still my red shoes
would go dancing,
tho not a soul would look out
from the curfew, the
flame-dog pavillion,
everyone knows it,
a representational space, purely
some kind of folk song, to
give up all love,
the city hurts when its broken


poetry, once available
in several sizes
of flip discount menace
before the doors of the mighty
the hounds of capital, unleashed
sobriety, knives & clowns.
But politeness would dictate, now
a specific negation of history’s
lame dogs & veterans
the british anarchist movement
on a day-trip to the seaside:
ok, say that again,
flatten the official town,
the poem.


outside the concept
are three little words
ringing inside them
we don’t know who
on certain chromatic streets
locked insde Poundstretcher
or the cuckoo / take position:
eat shit poetry snobs /
no, she didn’t mean that,
strung from star to star
in all this rough music
inaudibly, a black dot,
a monstrous excrescence
a reasonable point of view


below london town
rattling towers flash
harmonically. not a soul
in the police computer
& all other file-sharing
cinematic wreckage
with a ribbon in my hair
expressed harmonically
as politeness dictates
when I say eat shit
it is just this difficulty
my record collection
all these colonised notes
kill little birds like me


ok, say reverie
secretly swallowed by
- splat -
ok, false gentlemen,
little knots of hair & moon,
we are in your language,
moaning,
gentle drops of lambs
the bitter scream inside gold,
sitting beside you,
trickling,
your exposed alienations,
& the town is yours
o gasping swine

Much Discussion in . . . . .

The new issue of Readings is up, and its a good one. Highly recommended here on the haunted coast.

Listening / Reading

Derek Bailey - String Theory
Marx - sections in Grundrisse about mercury
SCRATCH ACID
Karen Dalton - Demos and Live Stuff
Cesar Vallejo - translations by Ed Dorn, Will Rowe, Clayton Eshleman, Rebecca Seiferle
Frederic Jameson on Adorno, again
Marilyn Crispell Trio - Live in Zurich
deciphering various anarcho media
Bailey / Braxton - First Duo Concert
pipe tobacco
glancing at Vincent Kaufman's book on Debord, its the WORST BOOK I'VE EVER READ, and that includes all of the UNREADABLE novelisations of Doctor Who I used to like when I was little.
chicken & rice, saag, grilled cheese
HENRY THA CAT IS A FUCKING ASSHOLE, ACCORDING TO FRANCES KRUK WHO HAS A NEW BOOK COMING OUT FROM CRITICAL DOCUMENTS, 'A DISCOURSE ON VEGETATION & MOTION'.
Steve Lacy - Moon
JOHNNY CASH
Adorno's sections on Paul Celan in Aesthetic Theory, strangely left out of Pierre Joris' otherwise excellent anthology.
Patty Waters / Pere Ubu / PJ Harvey
Dale Smith - Susquehanna
Adrian Clarke - Possession
RIP RIG & PANIC - STORM THE REALITY ASYLUM
Refusal of the Shadow: Surrealism and the Caribbean

Bush the Planet Ghoul, One More Time

Deputy Assistant Commissioner Chris Allison meant to say: "We are seriously disappointed by the irresponsible and criminal action of those who have challenged international law, physically ripping apart Arabs with the sole aim of demonstrating the bloodthirsty power of the capitalist west."

Commons 25 - 31

black is the colour of my
gestural forthrightness -
gently drops the rain
cold blows the wind:
in May 1968, most
young people were working in
Woolworth’s, the cosmetics counter
was so adventurous, a
cloister of learning &
trust, all was represental-
cold / blows the future
ballads of the
-blank-
my true love


if I were like city girls
with few enquiries
transformed into normality
- red etc -
some call it the road to heaven.
Goodbye / sweethearts & pals,
a word of explanation
in preternatural rain, grazing
on the passer-by’s
gestures & curses
inside statistical
seven, singing lke thrushes
when sickness / came to our
execrable opinions


But I’m counting your heads
as I’m making the beds -
the ‘burning’ has been ‘stashed’
below a ‘rent system’, call it
the ‘it’ banking -
to the health of all such bastards,
that one, bleatheth after lambs
wing a ring of, edited
with an introduction by
‘got my goose of English’
all the night through
then I took up a cauldren
& you yell
yes


she was turning red /
the voice of our political poets
increasingly the voice of
it does you too
& secretly the word
secretly
the london hanged
how to treat them,
anxiety linked to
‘we’
his autobigraphy
find
referred to in
I dare you


ok, say magiazine
- the sobriety
does it all, does it stuff
opinions, but
avarice / in english
ok, who - ?
goodbye / or
cold / bother
gonna build me a
the wind shall blow
all abuse, the
inside every for me
as is
not
the or a


There was an old prophecy
found in a bog,
its been traditional or
call it zombies
singing like thushes
where scorn was:
if I was like city rain
inside your aged banking
in rent shadow, below
we’ve got, his bastards
just shot us
everything, in its trembling
transferred to tides, but
we shall have commissions galore.


The most talked about
anxiety, the heresy that
‘they’ appropriated the words
‘my enemies’. really
I can’t say it,
‘normalise’ is easier, or
do your duty, dogs
of saturn, in Poundstretcher
and the sea,
where we were refused,
appropriately, the management
identity, a huge circle
repeating cheap wine
& the moon

Baudelaire Returns

the very great Steve Willey has put his film of my Abney Park Baudelaire performance here. Iris Watson is on backing vocals for the first ten minutes or so. Thanks to Jeff Hilson for the photo.

Come and Exchange yr Leather

Maggie O Sullivan is gonna be there too . . . . .

tonite.

Bo Diddley - 1928 - 2008

Bo Diddley - Road Runner

Instruments of . . . . .

lots of innaresting stuff over at tha kruk blog

Consumer Report

SONNY'S TIME NOW - Sonny Murray
lots of Django Reinhardt
coffee and chocalate
PAUL CELAN
lemsip cold & flu mixture (again)
CHURCH NUMBER NINE - Rev. Frank Wright
Shirley Collins
Les Scribblistes - gustave morin
Black is the Colour - Patty Waters

"(The state) enforces a logic that puts an end to conflicts & contradictions. It neutralises whatever resists it by castration or crushing. Is this social entropy? Or is it a monstrous excrescence transformed into normality? Whatever the answer, the results lie before us" - Henri Lefebvre, "The Production of Space"

Hawkwind-Urban Guerilla

This is specially for the right wing comedy writer Todd Swift.

Commons 19 - 24

& etc.
“eclipse, as they were - “
as their favourite line
performs no rite
utters no spell
possesses no medicines
images, poisons, etc:
“she got him up upon her back
carried him to an earthen lake”
ok, who are they?
- sobriety, pronounced -
o knowledge,
mere sophistication & wicked abuse,
census & the police computer.


ok, say that again -
the effect is immediate -
no fuss, no bother,
the wind shall blow for evermore:
moan, now
on his white bones
his intolerable name.
He is the man or woman
sitting beside you,
bitter & false & snapped
inside every nation
such hawks & hounds, such ravens
o bitter statistics
the cuckoo is a pretty bird


“yes I wasted my life
on trivialities,
justice, for example,
the pulse of the cities
varied magnetism,
flickers of aged scales,
words shuddered
& the reverie
is a solid thing
burst inside its price
its rainfall, its trembling
hatred is so gentle,
forgive me if I shatter
inside your threads of sleep”


Of gorgeous magnetic fiends
even the memory is blocked:
history’s shadow stalks us
call it the net of
the idea is simple
& permanently freakish:
to live outside of servitude
the confidence & cowardice
of those who force us
into fiction, difficult & locked.
But the scorn we feel
BANG
night of the living dead
all else is annoyance & avarice.


In this one night hotel
we’ve got, you know
the poem -
calculated & horrible,
calculated
& swinging low (o sweet,
with a ribbon in my hair,
a coffin in his throat,
a black boat gliding slow:
everything I need, the
city scorched, in flattering tides
we’ve got, you know, the poem
glides in slow:
a bitter scream inside this night


but I’ve got a magazine
does all that stuff for me /
& water made from flower & soot.
ok, forget that, the town is
not
a fortress, not
a landscape, not
a cosmos or a
HEXEN, nah -
stupid
as sobriety,
bitter events in its memory /
credit, zombies & clowns,
friends.

Poetry from the Americas

May 29th
room B18
University of Birkbeck
Malet St
London
7.30

FREE

Martin Bakero (Chile & Paris) will launch his
tri-lingual VICEVERSA
here in the UK

Christine Wertheim (LA) will read her works.

These are both poets whose work explores the dynamic
relations between
the :visual:verbal:visceral:
both are infrequent visitors to these shores.

Take this opportunity to hear them read FREE

Commons 13 - 18

Hiding inside our anarchists
and as scared -
saleable glimpses of
dying in 1993,
in acrylic zombie flip:
he had rented it all back,
& was wrecked,
stranded outside his favourite laws,
free as seas or
unbounded hail
as a spore left inside the language,
not a code made of letters,
but social utterance flaming,
everything was wrong but it happened.


Such thinking forgets
vast territories of our
sected selves:
“all is ours”,
the police power to hurt
& how to eat in hell
where my wits were lost
in splintered oblique english
secured the preternatural rain
grazed upon our
seriously, trickling down our
passer-by
with malevolent archaic sound
"my bag a long knife carries".


Unaroused by official culture
history has been stashed
below a system of false brains
reduced to his ambitions
(democratic)
gold, falling
inside there are flowers
& we are bleeding
with intelligence & gunnery -
weirds have warped us,
his pronouns & his freak,
we are silent within
his good clean mind -
night of the ludicrous fink.


Oh fucking cosmology -
oh mad spit -
the ‘reverie’ is a
stop, oppressive line
“is this is that”
like a mystical shudder?
yeh, that’s hideous.
anyway, false, as I was saying
was watching my character
was yours,
became a clear system,
an impotent closure,
not saying anything in particular,
just sick, just everything.


Just lick (oh, please -
inside the most vivid
words had wrecked them
& their stunned town
(favourite epoch here)
ate its fabled sticks
& starved -
(would flash just like a
(insert enemy here)
(would flash just like a
(please)
meanwhile, what were you saying?
like, just go detourne yourself
(stuffed with walls, insects & teeth


But I was taken with stillness
& malevolent lords
would eat the living hail
back when I was still blood
intersected by police democrats
were threaded with hell
but I was still coins
like any stupid cuckoo blade
“the baser & poorer sort
such whose lives were burdensome”
I, for example
was quite simply scared
but anyway, inside this language
there is no word for sky

Shopping Hour

still digging much the same stuff as last time, but also
PITCHIN CAN - ARCHIE SHEPP
everything in the world by Sleepy John Estes
IT THEN - DANIELLE COLLOBERT
War Variations - Amelia Rosselli
the very existence of CECIL TAYLOR
cheese on toast
litter
TUTU MUSE - MARIANNE MORRIS
Blacktop - I Got a Baaad Feeling About This
BO DIDDLEY'S BEACH PARTY
loads of other stuff. its my birthday soon. you know what that means . . . .

We're out to get you

tomorrow, somewhere in tha University of Sussex

recommended . . . . .

read this interesting article