Mental Health Weather Check

things being used this morning include:::

Carol Mirakove - Mediated
The Gnoua Brotherhood of Marrakech - Hamasha Hamdushi
Black Sabbath - War Pigs, Fairies Wear Boots
Mina Loy - Songs to Johannes
Ed Dorn - Geography, Love Songs
SUBWAY SECT
lucky strike cigarettes I just found in my coat pocket
Frances Kruk - Dig Oubliette
DALER-ROWNEY FLOUESCENT PINK ACRYLIC PAINT
Catfood
Coffee
Epilim 700 mg morning and night

christmas is for wankers. send me some presents . . . .

Notes on Baudelaire (2)

(((8))) --- we left this morning in lamplight, vice etc. meanwhile, the pronoun cluster is having a hard time: it does not proliferate but instead devours memory cells & crackles & maybe whispers. it is a screen against stimuli. translate that as the ATM machine we are squirting through - our encampment, our tiny poems. it is indecent to speak of these private events / we are held inside / 500 cameras / daily / money is memory, & absolutely involuntary. it is our second sight, it is our means of burns & loans.

(((9))) --- there is a lyric I in these poems & it is annoyed by efforts to destroy it. the I has become an interferer, an inconvenience, a potential parasite within the clean capitalist body. in central London there is a taboo against using the word LIPS . . .

Notes on Baudelaire

“I will get a map of London to see where Hackney is” - Ed Dorn

“. . . left the ruins, climbed out from under the white stones” - Amiri Baraka

(((1))) --- think ghost shit as a set of rooftops imposed on other systems of twitching in public. our language is also that debased. think cancer as radical nostalgia for legitimate ruins like the letter I.

(((2))) --- or put it this way - the coiled voice interferes, & by the fourth day colonies of brightly flourescent cells can be seen gathering at the borders, spherical structures containing the white pulp of the spleen. they do not proliferate, but instead become memory cells and crackle. a sound interpreted as scribbled ink over imaginary tones that the jaw finds in rain, or in its crack’d rooms & narrative scratches. scientists have described it as the composition of intricate songs for love purposes. if it says the city has not won, or if it turns in panic to the intense geography of body hair, then it gasps and is several octaves lower. you might describe it as your reflection, the installation of an image window fit for polite society and of course lacking any indecency, impurity or silence. if you kick this skull it will ring, circles, sane abstractions that the radioactive trains pass through Hackney every night would curl inside the desired hands can trap wasps, spraycans. what appears normal to daily newspapers is actually the residue of a few persisting neonuclear cells, scratches & static deep within the grafitoid receiver. meanwhile, intimacy scratched from the map’s spine trembles. the incinerated city lurks in the centre of the vicious heart’s splinter.

(((3))) .--- had to mangle the voice. meanwhile, there are still parts of town that newspapers are afraid of, even ones printed deep inside the territory. newspapers are day cells, and cracked. the centre of polite society expresses just this problem: jaw systems of an image city. our language is lower, is necessarily debased. the lyric voice is a tense flicker, like not all of your molecules reflect in any image window at any one time: everyday life would love the ability to show you something that is not a diagram of just this research into the ‘it splinter’.

(((4))) --- or perhaps you’d rather have something you can understand, some anthropomorphic office worker, for example. ITEM “I would like to change jobs and it may cost me my life ITEM “I have been removed from the human alphabet ITEM “perhaps at that moment I should have smashed him in the face, destroyed his office and produced a submachine gun to shoot my way out”. Baudelaire is a term for an executioner’s blade ITEM I feel a small sting of envy.

(((5))) --- I am interested in the development of cells. I have mapped out their locations, studied their general habits. it is true to say that there are negative areas. I have never thought the ocean before.

(((6))) --- or the tracks of it your breath makes and crackles on a seperate continent. ‘You’ and ‘Me’ are adverbs****distant sounds of collapsing galaxies like waking strange as rabies /// reaching for the phone &&& smudged by the time distance. each single circle breaks through the restriction of its element as it grounds a further sphere. all you can do is write it out as a method of ‘security’, or ‘assurance’::::taken on those terms love is unacceptable payoff smirk. but just as you write that on your arm then everything flouresces &&& all is blue winter varied stars. in this vast ringing my bones are / the place / where water / echoes / cracks in / voice circle / the politics of what I just said / shit me. I forget to take my medication and feel I oughta bump off all the self-righteous motherfuckers who don’t believe they’re gonna die soon and am made dizzy by traces of me moving through cities I have never seen. and all those pathetic attempts to squint out the cracks in the walls may be simply misguided attempts to look in.

(((7)))--- but all you can do is write for several daily newspapers (city image city) ::::::: or explain how our indecency in the office produced a nostalgia for wasps (for example) workers (for example) smudged cells & negative thought residue ITEM I have been all the envy, & the cost of that coils right through the letter ‘I’, & has destroyed all of our research. we tried to interpret it as like hair, but then it just gasped & rang at the borders so now we call it ‘thought cancer’ as a chance to shoot our way out of any language still identifiable as the jaw of polite society. taken on those terms I love rain & all those cracked rooms & through Hackney every night this lyric medication splinters in our understanding stings.

to be continued, perhaps . . . . .

A recent set of my typer poems are online here alongside a bunch of other cool stuff. These things are linked to the poems that are knocking about somewhere in the archive.

Also, you can buy a magazine from these fucking lunatics that features some stuff I made out of a computer. Get em.

on glamour, or a bundle of sticks for
is occupied single tube for eating & puking:::

*

1. Your city is an activity signal. A document of the essential reliable poem, an alien place from which we solicit approval


2. Or there are anti-places that celebrity splits in hate receptacle of an entirely visible public who operate entirely through seduction, understood as ‘levels’ and information particles. Highlights filtered through magazines that rarely publish ‘poems’ or

emanate from radically forced accessibility transposed into fucking then pressed into palm providing a ‘front vanity’ for importation into the passive home that is sealed off from itself and sealed off equally from the hypothetical ‘us’

unless something manifests as an interrupter reached via engagement with nerve endings through glamour, recognised as (1) the other paranoia as negative density of (2) the melancholy feedback loop into (3) the site of the explicitely comprehenible life split into two distinct manifestations that we would like to believe meet in love but

actually come in the form of a fashion word in the city
caves in pakistan or celebrities, as in life

3. Which is a receptacle of dissapearance hatred and useless activity, or the city ports are boring now. About as much use as the various seperable versions of ‘la vie boheme’ understood as a passive network of cellules and meshes occupied by split shops each

containing a vicious link to action in unknowable places at both ends of imagined scales of freedom housing bleak entry to housing estates ‘the city of the future’ splits the sky in two. Accessibility is its hatred and suicide bombers are and is its imagination of

the poverty that you the normal celebrity portrays as a source of spatio-temporal personal identity, as in whoever squirts first will reveal these areas of vastly differing explosion we all have to live in else

it is Khlebnikov’s 1920 every day.