This is what we at Yt Communication have been getting up to lately. Hackney declares war on the city, and all that . . .

my financial body
is a length
of greased rope
hooked inside love
as the most useful
style of spasm
floods milk
is seizured
largely political holes
will perform for money

*

it’s 10.00 in London
New York & Beirut
which gives you the idea
last night I was a slight &
infected string or circle
inside another person’s
memory twitches in sleep
still largely closed to ‘me’
where ‘m’ punctures ‘e’
below a surge of talk
on how this singular
& infinitely dense ball
would boil & pop
the pronoun cluster is jagged
as ink on the atlas
of time’s collected hysteria

*

permit only
chainsmoking
will keep each
seizure is
a gated community
as ‘I’, would
reproduce digits
in the mouth a
ring of sound the
head makes, glowing
as love is a set
contains hostility
& the sun’s
blind & conformist
aura split
in free dissociation
from this somewhat
limited personality
coughs nervously

Unfinished . . . .

the last tingle
of that shameful
but essentially boring
public murder
has been pressed
into our insectual holes
like some outre but
entirely conformist
entertaiment, and
thus London is,
once more, rendered
virtually unreal as
my mouth pressed
inside your ear is
a slightly radioactive
chirrup of love, cut
from the rejectamenta
of seperable time zones
& pulse-rings of
an ecstatically intimate
syllabic charge
endorsed by several
leading high st banks
who claim the
shudders we feel are
perfectly illegal, sampled
from within this
infested & private
discourse scat
is a forced community
of rope & wood & dis-
likes most of you. . . .

Mental Health Weather Check

things being dug in my fortress of solitude right now include::::

Sophie Robinson - Lovesic
Bascom Lamar Lunsford - I Wish I Was a Mole in the Ground
Daniel f Bradley - A Boy's First Book of Chlamydia
Flannery O'Conner - A Good Man Is Hard to Find
CECIL TAYLOR
Skip James - I Wanna Be More Like Jesus
Black Flag - Wasted
gustave morin - the etcetera barbecue
SWELL MAPS
Angry Brigade Communiques
LEMSIP COLD AND FLU MIXTURE
Kevin Nolan - Loving Little Orlick
Paul Blackburn - Crank It Up For All of Us
(thass the one that ends 'I hope I die / soon')
Bukka White - Parchman Farm

all of these consumer products come highly recommended by me. I woke this morning after shattered and disturbing dreams, and feel very unhappy. flowers and chocalates will be accepted with much gratitude. I'd do the same for you.

Final Note on Baudelaire

(((20))) --- the city was a line drawn from wherever you are to some other, more radioactive spot: because there is always the sense that we will decay into ‘it’, will be experimental homeless persons waking invisibly in a seperable commercial sphere. each of our spasms will be shortlived and will have no letter ‘I’ //// but will have lips, albeit shared. the voice is a splintered image; a stain, static talking, scorched. these notes have little to do with Baudelaire, or other twilight phenomena like friendship or love.

[[[these notes are all part of a larger project called "baudelaire in english", which is almost done and will be published by Veer Books sometime in 2007]]]

Notes on Baudelaire (5)

(((18))) there have been few calls for the realization of poetry lately, and much less philosophy. peculiar, because we still spend our nights hunting for potential parasites within our direct reference body. to talk 'me' is redundancy, yet it is still events that we are inside //// air-dropped by modern poetry. what would its realization actually feel like ::::: would it be fortified like marriage, or lifestyle, ringing with moveable lips. most of it is kept in boxes, as if 'it' and 'love' were semi-detachable units proving capitalism has not spread into all the cracks, particularly those called 'I': or a letter from 'e' to an image of 'e' still in the text. like this projected brick. my name will never appear on their shameful registers //// insert mandatory class struggle slogan here. &&& mean it. everyone in cambridge is dead. in any case, the cracks are surrounded by bistable multi-border guards:: prosodically vibrating with boredom. there is a box called poetry, so stop paying rent. drink pink metal, heated.

(((19))) --- & take ‘thought cancer’ as ‘die soon’ from within the more tedious senses, worship (for example): become any letter, an alphabet item scratched history:::: to smirk, but screamed. nothing less has polite importance /// poetry-shaped motherfuckers with static deep systems, blisters on top of the sky’s culture logic.

words are
spit, material
speech is
shelter from
panic or
to say
“I love -” with
necessary meaning
is inhuman
& distance
passed from
face to face
of any city's
split whirls
of cells &
talk in-
vents entitlement
or singularity, the
stoic shudder,
eclipsed at last