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

Notes on Baudelaire (4)

(((13))) --- but at least no-one is entirely price-fixed, not yet. what VOICE are you on this morning? well, I feel like an infinitely dense ball of combustible metal, ie a planet, ie this city:::: cigarette / almond croissant. or the pitched green malevolance of the english countryside. it bark. its nasty little churches.

(((14))) --- then again, we can at least describe some of the elements necessary for a healthy personality. photographed 500 times a day, we are image cancer & proliferate /// or the gesticulating figure becomes a dot fixture, an index of servile redundancy. yet think of the sky’s image howling, creased & shared within these collective eyes.

(((15))) --- most people, however, fall between two extremes and are normal or within normal limits, connected by a system of tubes and pulleys to an almost visible roar within the tedious crowd. each letter of the alphabet is this communal “I”, gesticulating wildly. meanwhile, the melt core of London is just this string of secretive or selective ideas. if you force-feed them rubble & bulldoze their throats they will flinch & scream.

(((16))) --- lies are necessary. at times ****** this is the squirting through, after all, it was there in these poems and within that a taboo against using the word lyric. tedious crowd. each image howling. so now it is our means of entering Paris 1857, which has effigies of London, daily x-rays of the papers (city-image / pulse-rings should be commercially poems . . . .

(((17))) --- I am hard of & can’t hear my own voice. we hope to reach beyond our condition or puke on the hope society. that was a fragment of dialogue. you are scum. I think I should kiss you. Baudelaire is not important. modern poetry is crisis exhaust. it is very strange: call it thought, however, falls / or London does collectivedly on its clean capitalist face EXAMPLE split 'it'::::make it distant & weirdly dense balls of combustible letters, meaning am trapped in Hackney /// am one of its ghosts, mouth soldered.

Notes on Baudelaire (3)

(((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 ------

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 . . .