Saturday, 29 April 2017


It was only just
   the other night things
felt  our skins collapsing together before
eternal dividers
   settled back their course
the air was impossible collapsed gestures
backed up tears
   at the soft wet bodies
of frogs.

The only thing 
    keeps me from you, this
so called choice, the sudden switch of 
trajectory into
   the road so people say
avoid the collapsing traffic we say: Silence,
for the crush
  of a vehicle keep me from 
your fists or even
  words are terse enough

symbols to make
  my only body position
cross into the mouth of no-christ. The things
  we do for you,
somehow the sight of this body tense you up
to murder
  knowing not the rendition, 
its schema but for the sake of your life
ducking from light
  we go side by side along

the concourse walls & arches tracing
  your brave steps dropping
back the image could put you in a cage away
  from the family uni-
fication through the courts; even a word or a stone
phlegm could detach you... we duck & split

into pipes, behind fabrics hating visibility’s action
  altering to the greater quicker
risk over retinal contracts waiting for the light
  to clear this aching pale straight lag
coerced in the map to never break that false
harmony, relations. Never 
  to be broken the dissonance
my life has made; you are still
  so beautiful; soft

in the violence 
  I held back in you. 

You Must Keep on Hoping!

Hope is manifest in these dialogues and it is hope we distrust. Hope is against this mind, it doesn't cross it but invades; is shovelled in from the order. Is going to be beaten the shit out of it. You do realise that the violence of a nationalist will destroy you? Just wanted to check you're aware of that before you go and, say, smash one over the head with a chain or something. Because they will come back for you. Because hope has told you that standing up and that marching is just the same as it was when, say, people marched for civil rights or at Stonewall... But did anyone tell you what happened? Did anyone think of mentioning (for our current situation) the idea of the carnivalesque - and you notice now you're surrounded by cameras, you and your enemies kettled into the same physical space by police and by cameras and that intention is what's at stake. These cries for "free speech" are based on the notion that there isn't such a thing. But this is where our language fails our intention. Think about it literally. Let's think of "free" in economic terms, and let's think about how many times the market lies to us. This object is free. The conditions of exchange come later. That's how intention and speaking work. They co-relate. So this boy comes up to the mic and says something obscene in order that 1) he has exercised that freedom 2) he didn't really mean it 3) he might be arrested, hit, spat at (inside his knit zone of protection) that later his example, his bravery might fill others with hope. Hope... (fuck hope). Under the market conditions freedom in exchange can be offered then redacted. Just like intention in language. The hip modern nationalist often actually believes that he doesn't mean what he thinks he really means. That's because he's never had to think about meaning. For, say, Caolan Robertson there has never been very much at stake in it. And so young Caolan becomes tired and bored and fighty and he sits staring at YouTube all day and sees poor Tommy Robinson who says he didn't mean for the streets to be filled with men who will smash someone in the face for wearing a Hijab. That wasn't the point, says poor Tommy, and poor Caolan dribbles around him like a ghost mackerel going "but don't I deserve to be happy?" - sorry. This slipped away a bit, but it's hard to find words to describe how far someone can be split from an understanding of the function of language whilst still vehemently defending its use. The logical end point of the kind of free speech they want is for each participant to stand alone screaming into the void with no response whatsoever, not even friction in the air. No air. A vacuum of silence forever and forever. This is why I've started to believe that they are trying to immantise the eschaton, whether they think they are or not. And then, when someone is screaming the soundless block of that void into your face some self-styled middle person comes along and starts telling you to be hopeful. Everyday I wake up and I hate my body. It often takes hours for me to be able to move it into the functions it needs to express its daily life. Forgetting this happens on a minute or hour or day or week or month by month basis. Time is one of the enemies. Hope isn't so much an enemy, just another self sustaining neologism. It reinvents itself unthinkingly into every dialogue that starts to become immobile. And I'm not saying we should live in total despair (though really, that is a lot less depressing than living in hope) - I am saying that an expression of the world we want to create comes directly from that world and is probably impossible to do in language. I've no idea how. Someone please tell me never to stop hoping...

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

On Kek, Eris, Mindfuck and the Eschaton (Charlston).

Today I went to the file sharing sire 'wetransferdotcom' and found this image on their background:

I was instantly unsettled. I thought the alt right had hacked the page. I was about to download a huge file and was terrified that next thing there'd be a load of mum's basement fascists filling my computer with normie puerile shite, that there'd be actual Nazis at my door... I don't know what I was afraid of really. I saw this masked figure (a cross between Cthulhu and the "Red Guy" from 'Don't Hug me I'm Scared'?!) as some kind of manifestation of the Cult of Kek. I'd seen people in these costumes at protests and rallies. I'm in a rush and just trying to get these thoughts down before I lose them, but here is one example - skip to 1:31. A figure in a red mask appears in the background and displays a Kek banner:

Anyway, I started to actually read about the Cult of Kek - the mythology of Kek in ancient Egypt the deity of primordial darkness. Also, surprise surprise, a deity of chaos and disorder - an androgyness frog / serpent headed God often crowned with a beetle and also present in Greek and Roman mythologies, though in obscurity. I then started to think about the opening of the Illuminatus trilogy - 'it was the year they finally immanentized the eschaton' and I started to wonder who that 'they' actually were. I also began to think about how carelessly human the nomination 'eschaton' actually is: 'The final event in the grand plan' or 'the end of the world' - ἔσχατος. And then this, in its etymology - *eǵʰs-katos, from ἐξ (ex, “out”). Compare with ἔγκατα (énkata, “intestines”) and the same difficulty in ἐχθός (ekhthós) = ἐκτός (ektós). Funnily enough my spellcheck keeps trying to replace 'eschaton' with Charlston. But think about it. Imminantize the "out" "intestines". I think there's a lot more at stake for consciousness and the soul than a nuclear war, though that is the most obvious and immediate horror. Remember, in Biblical mythology the Eschaton takes a fucking long time. There is a lot left after "the event" to be resolved. All kinds of beasts.

Back to the picture. I looked up the attribution and here is an explanation:

"Antonio Gibotta Enfarinat: People, second prize stories December 28, 2016

Each year on 28 December, residents of Ibi in Spain stage a mock military coup, pelting each other with flour and eggs and letting off firecrackers. A group of men, ‘Els Enfarinats’ (The Floured Ones) take control of the town, pronouncing ridiculous laws and fining citizens who infringe them. Another group, ‘La Oposicio’ (The Opposition) tries to restore order. At the end of the day, the fines are donated to charity.

Reputedly 200 years old, the festival was revived in 1981 after long lying dormant.

Commissioned by
Agenzia Controluce"

Obviously there's a lot to be said here. A clash of mythologies ancient and contemporary. But hear this, snowflakes of Kek - our parties go on for longer, we aren't killing one another and we are coming for you. We're not your friends either. Contrary to what's been said of late we are more desperately in need of Operation Mindfuck than we perhaps ever have been.

Hail Eris etc. More on this later.

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Pronoun Manifesto

3) Our pronouns are "oil slick" & "meat" & "that blessed cavity" & a switch to the world

5 -


Pronouns are demands on consciousness. Every time you use one you are creating an incantation; an order for the subject to act up, to act upon stimulus. No one knew they were speaking a magical language (that magical was all language could be) until the doors were screwed shut. Until the windows had let out all the air. People in pockets of anxiously rehearsed resistance networks were saying that the language needed to be mended, that it should be used correctly - that this wasn't going to be hard. They forgot about & thereby stood upon those they refused to call the "mad" or "deranged", the people whose language is not yours. When they lost their understanding... 


The doors were pieces of nothing the windows that sucked the air out were logos - as the air came out you horrible voices began to understand what it was you had all done - co-operatives with the fascists, you were steeped in a chaos you couldn't read. You couldn't hear. You were committing yourselves to spells in the dark, it went on & on from the first creak of a child's voice till the last death rattle when the air left. 


Remember, if you can do one thing: Demands for corrected pronouns are transitional demands towards a full comprehension & abandonment of every system of naming. Verbs will finish this world. 


Monday, 27 March 2017

Sonnets are Impossible.

What are sonnets? We just don't know.

Currently trying to write one every day. Predictably I wrote a few then charged off into a few days and forgot to do my homework. Posting them here is an act of penitence, because only one of these is any good and the others are very pretentious. I promise to try harder. Sonnets are really difficult.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

Open Wide the Doors!

Still feeling quite baffled and fed up by the state of "avant garde(ism)". It's a really prevalent state of surrender. The art scenes are absolutely full of this surrender. As I said in a previous post a really clear marker of when things have already gone extremely wrong is the white box gallery space. I also wrote some time ago about the idea of making your poems more "Marxy". These are both methods of developing screens, kind of like the overuse of effects units, delay etc. Ways of abstracting what you are actually doing into forms that are not representative of your will, your desire or your expression. Of course that is, in part, a lie. It's a lie because these forms have become a part of your will. Your will has been abstracted from you and moved into the symbolic structure - the point of least resistance and there, in its special sound art studio with its little tape recorders, white borders, white listeners, smocks, fringes, thick set rims and fucking conversations. The little labels. I think the time has come for a lot of the people at the vanguard to admit that all they are doing is going to work. And yes, they are very undervalued and underpaid. This can often make people behave horribly towards others, it alienates people from their lives and so they become subject to their own enemy in an effort to survive in ways they cannot survive yet they have somehow been convinced that they can. Otherwise you've got to start smashing stuff. That smashing is not the cultured, rehearsed and carnivalesque smashing of the Western Black Bloc. It's a lot more intense, lived and destructive than that and it involves powerful and truthful propaganda, it involves intensive training and depends on guerilla ontology. In short, it is the avant garde, and it has the same name as its main enemy - the avant garde, the ones that police it. The strongest police forces are the ones that don't wear uniforms. That's not true. Look at their uniform. It sounds like drone music with occasional interspersed "text" and a little television screen in a white room. You're wearing it. I'm wearing it. It's very very difficult to take it off and who knows how horrible what might be underneath it actually is - removing every layer bit by bit. Loss of counter cultural hope. So hooray! Open wide the doors! I've been writing funding applications and this is where I end up. Really wound up and lost. Imagine how much we're enemies. The LD50 gallery in Dalston is one of a great many.

Thursday, 2 March 2017

Slack Against the Comittee


for Dolly Turing

The moon blushes from worship,
feeling sorry. Ten stories above
the cellar the committee meeting,
people are made to act out,

like lawyers of  precious old
time, & time is currency. Time,
the diurnal departure from life
forced and regulated, pressure valve

turned two quarters to left
airflow, the flume, the unbearable
leaking, traces of hair & skin left
quiet in the boardroom, because fuck

the boardroom, the ballots, proportionally
represented illuminations, each twenty
three by twenty three harmonic inches
basic in a self regulating unconscious

pattern. It's not on purpose. The force
of regulation is a jail the brain walks
in with good will hoping the
wall this time can stand for what,

Justice? A Just jail rising in its concrete
strength to support the weaker weight
of the tired body, the doors and windows
wide open. But they suck, They haven't

the power to slack even for a minute,
every slant is a tooth, albeit soft
& gracious & all the finance we could
dream of. The REM stops and tightens

blinkered, becomes another meeting
in the polystyrene conference hall; those
that meet well eat first the head down
sucker in structure, no moon to take
                                                           the whole the day off.