Untitled Fragment

He asked me if I remembered that day, what it was like, to feel, January the heat, in the back of a bus, we had cut a hole in the roof, I used to weld back then, & solder, sweat iron burnt fingernails. He asked me if I could remember that day, the past, filaments of a life, the heart split like lightbulbs, fragile, ecologically friendly, nature was only recently dead then, the super storms were only like deserts of solar panels, I would still take swigs of silicone back then, the organs not totally exhausted. Pleasure had only been recently forgotten, sometimes you would still have sensation in your penis, the urine burnt even back then, to pass water, passing hell, he laughed at that & asked me if I remembered that day, the starry night looking up from the hole we had cut, the bus like a fury along the motorways of the continent. sometimes we would see sad humans stooping along the roadside, figurines of misery someone once said, make it safe, they weren’t human, just rags that accumulated shit. He asked me if I could remember


He asked me if I could remember the day before we died, before the dream incinerated. They burnt the flags first, red & black. Freedom on the spit, rank nostrils, I threw up the barbiturates. To live past the moment of your own death. Some went to the camps. He asked if I could remember, the manual labour, the gulf heat, the wind burning like petrol, howling in the gas pipes, the children that we were, play pen. No one remembers; memory is the nightmare of the undead. Each day I remind him to ask me if I can remember the day when ought was still possible, the day when you could listen to the sound of crows in the trees & not think.


Dispatch from a Periphery

You return and find that the landscape makes a demand of your blood marrow. Demands to take of your tongue, your retina, your cochlea, your nerve endings, the split soles of your bruised feet, whatever is left that still flinches, whatever the rooks have passed up. Asks to dispossess you of your language, to sow you in its enclosures, its drained marshes, its ancient prisoners, its vanished peasantry. The trees are bare on St. Stephen’s, crooked; stripped of surplus they pare you back to what you were before, they strip your flutings down to a minimum, year zero of that promise long forgotten, like another owl drowned in the fountain, like sleight foxes in the hedgerow, like the time you pressed yourself to the ground in the rain. To have a voice, for the first time, broken free from ecclesia. The fields empty the cuttings of previous late summers and autumns, alone, with the harvesters in the dark, observing beneath the pylons static cackle, spent, how spent you were then, the lights blazed in the murk, the warmth cooling, you sought hades that year. Life emptied along the public footpaths and minor roads, beneath rookeries, solitude comfort enough, reassurance enough, gambler and itinerant, the old verses recited with a lapsed zeal in the boscage, a quiet stream running from Hannibal, Missouri, alone broke voice freed. You hoped. Elsewhere. Your elsewhere separated from that other life you may have had, that other life you always may have lived, that other life you said then was not living, was not living, that then you said that other life was not living. Others indeed lived. Others lived then and live now, you say, hoarfrost underneath, rising from a ditch you pretend to have slept in. It tells you that you are not of the city, of Atlantic flights, of hedonism, of barricades, of vows in front of an altar, of any vow at all. It tells you that yours is not the fleshy medium that Trotsky and Frank O’Hara write through, not a voyager, not an exile, not a comrade or lover in the struggle, in the fury, in the sound, in the small moments it takes to make life remarkable. You bleed: occasionally. It says. It tells you that you belong here, on the periphery of a village, beside the graveyard, the bells disturb your rest after nights sweating quiet nothingness. This is your script, it says, a butchery, a bakery, a supermarket, urine against the bus shelter, your pastoral is of industrialised chicken production, the distant power stations are impossible stations of the cross, of crawling till your torn in search of her orange rind, of muted barrenness, of the simple miles of outstretched primitive accumulation. Your voice speaks of this, it says, or it speaks of nothing. That’s what it affirms, its prosody dares you to be that other that you know is false, that you are what it says, that sadness too is elsewhere if you are where it says you are, along the edge, smiling at dog walkers, your inner eyes closed years since, heliotropes in an arctic winter. It tells you to undress and thread your linen through the hedgerows, it lets you think of her again, running your finger over the thorns, her, elsewhere, she too is an elsewhere, the thorns don’t cut, don’t slit. A lesson, it says. Elsewhere, a lesson said it. These are your silences, gethsemane on the back of a postilion rider. No one else can do this, alone, in an orchard of fruit fallen into rot, this is yours, here, a garden to be hoed. Underneath, underneath so long ago. No one else to speak of this, the others, like the patter of wind against panes, the others, so long ago, underneath. Underneath her, a Turkish chorus, her, only elsewhere now. With a broken reed pipe, the voice broke of shepherds who have forgotten their dispossession in a world made over in the image of negative motion. Your body becomes waxen, witchcraft, it has always been ours, brands burn from within, abundance in the star-scape, a horoscope they write across your ventricles, her, elsewhere, written too, a horoscope across her ventricles, our last bond, others write their power across out ventricles.


Origin of the Species

|& Kieslowski said make the world

red & green wax paper leaves plastered

debris to a windscreen hermitage in Mesa,

Az. Sokurov finally the mustard grain

sings of Philadelphia & museums

incinerated with tins of Mayflower

tongue as we watched a magnesium pink

sundown on the Cape|


The Way Back From St. Thomas’s

‘Friends from Bologna’ Wordsworth glues September’s

nail bombs, across Westminster Bridge my head sown

together for a second time, a loneliness that has taken

to speaking in lesions. The clarinets are quiet this daybreak

where was your Sunbelt Realism when Pasolini’s ashes

slaked drought nudes? Sweet Thames, you no longer tell

me of the Bolivian Marxist whose gut is rumoured to have

spilt dream toxins waiting for the carnival of the dead.

Hilarious Figure (Portrait of Francis Ponge)

Peculiar trip so far. Spurred the heart’s dice games on Herrengracht. The first morning we drifted through mourners gathered outside the old Bourse, weeping for city fairs. Spent the rest of the time in the district trying to sniff out old modernity, rattling medicine men, pungent sailors, the sweat wail of the East Indies, protégé’s of value. Even the district is becoming an allegory for the obliteration of C. Marx and the Aesthetic back in 2012; dossiers on Hegel’s crucifixion and the Shakespearian unconsciousness of capital. Skulked the shadows then as I do know, recycling caesuras. Soul melt years listening for the right American voice, sushi fingers, bowel cramps, delivery guy hollering up felted wool. A couple asleep in the mid-afternoon lure, wasn’t that your dream T.J? When nature still needed capitalising. ‘No social order ever perishes before all the productive forces for which there is room have been developed’. Mall of America voices sang for us at the hostel, off-key the Thessaloniki Programme & the riots you said you nearly died in the year you sold prescription drugs to fund your drinking. We could move to St. Louis. Forever. I think you would like it. Missouri HANDS UP! Intensities scored into any reading of The Ladies Paradise now, January 25th 2015, ink like apostle leach on the back of a postcard, sound howling across the tundra.

Leamington Spa

We passed through Leamington Spa on the way to dissolve the network.

Botanising barcodes, Walter Scott, is not foreplay. Learnt to take Gin that

year in Leamington & dance the tarantula yearning for Dora Maar in the dew

of Jardin du Luxembourg, an Old Master’s Blue Period, and the epic form

of propaganda as it stole out from the floorboards beneath Peter Weiss’s nape. That

year was the closest I’ve come to suicide. Spooning out jars of honey upstream

where fatted pastorals warble in the bulrushes. Someone said the science of

logic before anything. Someone else that the science fiction Lenin is only comatose in

Bloomsbury hallucinating an owl that fly-tips drachma sore to be pregnant again.

The air in Jephson Gardens would sting with Pere Lachaise looted that January

he shared my bed. Highgate several summers ago, ticking off Marx to Jeremy

Beadle. The motion to liquidate the network passed unanimously, a minor

relief, but the essential relation adulates Walter Scott she’s out there in the

Pacific Northwest, & here I am, palms cupped with popcorn on the slaughter bench.

History you Cocksucker!

Pop Culture

30 Montreal Road V.I.H cut across our lungs & blithely

doused gasoline over rabbit days pasteurised on Beachy

Head, the aftertaste of unwashed tumblers strips the

bandages, in the medicinal bath CP uses our Beckett

routine to upbraid the broken promise weakness I have

for those songs that September as Charlotte Corday

vanished under a wind shower of leaves, but I have always

loved Goth Pop, the accordion bought over the counter in

the Northern Quarter & they both agreed for once that

they didn’t care for Late Turner while we slept on regardless.