UK yarbles

Does that paper bag
Tell us anything we need to know
About why live?
Except that we do,
And the motives of our passion, and indifference?

That we are, because we is?
That we be, because we do?
If it was simple as that
Scientisis wouldn't have
Dressed us up as chimps
Or aquamarine amoebas

There's longer explanations
In the silences,
Be it in rhythm or number
It's all a more fantastical
Explanation for electricity
That we're worth defining
Something -
Beyond UK yarbles,
Or lesser gress tax payments,
Or sexual frisson
XXXXXXXX
Or barking on
Packed computer carriages
No final works these
In 30 seconds
There's wicked songs in
Final mornings
Pink pagan manipulator
Loss winner
The least melancholy, he
The bossman
Absent bloody winner
Hater
No truth in politics or Greek words.

cordyceps

Of course the skies move like blankets:

We require bland metaphors my love,

They're consoling and homely

of course,

Of courses like the movements of the seas,

Or dangerous journeys

Pretty metaphors for life's less salubrious chaos,

Filtered into tidy A-B narratives,

Do you understand?

Maybe framed correctly -

Beyond the optimist's

Innocuous joy delusion

Is the most petty egotistical tragedy

Perhaps this is the greatest abyss

We – yes – we strive to deny

As hopeless as the Mersey

Or New Deal yarbles

And of course we could couch

Far more convenient narratives

Like the joy of double-dropping

On a Bank holiday Sunday

At your elder – no -

Your younger brother's barbecue

(it becomes such, increasingly)

And all his fizzy friends

Meat and candy

Beats all the drugs or honey

They could filter in my last-

-no really my last drink

Of the afternoon

Gravity could beg several questions

So if the graveyards of the lesser cosmso

Are replete with the indispensable of a dozen aegis

- We bloody needed -

Then why are we flagellates

Always the last to say no?

Ah worthies -

Consider no.

In this guttural negative

We have weapon with which we can

Defy emotionally abusive lovers,

Local tyros,

Gender mephistos or

The movements of the heavens.

Just say no, and

Complicity cannot happen

Though we're small

These things cannot permit tyrannies

We have our hue

The nihilistis dagger against good

But yer – ah

Who first called us a tool,

Or a bitch, first?

Remember which sibling, teacher,

Parent?

Lackeys or flunkies,

Brigands of the age

Colluding in the deluding

Of the passive pallid ones

A yes restores power to the factory -

Jutting like a familiar lover's

Familiar southbound fumbles,

I know where that hand will move,

And it's not nice, but I know

In 60 seconds I'll become

Master

And her taunts of no

Will intoxicate the baser side

Of our conjugal pillows.

Sex is poisonous.

Consider Cordyceps funghi

That parasite that possesses

The souls of the most minute creatures

Growing and flowering through the skull of each

In a grotesque homily of bitter life,

Inspire the maps around my bones

To spore anywhere out of this world.

totem

The life is good they say

Grounded by expensive clothes

And debt obligations

Says R. Willis:

“I am no ordinary spectre -

Look around – each pore speaks,

Each atom, a prophet of cosmic agency“

Says the totem of complicity:

Barbarity through dusky

Displayed indeference.

The 20th century mantra,

The horde has sacked the town

Filled it somehow

With their gaudy poundshops

Pinched expressions

“It's just a lark -

Besides, I lack stimulus“

The following edition begs consumption

The old elite has run out of milk

Ex-marxist English lecturer

Beseeches indifferent schoolboys

To choose their own fate

Which simply means

In the world of indifferent schoolboys

Creating a new persona in

Sitdown addictive online

Schizoid role-playing games

Or denuding said ex-marxist teacher

If world requires indifference

As latest edition purports

Then I have a kind of fuel today

In the world of debt obligations

This is the second childhood.

As happy and grateful as all that

Does not suggest.

spectre

Too tired to talk. Or to conceive or perceive original music. Instead I propose interactive theatre composed of various scenes of interminable length, possibly life-long. The main site is an old public house in the region of south London. A ghostly production, it begins heading the audienceas if on a ghost tour into the abandoned or squatted pub. After self-congratulatory welcoming drinks, the audience are separately led upstairs into the private lodgings and rooms of the establishment. What begins as curious, suggestive though an ultimately banal tour ends up being disrupted by live drama: accusatory dialogues in small rooms; characters presumed to be fellow tour-members becoming dramatically abusive; uncanny shrill and piercing shriekings, with the charged erotic energy that is suggested.

Traditional saloon bar changes violently. A woman exhorts us (the birthday downstairs, the eulogy) to remember any detail at all of her loved one. Visibly older, she appears later to shock us with the guilt of death and age, and the weight of her unresolved accusations. Small fires burn, the audience coralled into senseless risky games of chance, the tarot and the dice, tricked into betting their lives and other audience participants' souls – dialogues replay in small scenes again, toilets, drink cellar, beneath and above, behind the walls – a murder made and a murder – resolved? - of sorts.

7 day travelcard

Cramped vehicles carry the passive and easy to please, workers wired on coffee or agreeable pop. See the songbirds too, labouring under their own hunger, a global hunger that burns through all struggling, perpetuating and decaying life. See the flock of gulls hanging from invisible strings above the jetsam-debauched canal, pathetically trying to clutch edible nuggets from the effluence. A ruddy-faced bloater, ego inflamed with brown rock and cider, wails insults at a gaggle of innocents on the other side of distant railings. One of the greatest crimes of life that we survivors of Gods' bloody deaths still have rights to waggle our fingers at is the blistered alabaster sky is this: why lovers, reduced by time to friendship, insult and interact with each other in the most sickeningly horrible and violent way. Or savage indifference. Drunken abuse is hurled from one to another, the miserable relationship dynamic coarsened in the active abuser-passive self-victimising sulker.

The titanic battle between stress and hangovers. This bloated and overheated body, rolling us its stone or having its guts mercilessly munched. I want intoxication to be unusual, occasional excess rather than nocturnal norm.

kingdom of evil book

Racked by migraine into mudless waste. I write to live. However, I claim all my words as lies, including this old one. Hence all this is fine, so please stop worrying about me. All pain.

New drugs + toys - surrender = lovely, kinder, warmer, chocolatey

“Our lives are as enhanced or as limited as our own desires” - Polly Meltzer, pub near Clapton

“New Day. So, ah love, let's feed our need for illusion.” - Unknown, NI number AX55970E

Art and writing is a dialogue of learning. Learning about the world. Lacking conversation, we need an other to challenge, bounce and unfold our impressions against, our conversation folding them into more elaborate forms. Without dialogue, these bright and quickly-burnt impressions on the retina fade as quickly as these days do, therefore the written artistic product gives some mad hope for stretching out our lives.

Love is the key. One effect of absurd love fantasies is the purpose and interest in life it ignites. Sex is life and in our human society of names, history and righteous reverence, legacy and posterity become equal drives for longer life. Through the fantasy you daydream endless dialgoues, gentle conversations which (in the sublimation of a base and illegal lust) become filled with talk of death, the meaning of happiness, what could fulfil us – you know, that shite. The love-fantasy object becomes the new other for dialogue, the new audience for the stories, the stoic soliloquies that emerge. It serves a brilliant artistic purpose then, a sneaky but effective tool for the creative mind. Otherwise these stupid dreams drown in their own narcissistic and masochistic ends, detailed by “Venus in Furs” and the Romantic poets.

Look back on this life: its followed similar paths to so many others. I think of Billy Childish but without much of the intensity, the defiance of authory. I've tramped along following the accepted paths and established modes, scriptures and lifestyle norms, any resistance wastefully spent with a poor cynicism that carries out the order first before mocking it quietly after. Pitiful perhaps, but all it is is me. This is the little Me of us all, the weakened I that is nothing until it perhaps joins some We of revolutionary Anarchist association. But I believe that we develop and change as individuals, we grow and grow, of course soemtimes slower, of course sometimes uglier, but even if we get very older we – I hope – become more calm, settled, natural in that way implied by Laozi.

And this development is not marked by dates but by emotions. By different circumstances which have forced us again and again into the anxious bright uncertain world of the new, from new jobs or new loves to new homes, new countries. That newness which I think marked so much of childhood, which gives it that intense weight and shape in the formation of our personalities and nature. Therefore new loves and new dialogues could make us grow, open us to the touch, ready to receive the divine new, restirring the emotions that make us grow and change, develop further. I know that even when I lose this text, lose these words, somewhere this sudden urge to speak will stay with me, may filter out in another form in some conversations where I hope it will spark some new thought for someone else.

Our thoughts require the sunlight of expression: our thoughts must be viral or they will not be at all. I wish my words could hum and burn with the intensity of Van Gogh's Arles landscapes. That'd be my ideal. Words with passion, but beyond this current nihilistic self-absorption that's marked most of what I've done to date. Words that ache and struggle but ultimately sing with the passion of the sower, the life-giver of colour in the post-man's wife, or of desire itself, wander in the wonder may-be's and a sad long heart-thwarted summer night sticky with sexuality in “Starry Sky”.