All these things are held in here ready to ripen
to fly off free like a god or delusion into the mountains
whence may come our aid because we believe in this or
just gravity rolling down – ah, dear momentum
you can be extraordinary if we summon our speed & our daring
sidestepping how they will block us – oh something peregrine & vagrant
we’ll sweep beside & over them, trust then to our formlessness
& improvise our pleasure. Well, alright then, let’s hope
& spring out, joyous as kitsch and irresistible
there are no lines to hold nor commitments to resolve
except the flight of human liberty, the flock of us
all diving out of the sun. Hold on this please
we have wandered long to reach here from
Tottenham through Broadstairs to Hardanger Vidda lakeside
hiding amongst the reindeer & prostrate willows, bare stones
that remain for millennia. The air is clear
we reform & blend – wilderness like wine, pristine heights
cheering, sustaining. Let us write what we feel &
what we have found out amongst ourselves now and
lay it out in full despite of the self-chosen elite – no
recognition of their statuses & rights, oppose separation
refusal to live on the common basis of all other beings
hoarding up capital, laws, propaganda & guns like
Like, just what is this, & who and where? Some blurry mess come out of the skies to titillate & mock us? Sarah, I can see you are laughing, free of who you are, but then you don’t turn up anyway – you just invite all your snarky little friends. Oh how cute – look, they’re playing cybermen & werewolves, surrealist japes & cheap rip-offs. I can see why you’re laughing; but how can you avoid chromosomal damage under this inhuman pressure? IDS, for gods’ sake! why? why?
And you, Paulina, you pointless bitch – rip out rather than rip off, some sophomore gesture towards materiality and ephemerality of the image, hunh? I don’t need to respond to a bit of torn paper, or a few smears of inky patterns handcrafted on Olde Photoshoppe. OK, so we’ve had a thing about heads, for a long long time, and putting them on cupcakes will make us happier I don’t think. I eat.
My money’s on the vagrants. They’ve moved down out of the pass. Speaking as one who knows, I’ve been there. It’s cold, beautiful, full of the way out, hunkering down besides this fire.
My head, the head which is not, the head of ancient liberty, staked on a traffic cone, my head which remembers always sundogs shining in the south‑western sky, my old head reads that scabs are rats, my head reads that art will fight & flourish, my head can never stop splashing & shaking. All excesses are mine.
Oh, my fingernails, the tokens of laborious growth, my fingernails scratch the text beneath, rearrange it as a game of go1, my fingernails exceed my flesh, they rake your flesh gently, & excited will pleasure you, clicking w/ laughter.
Ah, my mouth, the mouth with which to eat & talk, inhales, exhales, the nameless mouth, the mouth of disgust, the mouth that is tight & keeps its own counsel, unpredictable & cruel. More is more divine, says the mouth, less too, more blue.
What do mice2 do? Happen in amazement, stuck to this big conceptual mess. Blue & red modulate to grey & pink. Areas of white flourish variously. Don’t trust what you can’t bite or write.
2 are you really saying this is a bear?
Jesus! It’s a fucking cross – neon against the night: “A last entoptic patterning” alright. Nothing is hidden, nothing is meant. “People you need they all seem . . .” Vaguely distorted.
So this is where dawn in Broadstairs leads to. So this is why Sarah never came. So this is David Cameron’s religion. So this is the pattern made by the bones of the children he barbecued. So this suddenly appears out of nothing.
Never, in a sense, forget this – our need, you must admit, is for a believable sign, whatever of. The best ones shine in the sky: the Labarum, the Sun in Splendour. I’d worship Richard III any time – didn’t he kill a lot of aristocrats? I’d worship sundogs over Harlow. This world is changed by them.
What do we gain? Whatever we want. It’s coming to us, don’t you see the blueshift? The constellation wants to crash & involve. Our eyes will burn out unless we open them.
“The summer sun.” Disordered? We know what it means & promises, like a long guitar break in the background. Time to dance out into the summer storms – there is a hill to climb, a home to return to. Always a good time to rebuild – now, when the lights tell us.
& how is ridging done? And why does it obtrude over simple joy? How comes all this paraphernalia, corrosive & subjective in its choices, has suddenly fallen out of my potting shed? Where has Sarah gone to now? – and was she really one of the Great Masters? Why are they almost always male and dead? How many types of carrot are there, too? What causes the pale patches? And the mess made of their juicy roots?
Are there bad ways to keep birds off the peas? Does distorting our heads assist or hinder in this? What happened to a rosy dawn on the Isle of Thanet? Is it possible these children are there? frolicking on the cliffs at Broadstairs? Should they therefore be pruned hard or moderate?
Will making an onion rope help? Why can’t we make another cake instead? How does all this relate to the continuing & ever-increasing seizure of power over us by our present high-status elite? Will they leave any rich & well-trenched burials for future archaeologists? Aren’t they more likely just to tip us all into extinction? And which are they at root? – the common scab, or wart disease? Isn’t this all clearly just the wrong way to place rock stones? Shouldn’t we politely make our thanks, and start digging out the ditches now?
1 what sort of comment is this?