vagaries

The Vagaries of Hope

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The Vagaries

The whispering spittle of denial, a prescient hope winds out, curls, folds crushes itself before the whole. And now a name, an introduction of type, of delineated spirit, advertisers wet dreaming, materialising, infecting the passive entity. A cowardice replaces the stimulated confidence, bed beckons, resolution (or masturbation), morning. No naked trees, no black caws of crows. Just a couple of posies, some pages of prose.

Silent in the green den, coerced by sibilance, gentle whispering, hushed in hisses. I know the day, its stench, and am a death paranoia, corpse hushed upon types. And there, structured in the monotype of commercial edifices, solace and separate paths to a hole.

Afternoon waking
I practise death postures, in bed, the stink of summer all across me, sweet rotting refuse.
I practise the hand mannerisms of renaissance Christs, removed from cross, cradled.
I practise the dream, the memory, the sound of my mortality, stones grate, squeal upon the earth cutting spade.
I practise wanking, in case of an emergency, only practise mind you, I wouldn’t wish to soil my underwear, there’s buses everywhere.
I practise seeing them, in my skull, the buses, that in my mind where I keep this skull are practising to run me over.
And then one day I stopped practising, hit by the flat face of a claret-line.
Thank fuck I’ve got clean underwear! (or Thank fuck I’ve kept my underwear clean!)

Almost caught the bus, well, almost. Caught a glimpse of its side, aware of heads in windows, doing mantra, Barret homes and banality, they must of all fucking watched me, watching as I fucked my bike into the kerb, at speed. >>Serves him right, cutting across like that!<<

It’s always twilight in my room, I never open the curtains, never look out the window. Sometimes I look out of a window, a different window, down to the street and people on it. It looks so normal, and in looking I feel that I could be normal. (it's just like watching TV) But when I go out it’s different, anyway, it’s not me she’s gonna want to fuck! is it?

Sit down, centre of the High Street, and listen. You’ll hear how it works, see what it is…>>Jesus look at the size of her, I’d fucking kill myself before I got like that…. dirty bastards, they’re all druggies… that’s fucking wrong!… stupid little shit, how can ya look like that… And on and on I could go, and it seems I have to, a lack of courage you see what it is, hear it, it echoes pathetically in the hollows… Good people, clever, moral, kind people, have it seems from what I hear and see a propensity for excellent clothing, money and beauty. << So ends my mind’s mantra, sermon, a car mounts the pavement, no one is injured.

I have a bit of talent, intelligence, or so I am told by people who know me, useless, how fucking useless to have that! I think, watching their widescreen TV, drowning in surround sound, I fall back under, glub, blorb, blop…

The crows of desire have descended upon me to feed, I have no need of them, I is sick, burnt and gone, my eyes puke still feeding upon the interminable precession of banal predictability. I is tired, shot up then hung, blood drip out my nose, a pill, a trip to Ikea, functionworthy oinkers battery farmed… Fucking vermin, filth… >>Well that’s the way it is init?<< run rabbit run, climb out of the ditch and into the mud… lay down, >>Well that’s the way it is init!<<

Goodbye
And so every weekend they all rushed off, inmates with shaven heads, grey clothes shuffling to the gas chamber, for a couple of pills to be dropped through the roof. Every weekend, piling up bodies, limbs in the laser light, crashed langour in the living room, feeling sweat itch dirty and dope, work will be a fucking relief… Piercings removed, tattoos covered

Cool, wicked, yes I know quite splendid, it’s a thing of wonder it is and must be the thing, such a shiny product.

I’m not Sparticus, I’m Jesus
What sits there? horror of honesty upon an ordinary, universally enjoyed structure. I’ve tested the topography, touched out the promise of a skull, grinning all the time beneath me.
I would have rescued you, had you been worthwhile. Myself. But you can fuck off.
Voices are outside my window. Voices…
Time for a break, fondle the witness, peel eyes across surface of TV, a blank gaping face filled, fed liquid substitutes, soporific window views, ambrosia with your bed sores, twilight hurries along. See, look out at the night, oh pretentious shit and blackness fills the eyebulbs, turning in hollows, and miming.
A fly annoys the 60-watt, rattling wings then resting rattling wings.
Green sea blows outside, voices struggle to keep heads above a literary suicide. Gaze now floats upon a vision of madness, caresses the walls, cracks and flaws, fingering each for a way out.
I’ve found whilst searching, myself lurching back to it’s habitat, and to murder the vagaries of hope.

A gorilla: >>Enough of school, let’s ride horses.<< (Battle for the Planet of the Apes)
Enough. Enough of this liberal shit, the egalitarian platitudes borne upon privileged voices, upon broadsheets. Venerated objectivitys, the dull rationale, the reasonable outlook and solution, never however finalised, never to become praxis. Hoho, and what is this in the Guardian supplement, a worthy story with gritty arty pictures, a double page spread for a silver car (you can’t start a car for less than 15 grand in pretend left land), an article on an intellectawit with book out, a double paged babe stinking of the channel 5.
Did you cunts know? I’m so English, I’m the soil that buries you. How about that for an article.

Pink leather writing, scrubbed clean. Here, I refer to a woman, seemingly copying from a book in a café. Why do we write? I have given up on reading, on passivity. Close to the writer, the pink leather, a book rested on a fat belly, on beige adornments. Banal corpulence. This café is in a bookshop.

Praying, stemming the blood, gushing, that old dark gamey blood. The nose bleeding idol, old woman faced first into the pavement, her ice cream cone upside (woopsy?)down before her. Blood ‘n’ cream. A beautiful arrangement, frisson, and her look, stark and shocked, death at the shoulder.
Someone is sat in my place, gives me time to make a decision, a decision regarding my gaze, consumptive gaze.

Exhausted and untrusting. Could not believe that someone would say hello, dieing in my pathetic response. Earlier, and as usual, I sit in place. The real is becoming a lost cause, I judge the scene before me, the trees, light and distant flatly rendered clouds in terms of a likeness, a resemblance to paintings, simulations of scene. I feel that perhaps I can only know the real when comparing it to the contiguous surface of the hyper-real. Executed, exterminated in hyperbole.

Multiple and false personae, constant, or so it seems. The projections, these others, infect, inhabit the gaze, a human object depersonalised, consumed and rendered as type. I must learn to masterbate over the 6 ‘O’ clock, make it mean something to me, ejaculate over the suited bitches of the UN and EU, milling in the background. Have I ever told you about the BKR, the British Khemr Rouge, the silver plaque with soliciters name upon it, having to work in fields or fertalize them…
Yeah, that fucking thing, the whole of it, and the dream, fingers slipping, the kick. Sweet growl…
I have never loved, not me, not anyone, I think your funny, the blood you put on the tracks, the attribution of depression to the playing of certain records, your pain is haha, funny, practised, do you remember bullying me?

Titles: Staring into space, dieing in slow motion and psychology in the kitchen. >>You’re so unalike, without simile.<< or so he said, >>Do you like the cut of my syntax, the lie of my prose.<<

oh I dunno… I finally after a year of buying it for its TV guide, (the Saturday Guardian) have found an article in it, and one that I wish to read. It is about Roussell, well, a review of a biographer’s account, but that’s as close as I’ll get in this over-narrated isle. It’s so typical though, one is unable to access his books, his art, translated or otherwise, and yet the dear old bourgeois’ have given me the opportunity to read about his fucking life… the name droppers, fucking narrators!

There’s a universal eating disorder I’ve just found out about. It works like this: whilst in the West the rich get fatter, consume more, in the Third World they get skinnier, and say goodbye to more of their resources. They call this particular eating disorder, Panorexia.

Today or rather the other day, I stalked the shadow of my own hatred, paranoid and turning upon every laugh.

V1
I forgot, or at least only partially remembered, the sound hit me.
The sibilance, of wind in the trees, something I would once always hear.
A reassurance, perhaps because I was born in the countryside, born in the sonic interstices of leaf static!
Sounds that once cut straight to, hot shrapnel imbedding in a conscientious objectors skull.
But today, the soft drumming of my psychosis drowned it out.
Only a glimpse, through the blackening pall of my hatreds.

V1.1
I forgot, the sound hit me.
The sibilance, wind in the trees.
A reassurance, born in the sonic interstices of leaf static.
Sounds that once cut straight, hot shrapnel.
But today soft drumming, my psychosis drowned it out.
Only a glimpse, through the blackening pall of hatreds.

Her white Ellesse jacket, hair scratched back, in York, near Sainsburys, outside, by the new bridge, your road over stagnant water, where the rats run, you know where I mean, you know what I mean, hair taut, hard over head, thick gold round neck, eyes sclerotic, beautiful, hard, and the mouth, the mouth spitting stars to the gutter, a mouthful of sensuous violence.
As for your bourgeois’ your students, fat, full brimming with shit, at best leapt from fashion pages of broadsheeet supplement, mouthful of crap, chitter shat of Ikea, selves exchanged for lifestyle, sur-feit-faced, and such fat arses so young.

Hatred and lean need breed’s intellect, intelligence.

Been shot in the head?
Brain not working?
Lead fish swimming in the viscera of the skull-bowl?
You need it!

Pass the bowling green, summertime at seven p.m., stench of aftershave, oldies on the pull.

There is no longer a subjective or objective literary pursuit - how can there be in this hermetic dictionary - but only a subjective one. Prose, poetry, analysis, critical theory etc, constitute not opposing poles, positions or forms, but exist (I was about to say only as we usually do) as expressive acts. Acts of prescience, of skill and imagination. If you accept this statement - you don’t have to friend, I don’t give a shit!- then it will become obvious, plainly apparent, as to what a good text is and… oh, never mind, got a light?

Oh yeah, and remember, if you wanna be an intellectual, notation comes before statement!

River views (different days summertime)
An instance, a Sewer-rat landscape, pointylism and reality on a ducks back.
One of those blokes who carry strange bags, hold em like handbags. He was whistling, whistling a death opera for the insect he stared down upon, flicking it around with his foot, unusual, strange, it had stopped him in his tracks, the weird idea of a person, another’s life, flicked around in the mind.
Pretty dabbled tarmac, riverside walk, cream cheese breeze in the trees, guy on a bench puking clear liquid, controlled, letting it fall from mouth, splatter between feet, spitting, very little movement. Reminded me of a cheap (I have a tendancy for the cheapest) chardonnay I regurged one afternoon shortly after waking. The sun aches bueaty, figures dissipate in the sibilant leaves.

Bomb:

Touching, regally feeling for a known, seeking qualification, to be legitimised, bomb spitting, searing soft faced furnishings, coverings dropping molten, numbed hands raised to shield face, blackened.
>> I told you I’d rip, didn’t I say so conformist fuck!? Grey! Sweet surface cunt, wrapper plastic, didn’t I tell you? <<
The anal eye tatters in her butchered face, nail-bomb punctuates, and what shit she spoke. Poured out, effluvial like, stank like it does, always does from the mouths of petit-b filth.
Soldiers of God, blind. Unfinished business, a devout emptiness.
A devout emptiness, and hollowed stomach empty, all shat out, struggling to shit even with encouragement, and so, therefore, struggling to live. Brain null, mind separates, there is a glassy vista outside of face, intangible?
Tiredness arrives, either from sleeping too long or from waking too soon, tiredness comes, it comes and with hope gone is unrelenting. Separates, peels slowly away from the life product, crushed then dropped.
All fucking torn, ripped up ragged and flapping, loose, slapping, >> Oh yeah here comes the cunt! Character! we can flesh him out. << A fat-knot lie so white, curious in the meat, squeezes and examines, tween forefinger and thumb.
Bomb.

Arse verse
Your eyes, aaah, your eyes, they’re like… like paddling pools, if I were to remove my shoes, my socks and roll up my trousers a little, just a little, then I might paddle in the depths of your shallows. On the other hand, your eyes, yes your eyes are like the good old oceans, voluminous, deep, just a glance and I might drown. Are you happy now!?

You hate them, want them, can’t have them, those petit-b girls you seem to see only in supermarkets. Love that unconquerable force does not go so far as to mix up the classes, the types, the general ambience of plasticated surface. It does not go so far as the tiring narrative would have us make believe. So anyway, you wear a cap, are a raggy bastard and have too much intelligence for one without an expectant surface of intelligence. I walk through Marks and Spencers - a short cut - wanting to stick an arm out and wipe clean a shelf of stuff, kick a display of olive oils, would she like me for that? Of course not! I feel now that I want to be crazy, cleansed of responsibility. She is a shelf full of stuff, and very well stacked, though nothing when compared to the Ellesse jacket.

Luminous and chrome grey, a dark summer afternoon, a field of grass, silver and wet. Today I walked slowly, eyes wide, aching with the consumption of light, chest aching from everything, from the gold shock of the field next to me, close to me, scalding excited eyes, to the green formaldehyde of frozen scenery.
Sat in Tescows and lost it all! Mind hanging on a thread, but then I was hungry.
Globalisation, the inevitable banalisation, mediocratisation / a stage upon which to exchange identity for the identifiable. I never knew a British culture anyway, but we always had that special relationship with the US.

Pill-wear-consumer-puke.

Two planes were crashed into the World Trade Centre today, it doesn’t exist anymore, along with thousands of people who died around the world. The Pentagon also got hit, badly damaged in a similar attack. As I write this the media’s talking it up, taking its cues from the leaders of the free world, but I can’t tell which free world, or which cues.
Americans die like this: as victims, parents, loved ones, friends, as humans, but only because of their overexposure. And for those who are about to die, killed by American bravery, well, they die as blindly reported numbers…
America recoils, and Bush has run away to join the armed services, he’s left his people behind, a dinosaur with a shrinking pea for a brain.

It’s really fucking boring! To be humiliated each day, to be lacking, to be sneered at, to not be.

Subconscious eugenics, that’s how it works, life, or maybe just a set of coincidences, or maybe the genetically inferior are just unlucky. You anger me, I wish to bore holes in you, implant high velocity metal into your head sweet heart.

American correspondence?
She hopes of hopelessnesses.

He was a likeness of like, a simile, though never likened to himself.

Aaaah the dream vagaries, where I mean to say so much, the emptiness, the fuck of it all. Even Now! In the moment of that which I wish to express, I forget. An intellect so useless, body proletarian. Have you ever considered how boring it is to have an intellect in a lower-class body? It is the epitome, the epitaph of this country that such a body with foreign thought in its head would be worth more if shot in its head, with a light calibre. Then the base metal projectile lololping in the viscera of the skullbubble would at least give some worth to the corpse, as it loped around Ikea.

The great palliative boredoms are my current vent:
1. Alcohol.
2. Internet.
3. Masturbation / porn.
4. Online gaming.

Militarised social systems, or socialised military - U.N and N.A.T.O.

I have nothing to say, I’m always wrong when I say it anyway. The room was drenched in the death stench of hope, I killed it haha…

As the semtex sun sets,
On sun, sea, sand and sex.
Child prostitutes feel the pinch,
their pimps turning to the internet.

A new Viet Cong rises,
In the jungles and deserts,
I’ve seen on my TV set.
Here in Mammons capital, a good ol home town.

Some rough beast is seen,
slouching along, and to be born.
A war ten times as long,
to be finished here in West Saigon.

Helicopters do not lift us away,
Valkyries voiceless.
Nowhere to go, must face the music.
Manhatten transfer a rat a tat tat, use lyrics to end…

Flat-packed banality, for a Barret style house in Barnsley…

The balance of terror is the terror of balance.

You will not see me, I am not a vision, now why did I say that?!

AI haha what we need are enemies, a constant stream of them, crisis after crisis, all surmountable of course, small and poor…

Relationship with notice board at health centre…

The traditional assocciations are that to change the surface one must affect how it looks, invent a new style or genre for example.

Need to attack the traditional narratives, I am my own body, not those of TV, film or the adverts, so why do myself down, look so hard for myself in the images of the over-bearing narrative, until eyes are sick and I tire of the familiar image, myself, seemingly so novel, as of course I can’t find it, Is this what an individual is, lacking, unavailable in the covering surface of players and the playing out.

A bag full of stones

Reality Show
Seeing oneself in that reality show, shaven headed cunt, an everyman saying mate as a comma, breaking up tired mannerisms, spewing large chunks of “having it, having it large” and that last wretched saliva dribble of puke “cool”.
The hyper-real double is not enough, must be seen to be the surface, a contiguous surface that blends into the Man, the Woman of the Verts, lip-synched perfectly.
To swallow shallowness as lo-fi kitsch cool, hanging on salacious globs, filaments of tumescent ennui.

Things on the way to loosing credit card in cash machine:
1. take the right-hand unlucky less optomistic path way.
2. young guy in grubby overalls and steel toecapped boots.
3. two telephone technicians in luminous yellow jackets.
4. a rubber band.
5. old lady (short) throwing bag of rubbish into large garbage bin.
Ker chunk, card gone!