warm-up.*

yep, and i turned a trombone into an elephant
trunk... and i didn't even touch anything,
i just looked at one thing, then looked at
the other thing, and then, boom! a synonymous
equation.

like i once said: at the quasi-end of capitalism
the far left will encourage everyone to have an artistic
expression, all the madmen also have art sessions
in asylums... art and the healing process...
please tell me when left politics begins to get
serious, the right would say: you want to escape
a job as a cashier? take l.s.d., forgot about the need
to "express yourself"... more harm than good...
but the prescription by a joke of leftist politics
is just that: become a closet artist,
or become a closet intellectual by simply donning
the groovy look of a beard and some chequered
shirt and ripped jeans and Converse sneakers,
or something, making you fit the profile of
an atypical Camden High Street shopper...

you see what i mean about art these days?
they said the same thing back when it was oil on canvas
or Dürer's carvings - people will spend millions
on paintings, that's how they understand the worth
of art, they invest in objects that the artist invested in also,
meaning buying and selling dynamics:
paint and canvases and brushes and renting messy
studios...

the modern artist overshadows all other artistic efforts,
the cheap stuff, poetry is cheap ****,
pennies from heaven... what? that's the reality...
i wish i could say: taking interest in poetry,
liking poetry, and other such statements are equivalent
to in-secret liking some pop song... given that
the pop song is actually psychologically crafted to
the make you an automaton in appreciating it.

so it's called art, the Turner Prize 2005 winner...
turned a "shed" (take a look at it,
that's a shed? how big is your garden?
looks more like a storage house on some Caribbean
island where pirates roamed in the 17th century,
given the size) into a boat, sailed it down a river,
then rebuilt the boat into a shed...

are we laughing now? no one these days can compete
with artists, there's no classical
notion of painting, or writing, engulfed by advertising:
advertisers use rhyming - the old notion of art
has become engulfed by advertising -
however good you are,
you have to be a carpenter or a sculptor of some sort,
the rest is nothing; so this leftist prescription of keeping a
creative side when living in the mundane world is sickening...
all the jobs went to Asia, a bankruptcy of production...
if they only allowed us to have meaningful jobs
we wouldn't have to hear the ******* of being prescribed
possessing a creative side...
                                                  in the quasi-end of
capitalism we're all artists... all of us...
                                                                    am i desperate
about this state of affairs? should i be?
                           i have my trombone turned into an elephant
artwork - all the best to Simon Starling,
i'd be too lazy to do something like that...
           what seems difficult to gulp down is how far
removed the 20th century is from today,
about how people appreciating art are primarily concerned
with large open spaces...
                          the idea of art these days fits perfectly
with the modern notion of claustrophobia...
it's supposed to be mingling with agoraphobia -
well, that's how i see it, who can tell if i'm right or wrong
if no opinion can actually be sustained by a prodding
conversation to deal with an opinion further?
well, we already know the end result of dialectics:
i know nothing - that's how the antique mouth of
Socrates changed, back when he invented it
i know nothing was a presupposition... leaving the
art barren, we know how it's going to end, which is why
we like strutting the peacock with sponge-like brains
of opinions.

i just look at the size of these art exhibitions -
massive open space rooms, a large piece of art, you
enter such a space and you attempt to mingle
the claustrophobia of a large crowd - and with such
a piece of artwork, notably it's size, you get the impression
of having a much larger reference in this world,
that you are more important than the world deems you to be,
well.. agoraphobia is a form of claustrophobia,
some phobias are synonymous,
                                                       a large open space, inside
a large piece of artwork...
                                             i feel big...
i live in a few square miles and don't really venture out...
well, that's apparently called life...
                 tiers of the many platitudes...
       or as i say?
keeping Shakespeare, for all his greatness is just about
making traffic... we're queuing - nothing more...
          it's not even about holding to the dear life -
it's holding to the life that passed and will never return -
making our contemporary interpretation of life
                                    a hush, when their's revived is a roar -
great trick... keep them with us long enough
so we get scared then the lions roar -
                  then watch them enter the classics domain
and become entertaining to a dozen people...
everything just seems to have a: u.b.d. (use by date)
and b.b.s. (best before date).

i'm not writing, more or less simply knitting, a jumper -
which is more than just a mere poem.
the comfort allowance, listening to delta goodrem
      and i love pop,
                      more than a rugby
player aged ~20,
                       mind you,
sometimes labouring over one
selfie with 20 Chinese to match
makes you feel oh so good -
                   it took those 20 Chinese
the same effort - pretty white girl
and blonde syndrome,
                        eastern Europe gets a sniff
and simply says: well, that' ****, isn't it?
                      the days that came with
the motto: we need astronauts more than
tourists...
                     days like these i rather take selfies
of the sleeper than write something...
                and i do...
i fiddle on the roof
                                          and cartoon the rest...
                   because that matters.
                            pristine Australian and the gimmicks
worthy of South Korean singalongs....
                                          next in line
***** duped Jews...
                                     whenever the gentleman
lost hist top-hat and the confectioner glyph typo -
                       me and an audience?
as in a day job?
                                  i don't mind...
                        d'ah la la la...
                                              and the piano....
                these days are rare....
                                                having enough words
in-tune with all others...
                                                     of such days
i say: sometimes a picture revitalises the lost words....
               and when encouraged
                                         a slip-up of beckoning...
readied for an avalanche -
                                   to make writing into
knitting a jumper or a scarf...
                                           equivalent...
in a society that deems Japanese culture
                  inquiries
                                     as the righteous standards
to avoid the jobs of nursing and dentistry -
                        well...
                               ­         we're in sure need of robotics
to ease off stress that our societies have
themselves halving demand...
                   sure, she's still there,
crazy naked and starving a kaleidoscope hope
                    of reminiscence
                             concerning a fear of spiders:
that do not weave webbing...
                                        the size of your palm...
        those ones, scary...
                                          that context of x,
between agoraphobia minor
                                                (in an urban setting)            
                            and agoraphobia major
in an countryside setting -
                           phobia: or the intricate fear
when an antidote is due because of too much rationalism -
                           agoraphobia minor:
              fear of being in an open space with too many people...
agoraphobia major:
                               fear of being in an open space
anticipating a congregation that never comes...
                       i'm enthralled by these compounds:
kindred of: lithium salts - or other compounds.
                     sometimes just a day with a selfie...
or a poem like this: an exercise in utilising language
                                  to no grand scheme of making a profit:
rather an indentation, and nothing more.

a late harvest in Brigadoon
plucked from good earth
by strong hands
hauling
uphill, until
a gentle
*****
rewards
a stiff
back; easing
a grateful
burden
that levitates
famine

[ bushels ]

now
ziggarats
in a root
cellar

a Sumerian skyline
of parsnips and rhubarb
with fennel minarets

where Gilgamesh slept
in a pantry of pagan loot
underneath a corner room
at the very back
of a round
house.

where four seasons bunk with an almanac

mason jars of pickled beets
breathing their own blood
hanging gardens from the ceiling
of the Underworld
like fliers of missing children
on telephone poles

i go outside and wander off

you stay home

I stood as still as I could.
Trying to hold in my breath, trying to turn invisible, trying to melt into the wall I steadied myself upon. My heartbeat thumped in my ears drowning out all other sounds.

Were my feet nailed to the floor by fascination? or was it disgust? The knot in my stomach laid no reliable argument to these rushing emotions.

My eyes followed his hands; the way he gripped her hips, the way his fingers traced her jaw. My eyes also followed his lips; how he pressed them almost reverently against the base of her clenched neck.
I watched as he inhaled her scent like he was being squeezed out of breath.

She struggled against his grip. Her eyebrows knit together in an unsightly frown. She halfheartedly pushed him off her weak body. It almost looked like she didn't want to resist, but her pride pulled her away from yielding. She was shaking, her form disheveled, yet it wouldn't sway him.

I felt a stinging in my eyes, that all familiar burning I experienced when I felt that twinge of paranoia. That burning paranoia that plagues me now, as my worst fears are embodied.

How could she easily dismiss him like that?
When I lay nights awake craving his skin, his breath, his words.

I have spiraled out of view, just a faceless backdrop in his hopeless love story.

How could a person hate and love so much at the same time?
It just goes to show that the world doesn't work that way, it works to crush you. All these emotions spurt out at once, as a lesson for all the lucky fools watching you.

the internet wasn't originally intended as the playground for the young, who have no reason to convince themselves of a need to either dogmatise proper spelling, or proper diacritical-punctuation... hálo humpty-dumpty! utter that hark like a dragon!

i have something more volatile than atoms
to construct an atom bomb and
cite Oppenheimer -
i have letters as atoms, words as minor
twitches, and language as Samael:
the death-breathing harvesting resurrector...
  i call the film *a beautiful mind
a perfect case of a beautiful propaganda
machine that backfired...
  if that mathematician who died "tragically"
in car-crash was anything to go by
with having his negation of ease hijacked,
exemplified, magnified to scare the public,
then Gabriel must have been a really sweet
soothsayer in Muhammad's ear...
   because someone with that kind of imagination
to conjure up people should have never
worked for the emerging C.I.A. or F.B.I.:
but Walt ******* Disney... to be sure of it:
Bukowski run parallels with the story:
staying drunk: to keep up with the sober-imaginative
collective: i would have done the same...
can you believe i've passed the 50h mark
on not sleeping under a self-imposed
example of what's barely a scratch of the
siberian gulags?
                   can you imagine that i...
simply had a fetish for it? imagine being awake for
over 50 hours... and having a nearing-****
audacity to not fall asleep for a minute?
can you imagine the military rigour of such
an endeavour?
   must have been self-taught and therefore, very
much indie: selling to the highest bidder.
oh please don't take my literal Monday's worth
of vocabulary truthfulness on it:
i'll play truant on it:
   i don't have people-friendly devices to keep
up with gossip, the rule is:
you can only go mad once,
you can play double jeopardy with madness...
    talk going mad a second time...
        i'll talk about recreating carnage park
in essex... you know what's scary about
that horror movie? it happens at high-noon...
there's nothing eerie about the night...
with the night i think the solace of death
and the never-ending and the never-shifting queue
of names, dates, and the ultra sensitive invocations
of faking epitaphs, i mean, inscribing things
on graves the people who "own" the graves
never had the capacity to say, in the first place.
but you know what scared me about
the film carnage park? the first horror movie
based upon Hitchcock "resurrected" -
but it was never about it... there's no close-proximity,
you actually see the culprits face...
   the idea being: humanising the man executing
moral justification by tugging the guillotine
or pushing the switch on the electric chair...
it's all about moral ambiguity,
hence the horror is all about daylight,
daylight representing the quasi-assurance of your
own judgement: and could you do the justice
by bypassing all jurisprudence paperwork?
  daylight is important in this movie...
                 nothing is hidden, nothing is romantic,
because the man in question is a ******,
he's not a torturer... the invocation of agoraphobia
is seminal! no... subliminal! Greeks invented little
fears and allowed them to be wedded for magnification
given that theatre is extinct... little phobias
create big budget exploits...
   but this is a first of exploiting agoraphobia...
       and agoraphobia could only be exploited in
high-noon... when i think of night these days
i think of the j. r. r. tolkien romance novels of
what man once had... adventure...
these days? plain talk? tourism.
                            i never could think it could be done:
but apparently is has been done...
           the ever distant voyeurism is also gone...
how can anyone be voyeuristic in an agoraphobic space?
   you're basically knitting and deforming
a large space into a pixel... there's no sadism either,
no loch ness barrage of torture methods,
only what man employes to capture animals...
   it's militarism: solo...
        the true essence of a renegade:
   antidote to indoctrination...
             exemplified by the fact that no matter what
mask you give the horror, the mundaneness of it
doesn't go away: because it's not hidden,
  the placebo horror scenario -
          we fake hiding from it... horror these days
is medicinised by fantasy... which is the abhorrent
quality of our times: over-assurance...
    our times are too self-servient, too self-assured...
too comfortable... we're championing
arrogance, calling our predecessors incompetent
*******... oil on the flames? maybe...
                       we prefer to imagine dragons than
see actual dragons among us...
                       that's why we seem to begin with
congratulating dinosaurs into having begun
   as abstract spines that the serpents of our times are...
us? to our inheritors? brains in pickle jars.
we have already started the process of pickling ourselves
by extracting as much as we could from our being
and encoding it into artificiality...
        anyone with a global invasion tactic can easily
tap into this "economy"... it's not an encyclopedia...
it's an economised unitary model readied for
exploitation for invasion...
       do i share the film's culprit paranoia?
well... i share his defence of environmental study...
but having provided the most adequate striking-point
             with the utmost drama of cyber-warfare debate
and all counters against ourselves...
            would i choose this maniac over a wall st. yuppy?
          what's that... vomito ***** vs. huey & the news?
if only i was paranoid after having watched this
movie... i'd see it spread akin to the bubonic plague...
but it's apathy that's the bubonic plague:
since it's the most effective safety-mechanism virus...
you get that docile look and try to suddenly say huh?
with surprise, but you get a choking sensation
as if you just swallowed a hazelnut.
      people get these fantasies about other evolutionary
lifeforms... it's not ******* c.i.a. crap about
      everyone working for them being called mr. &
mrs. smith... just so they can dodge bullets
   and buy milk at their local supermarket...
                      without being asked for autographs and
selfies... and have you ever seen a film critique engaging
with a character that says very little, and then
hysterically laugh, with a sense of music akin to
playing front 242's album 06:21:03:11 up evil?
      the true test of horror is music... the visuals can
be Marquis de Sade in Disneyland... and no number
of groans will do it... if the music has
         transylvania's chant of the chastity of anti-sodomites
written all over it... you're in for a knee-jerker...
the diabolical thing about this film is that it
has the double-effect whether it's watched at night
or during the day... the first horror movie that
doesn't invoke close contact between predator and
the prey, along with not even making the night
as something orthodoxically necessary to craft
                                      horror thematism.
well... plus it's a testament to existentialism
in the case of the hostage being "unrightfully"
attested in a crime... the existentialist would
simply conjure up: possible bait / excuse and
unwillful thinking necessary for his own
             victimised self-reflecting-counter-via
the reflex-of-against-self-discriminatory-collective-input...
radical­ised into a reflex puritanism:
   abiding by cohort norms was not enough
                for the cohort minimum:
                    pyramidal elevation was necessary,
               and there was no human explanation
beyond certain matters, all else was justified
in the three digressions: diabolical, angelic or genius:
the madness only came when one claimed to
hear instructions from the devil, or from god,
                        or claimed to be a geniusº.
  disregarding the two fabrics of a self,
the one prior and the one post collective-input
    regarding a doctrine needing a "self", an "individual",
nevertheless: but a pawn.

      ºthere's no articulation of god, which is why
we have no article ascribing a definite or an indefinite
nature toward him, which is why paupers reduce this
argument, debase it to the level of pronouns -
the reason why we cite a genius and the devil...
is because only angels have names...
                              even the fallen ones...
           for they have a misnomer of god, as we have
a misnomer for many a good things.

I'll wait until dark
to buy myself a bottle
please, night, come quickly

more than the water,
she ripples concentric.
alone.
but who isn't?
it needs to be written.
she needs to relive it.
again.  
it's her prison.
now the world and her daughter
decide how far she'll go
amen.  
heaven's risen.

you chew on coffee beans to cleanse your mouth of this
one long silence
it is open like a wound
it festers

when your breath condenses in the cold air you feel its presence
with icy hands it holds yours
it is patient
it is strict

chewing gum is not sufficient; it is sweet, it makes you wonder
about sugar crystals
they grow like bones
they are brittle

but the taste of blood, of coffee, of chocolate with no milk is good
you can remember without remorse
you can sit and think about dreams
without letting them in

and all your pain can stay subcutaneous
as long as you don’t speak

the thunder talks to me
and tells me to be afraid
of it's glory
and power
and boom.
it tells me that if I don't want to see the lightning,
then I must close the windows and draw the shades
and turn my back.
The thunder sounds
even when there is no storm.
the thunder is always there within my heart,
warning me of the lightning,
telling me
to close my eyes
cover my ears
stay inside
and stay afraid.
always.

It’s dark.
From what you can see through your eyelids,
But there is nothing but the darkness…
Just completely nothing,
Nothing around at all…

Lights low,
Eyes sown shut,
No one can see,
Not even yourself,
The harm and chemicals that race threw your veins,
And even if they could…
No one would know how to help.

Even with your eyes shut it’s unnecessary,
You know the feeling,
The fake darkness,
The sunshine that throws the dust around,
It’s not real.
The sun that moves the dust,
The sun that shines on only the wretched
That sun that shines on your depression,
Making it brighten to full volume…
And then the blinds snap shut,
So fast…
You don’t even know where those thoughts went.

Chemicals that your body is used to,
The chemicals that make your eyes shine,
Make your hands shake,
But nothing that you had to take,
No substance is involved,
Just the feeling of flying then shooting yourself down.

The chemicals course threw your veins,
Making twisting and turning paths
Threw every part of you,
No blood, just this nuclear fission making your eyes roll.
Sleep comes easy,
But it’s not really sleep,
Just enough to regain your strength to peak threw that window shade.
The darkness of the room, the black depth of your curtains,
The mechanical glow given off by the tv,
The news rolling almost as a portal to an outside world,
A world you are not comfortable with.

Your eyes press down the keys,
You take another dose of distain
And flip the power off.

Smoke drifts into the air,
Maybe from an apartment downstairs,
Voices scream at you to move,
But once your eyes open to nothing,
But fire.
Raging in a circle around you.
You have no escape but to hide within yourself…
The outside can not be trusted…
It’s not real…

Instead of giving your heart or part of your soul to a person,
It’s trapped on the other side of that wall,
You’ve been caged with no walls…
The fire isn’t real, and neither are the walls,
There is nothing.
No one
At all…
Just the sliding of your consciousness in and out,
And the draining of your comprehension.

A jump, a start…
Silence,
It’s in your mind,
A blow of wind, a scratch of death,
Inching closer to you….

Frantically searching for yourself…
But just deeper and deeper inside of thoughts you sink,
Drowning, thoughts of reality choke you until there is nothing left…
Just space…
Space that never runs out.

One day the curtains could be thrown open,
The blinding light,
Maybe a comfort for one not ready to see,
But at least it’s an inch closer to life.

The hardest thing about closing the door is
watching the silver lining drift to the floor,
ground to dust and swept under the rug,
floors are much quicker to let bygones be.

The hardest thing about closing the door is
the screech of hinges boring through skull
like worried whispers heard before that
made the iron oxidize.

The hardest thing is clicking the lock
and seeing both keys on the table top,

then clicking your heels
but you're already home,
just seeing how empty
it is on your own.