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Friday, 30 December 2016

Thursday, 29 December 2016

The english


What is the contemporary decibel?

The English and their fucking moralism of work, acutely personal since Thatcher rounded it out in her wretched public announcement of productivity despite 4 hours sleep. 

As good any rallying speech; Britain Awake. What is the contemporary decibel?

Her mouth the perfect alarm clock heralding ascension of the over-worked, hyper-competitive neo-liberalism with personal computers and the ends of social protectionThe power to conserve, transmit, circulate, and enhance compositions aid finance rather than of bodies/ mindsThe culture of wealth has internalised the social logic of surplus to the penal labour of self-management.

Panic is no longer a collectively dissimulated feeling but a personal one. The pharmaceutical sector has the remedy for any little 'chemical imbalance' in troubleshooting the organic.

What is the contemporary decibel?

Exhaustion is a biological clock and rings for sixty seconds in every minute. When we awake each morning, we hold in our hands, usually weakly and loosely, only a few fringes of our lived existence, as if woven into us by forgetting. To exhaust ones substance we negotiate sustenance, the survival rate for the waking state of exhaustion to conclude. Sustenance in this case would be the reprieve of any further protracted decline. Time discipline is a site of struggle but aren't we too tired, lord. No antidote to an age of ‘work,’ that is to say hurry/speed/accelerated production/anxiety of indecent and perspiring haste, which wants to ‘get everything done’ at once and the technologies that perforce such activities bear the restless metabolic extension that both vibrates fully with prospects of an outside. 

What is the contemporary decibel?

The disquiet of sleep mapped by 100% volume option suddenly ripping dissipation of the dream- world as it was shredded by the temporality of labour. The grace of work extending into the realm of sleep, eye movement submitted to electronic solicitation.

The working man/woman punched into a dot becoming punctual or dot like, showing up on time and crushed in the same instance. This punctuality is of ritual and ritual thus lends punctuality the aura of ceremony. We could unfurl the turnstiles of Eliot and the ‘newly’ invented cylindrical blinds that acted as sealant on the burrowed frames of the bourgeois, whom awoke presumably to the ‘special occasion’ of upward social mobility. On the other side of the baton, the stubby one meant for rancour, are THOSE scabbed up by mechanical rupture. 

Crisis language apparatus exacts its toll on flesh by helping to ensure a fervid temporality of anxiety afflicts the subject, an anxious tempo that co-exists with the weird stasis of crisis and culpability. Debt economy, endless work and no true sense of articulated time prevails. 

Indebtedness is a twofold exploitation of subjectivity: from industrial work and tertiary section that encompasses the relation to the self in terms of responsibility

Unemployment, the most frightful capitulation of the self, the complete bottoming out of the prospective individual within a speculative economy has no cover of virtue but rather complete personal disintegration.

What is the contemporary decibel?



blueeee








extemporising 


the skeumorph
confected from 
units of 

platos automobiles 
revving up the forecourt   

outside
a fracas 

old physis
and tetanus bacilli



is in full bloom out of 
the silk 
warp garbs said in 
crumple down 
concertina style
and the
agrarian society 

off to
get on                             an inexist 


Motherwell in Scale



Paprika in October










Read like a pile of nouns: a woman's leg, a car door, dishes, glass, cigarette smoke, incumbent looking fingers, a skirt, a grey hair comb, a pair of flaccid socks, half of a woman's face, a mans hand, spaghetti, Fords grill, high-heeled shoes, car wheels, eyes, words partially spelling out Marilyn and more spaghetti. The plastic value is in plastic value; THEY ARE to be looked at. 

Rosey he keeps you on your feet when you should be on your arse. Little to no angle on that rogue Frosting even with goggles. 

A commercial cubism and academic dust gets polished off by windowcleaners earning $4 a day. 

Speedy grid-device (proportionate squaring) absences caressing hand to point of filling in for commercial gambit-profit. Gleaming glossy kernels of 'our desire squared'.

No longer 'solemn, brooding, dreamy, self-absorbed, deeply serious, with roguish exuberance, with a sigh of release, with a deep sound of mourning, with defiant power and resistance, with submissive suppleness and devotion, with obstinate self-control, with sensitive, precarious balance. Living an independent life of their own, with all the necessary qualities for further autonomous existence, prepared to make readily, in an instant, for new combinations to mingle with one another and create an infinite succession of new worlds.' 

The artless billboard painter is efficient in 'technique' equivocal to wage, every 'stroke' (or square filled) decimated by surviving at a distance to be looked at.

The distance is palpable disintegration of implied (soft-focus) 'realism'. Facture or methodological 'finish' pertinent and defunct simultaneously. 


Rosey gives us images as he would otherwise on 24th street, whereupon the visual information from pavement to billboard is no more than assertive on the image 'falling apart' when one gains ground; giving them the cheapest workmanship that holds at a distance.

Epitaphs of modernist radicalism; the end-game of definitive 'lastness' or 'championship painting' realises the runts are roosting and bringing with them the implied 'democracy' of the social division of labour (worms celebrate Rodchenko). 

Rosey gives them the palpable monotony of what was counter posed previously (art/life); no El Lissitzky on the street but rather dreamlike reality of the American idyllic with beaming smiles and full frontal gaudiness. 

Rosey's treatment of blue nylon and Monroe's face is same. No more sentiment in either; a forehead seamlessly transitions into grisailles hands presenting cake and a car hood speeding on highway 69 into that spaghetti sunset. 







Zurich


7.5mg 
behind a rust packet
collapses 
into turbulent tectonics 
of bumps, 
kidney shaped abscesses
curling black lids fading shells
screws and bolts
of an exploding firebox
locomotive
dead
227 figures 
Secured from the heimplatz, 
I told all my secrets to the rust

WASHED HANDS (NIGHT)



I've been laughing (NIGHT)



CARRIER V (NIGHT)


CARRIER IV (NIGHT)


CARRIER III (NIGHT)


CARRIER II (NIGHT)




CARRIER I (NIGHT)











Tuesday, 27 December 2016

ADD MORE VAS (UNFINISHED DRAFT) DEAD-BITS FRIED




ADD 


MORE 


VASELINE 







little earth
crumbles
underneath 

foot

 endure
and fish 

by obstinate isles

'dont pile
          up reasons for
              activities'

with 
marriage debris
in yr mouth 
i.e.
the
public water fountains 

in Zurich there are approx. 

1,200 


“I even openly claim the right to obscurity, which is not enclosure, apartheid, or separation. The obscure is simply renouncing the false truths of transparencies. We have suffered greatly from the transparent models of high humanity, of degrees of civilization that must be ceaselessly worked through, of blinding Knowledge. This is the famous story of Voltaire who, while he was defending Calas, was buying stock in slave-trading enterprises. The transparency of the Enlightenment is finally misleading. We must reclaim the right to opacity. It is not necessary to understand someone–in the verb ‘to understand’ there is the verb ‘to take’–in order to wish to live with them. When two people stop loving, they usually say to each other, 'I no longer understand you.’ As though to love, it were necessary to understand, that is, to reduce the other to transparency.”



Opaqueness clings close to things, making the nail work harder. saying what you mean in the fewest and clearest words shows signs of a sobering-up process.  By a call to order, disguised as a manifesto for more freedom. The championship of nothing unintended, nothing reversed, nothing impious, nothing embroidered, nothing metaphorical. No Sop, No Sop, No Sop. that final purity bells all the pleasure of specious perfection here: Confucius: “When you have done justice to the meaning, stop.” implies restraint. To reach a perfect dumb adequacy, a God-placid stasis is only to quarantine like sentences. What is a sentence? We are sured up by how intrinsic that particular form is, as if sentences really rendered our thoughts. No full sentence really completes a thought. something something “motoring” here and there refusing in the pulse syntactic ideality of the completed sentence congeals and administers a definable place.  

And so a quick line from Meister Eckhart: “No man can see God except he be blind, nor know him except through ignorance, nor understand him except through folly.” Why should it all boil down to one. Maddening feeling that the right words, are the only words are awaiting your clamouring thought. 


In linguistic capitalism, language IS instrument: words + their arrangement amount to complete opposite of contingency; here a word or two or a speech act, becomes simple exchange. Language in/as capitalism is not counted as a ‘cost’ of production like wages but as resource, ‘free’ within a capitalist economy rooted in production. informational communication cops disembodied capacities of automated reason that rise above in increasingly muting terms; the demise of the oral tradition is the demise of tradition more generally... an age where words are infinitely fungible as to be meaningless, even in a market of poetry…a market that produces without a market since the transfer of communication is rapidly absorbed.this regime is reduction of speech to mechanism spoiling misunderstanding by eliminating ambiguity in advance – to reduce elasticity of striving sense perception to bitrate minimum. 

Defence against management consultancy model of poetry the collapse of specialisation and separation into a collage of discourse. to fetishize the endless proliferation of modes of digital technology in a manner which overlooks the very real, physical, and non-digital modes of labour exploitation and oppression. The auto-correct feature is the errant mechanics communication. The mouth is no longer the capacity of words to find new form, it is rather the algorithmic epidermis that operates on our behalf; where auto-corrected sentences accumulate in my notes, a quavering makes me think of WCW's stroke ravaged body contended on type: 'words are the burden of poems, poems are made of wods'. embedded electronic stutter now informs/renews societal exchange data validation replacement is the interdiction to the positive replacement taking place beside you, the common denominator. Etaoin shrdlu WAS exactly this moment, the most frequent letters slugged out when a mistake made 'absurdity' into print. Joyce assimilated it neatly in thousand paged 'bitched type': 'eatondph 1/8 ador dorado douradora.' 

In poetry you can do no better than surrender communicative relief (sentence-form); the laborious hammer of work draws universal humanlike understanding near the pool unmuddled by any self-dishonesty either stupid or highly conscious, or by cant, or by comprehension of others made in fear and misunderstanding. Words thus arriving u get all sorts of static, bad transistors and all of that include all that. 

Worlds coming thru in restless glossolalic offering up seizures caught by a piece of lingual dross, tangential, beseeching and ricochet and ricochet and ricochet and ricochet. Lines proceed without lag, without presumptuousness. Ear out for speech and its collisions, its unmanageable inevitabilities accommodated...it’s out of that gap, that resistance to making the thing and word adhere as purposeful. Words are jittery, Protean shape-changers refusing any designatory stamp beyond the momentarily contextual. “All the words make sense.”




the danger is 

in the neatness


make ecstatic


 kitchenettes




























Wednesday, 21 December 2016

all smoking vapour














try ritual purification with wet wipes

chants, dedicated 
-isms that promise
 to change your life 
you need forgiveness
do you want to party or cry? / Find that special place inside you 
where you feel no shame
just visualise
forgiveness
eerie lo-fi mix tape
just nature
just moon 
purity with an x on it
by
voicemail 
back seat of the car is full of cold medicine boxes 
empty bottles of energy drinks left
A love letter cooling out 
from the keychain
conclude the evening
by hotboxing the car 
with e-cigarettes 
fading it out of 
your voyeuristic gaze 
with the thick cloud
of  
the stereo urges you
say fast slowly
whispering
that promise to change your life 
and make it better
inside you 
need forgiveness
you’re standing in a small parking lot
you’re being handed a photocopied sheet of paper
handwritten in black marker



Air vents. Car keys. Ashtray, Maintenance, Hubcaps, Glove compartment. Rear window wiper. Sunscreen. Back seat. Stereo. Bumper.




the owner ran
no shame
you feel no shame
doors are open
car vinyl is a blue/white
pearlescent
your body is okay
everything is as it should be
she is laughing
while you hold 
your 
phone
to record
safe words
etc.
all things intact and in mid-use
as if
inside you 
You are the memory of the car
you are flashing back
It looks as if 
the sheet of paper 
got wet
by your desire
maybe getting close enough to smell
 the paper that now functions as a map
You’re in search 
of self help
back seat
voyeur
satiate your

ashtray you’ve just stepped into
loops strength eats 
sweat nothing but violence
get the incomplete chloroform 


Get plenty get quick 
get dreaming get quick 
get nothing to hide



this 4x4 as upmost bliss
is made out of anonymity




you feel no shame


& if you recite it you'll say nothing



smallest at the bottom, fattest on-top 
all smoking vapour 








to hold hands
a clock with no hands
image gallery
the body in 
and disappointment
let's say no more




If all goes well 
breaking is simply
never done
likewise it is worth

it




you can wear chanel
it is permitted
your body is okay 
it is permitted
your routine humiliation
it is permitted











through external mic, or pre-amped violin 
hairless






you can read it in a deep 
lovely sotto voce
but
Speak real slow




for me
in the hard morning light 
Speak real slow

for me now


Speak real slow

for me now


Speak real slow

for me now


Speak real slow

for me now





blown out, yet the room still closes in





think about things
wanting more and giving up










future is without body
turn up


and 
feed off
the sum of our parts




depravity and joy, the rehearsal
play with it
for me now



this kind of freedom
Now based







in a wariness



in a


vulnerability
literally



an unsettling mash-up 


of mainstream popular culture,
tourist videos and self-made 
social media celebrities 
a fragmented world view through eyes of the 






track listing running through 
from the outside, to observing
tutorials on the how to
of the voyeur





cursor moves across tastes, ideas and thought processes,



the instability in your life



and all the useless things you buy
the                                             missing reasons to suffer


what home


is to be seen
unaffected by marketing
children often carry toys in a similar manner
try and punish
the all-in-one
on your knees 
you need forgiveness
the perfume 
i think 
she is laughing
as if
inside you 
cooling out
like a wet mouth
suddenly opens
like a book
reading
is just understood
just like wearing clothes
in short, you can only do
it for love for so long,
and that time comes 
a lot quicker when 
you lack job security 
or a job to start with

don't eat 
to produce

so annoying how you guys where going on and on 
your mom is crazy
your body is okay 
that promise to change your life 
and make it better
inside you 
you
need forgiveness
you feel no shame
no shame 
to record
safe words


I should be more fucked up 
than this horrible phone
but whatever
and cuts never fall on a 
uniform body