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Wednesday 28 February 2018

8888











HERE WHERE THERE (I could not read or write until I was 6 years old)










“History is in the mouth of the teller” (draft/unfinished)






up this vitreous
    counting to null
     cut flashing over the
trading
of hydroponic 
      muddy feet 
               for mandarins, the unknown mob 
    where mosquito disperses 
          your heart-rhymes











Friday 23 February 2018

a clean cup





A Clean Cup, silicone, sand 2018





Thursday 22 February 2018

from morning till four in the afternoon because no one is above the law (draft/unfinished)





                 
  a care of 
scuds England 
to churning 
gala hands in 
    the motherland

      at least the putsch 
   in the ground
       cannot escape justice 
         this must be known high
staked and blackened

with the dead ratios
upturned face to face
a taking away of
     the removed 
and the remainder


Sunday 18 February 2018

my narrative without consent

 
      

And is ownership the only path by which we recognize a claim of right? Does a claim of
right confer, as it has been often suggested, a concomitant responsibility? Is this
responsibility a matter of morality or of ethics? If we assume, at this point safely, that
history is plural, and that objects have an existence separate from their authors, then
ownership, being as unfixed and perspectival as history itself, is too slippery a handle,
too long a line. For it would seem that the artist owns something in the work and the
public owns something else, and the next public another thing altogether. Leaving
aside, for the moment, any private claims of ownership and right, or whether the thing
itself has some right to persist despite or throughout these shifts. This would appear to
be the role of the art institution, to provide a berth for this thing that contains and creates
its histories. And the role of art historian, to provide a berth for the historical institution
as it maneuvers along its public and private lines. For if it was the formerly the
Government that deemed works obscene, it is now social media, and the communal-
corporate (and perhaps other government) -sponsored veridiction of a public opinion,
which plays the part of what can be seen. And why some things cannot.
To put it very simply, the question seems to be no longer what is art, but why is art.


LITTLE FLY




genre humain 3







     the cornerstone 
           is known animal,
                      our nature as doublet 
         by number
                    to comfort
          in milk thistle 
             the payless
      rule burned out 
      the autolysis, 
 called in salt 
     the downed breathe
              stay up driven
    in the fall body
banking blood
         by clock saline  
            punched  in the snare 
            innervation tranche 
off sleep tachycardia 





Friday 16 February 2018

dales (draft/unfinished)





the sidereal 
 upkeep of place 
or where it belongs 
in separation allotted 
to live up 
each company 
must learn 
to register before
for the lip up 
lift for hours, explaining 
truces the city is 
      cinematic milling 
 jump from star to star
blood modes off
days its opposite 








Ashes scattered in Bali

anonymous tangle of bodies






However great the revulsion that can be felt in contact with a single corpse, especially when it is in an advanced state of decomposition, or marked with the traces of an ignoble extremity of agony (torture in particular), this is massively augmented—and not merely quantitatively—when one is confronted by heaps or mounds of corpses; the stacked remains of an ossuary, the human remnants from an extermination camp, piles of skulls, anonymous tangles of bodies in the Ugandan bush or at the edge of a Kampuchean paddy field. The corpse not as a lost person, but as a disintegrating clot in the depersonalized refuse of death. Sade’s writings are not without such images, but nor are the mass media of twentieth-century societies. It is only at the lip of such abysmal indignities, when bodies are vomited as faceless masses of Herakleitean dung, that one glimpses the filthy and senseless death one craves. 





Spawned by unilateral difference, the human animal is a hybrid of sentience and pathology; or of differentiated consistency with matter. Knowing that its community with nature sucks it into psychosis and death mankind valorizes its autonomy, whilst cursing the tidal desires that tug it down towards fusional dissolution. Morality is thus the distilled imperative to autonomous integrity, which brands as evil the impulse to skinless contact and the merging of bodies. 





FULL AUTO (Film-still) ongoing




on the inside of your heart 


the city is not place 






my belly was my sun-dial 






. The set is empty. No positive content, instead we have absolute self-reference, a negative relation to predicates that would define it. This is the beginning. When a thing names itself, including itself and its name, we can begin counting.


And is ownership the only path by which we recognize a claim of right? Does a claim of
right confer, as it has been often suggested, a concomitant responsibility? Is this
responsibility a matter of morality or of ethics? If we assume, at this point safely, that
history is plural, and that objects have an existence separate from their authors, then
ownership, being as unfixed and perspectival as history itself, is too slippery a handle,
too long a line. For it would seem that the artist owns something in the work and the
public owns something else, and the next public another thing altogether. Leaving
aside, for the moment, any private claims of ownership and right, or whether the thing
itself has some right to persist despite or throughout these shifts. This would appear to
be the role of the art institution, to provide a berth for this thing that contains and creates
its histories. And the role of art historian, to provide a berth for the historical institution
as it maneuvers along its public and private lines. For if it was the formerly the
Government that deemed works obscene, it is now social media, and the communal-
corporate (and perhaps other government) -sponsored veridiction of a public opinion,
which plays the part of what can be seen. And why some things cannot.










nike-knifes




***


 ‘i’d rather live outside’ and ‘this is not my life’ means that psychic extinctness is (not) actually lived, and that more and more people will project outwards from this essential (mis)recognition. extinct feeling, and not feeling extinct. but to feel that. ‘nikes’ becomes a slash of the extincto-thanato difference on the inside of your heart. psychic extinctness is not something to be grown out of but the main principle of a life to be lived, if it now can be lived.

Wednesday 14 February 2018




To the Huts (second version)






off  irate nerve presets
        next to my
          accomplished alarm
          locked day and 
            night out now
                             livid in cellulose
                                its orbital home moving
                             stupid    liquid forever
                 in the curing 
                            of sleep  
            you can not decline 
                   fillings excite 
                   the  big zeroes  
                  as  crown pains
                   camp in
                      the     baked   sky 
                         diagnoses
                           the fracas   as illustrated
                            trauma made  the  bloodline
                           mute
                                          the vein in circulation,
              our ears are 
                            now      in excellent 
                     condition as the sound
                    is almost always 
                           awful clocking
                               scathes       the hum 
                       about  the  streets    
                                    struck    the throat 
                                with   blood  
                     padlocked bursts-
       that is proof enough 
                                        never          counts
                       feral under
                   baton rounded
                                        cost pride   into a 
                 large bolus, its texture 
       marbled the 
                       larynx
               taking          charge
               of lifetime 
                                      disposals 
                       as the crest 
speaks for 
                          what is              won,
                     chokes  the sky and 
crosses it  
                                              through 
we have 
                     the                 cadastre 
singing out, 
                                clear      keys 
                              uptake the floating
                 scale  matured 
               chime        kick 
      lock for free
                                        the voice           sealed 
                       in the        ring outcry, 
                           futures and     options 
                                 cut up
                                             the    night no
                                      one      wants to see
               the ballistic gelatine    record 
                    since    it has decreed          the air,
mixed with bone 
in the panic 
rotor see from the 
bioethical shard 
between the shutters
     no jobs marches 
        amok over
        the proud varicose 
                   fat on sun-loungers,    
watch the juvenile 
                 lash out   
                  now          watch
          the choppy  sink 
                in badlands
                      the saturnalia 
       so  eat the
         chicken-wings
                  gilded in a 
            better        
                                        hour