Fontanelles (Social Distance), 2020

SERE, 2020

Oil on canvas, 45x45cm  Painted on my behalf in Dafen, Shenzhen. Based on Christopher Hitchens own ‘Lashed to the Mast’ experience for Vanity Fair 2008.

Libertines at the Palace, 2020

Oil on canvas, 45x45cm  Painted on my behalf in Dafen, Shenzhen. Depicting the lighting fixtures present in the libertines palace in Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom by Pier Paolo Pasolini.

LEAVE MEANS LEAVE (DRAFT)

Box boy bruised cockles a spasim in tricot,

blaggard look out spikes in my red barite 

hammering the fully clothed germane types this is

a Georgian revivalist catacomb scenario

if bonded by air and the slow decline of parkour 

leaves us in grave lament! 

a big take at the depthless nights,

its passing dingy or mock bridge encompassing

the whitest ridge tips of discourse 

further along my bowels a blue boat 

sinks the contest and there is no gaming isotopes! 

you only game yourself to bits

on behalf of the Home Office,

I Tawse the Younger instate all in the room

its a Friday luncheon raid, Madame!

the xenophobes play Mahler Piano rolls

ich ging mit Lust durch einen grünen Wald

the potato salad just is everyday LIFE, 

don't quibble Goodbye! Goodnight! 

to our Leavers Hip Hip Hooray! Hip Hip Hooray! 

Come, boys/girls there is more on Tuesday 

centurion facility service will put paid 

to a Hornet Feast! they do all for none 
and none for all 
fuck em' all pull em' up against the wall

spread those place settings 
and check those names,

Mahlers too drab for parting ways 

boombox the hell gates 

it isn't a reach around meant for Danube beauty!

this is the swelling party trick further down tide

whatever it is you are getting sunk 

such was the day for our regiment,

these hard and shiny things 

200 hours a week in rooms above you

below you is fun, in the cabman shelter 

fobbing off the scab scene, 

those cretics with city plod ethics 

confiscated work in bin rooms 

talk of dour hours long run into 

eyelids and bums, dossier dossier

there is nothing to love here, 

in this hamstrung heart

this room of sodium so easily cut fine

to take my biting cingulum body 

where thy is angels? dry-haired

the cuspids are raised out by mothers

early in wet beds a cottony of shame

worsened in weave cutting 

LEAVE MEANS LEAVE (DRAFT)

I put all my enemies in my top pocket

to fill a glass beneath them 

so they can look through me, 

most of them now under water refuse 

my drunk petition to sing 

to fill a glass for them to see, 

protesting today is finished 

on yesterdays broken remit 
O’ this glass of water 
would need to be of Sweet Chestnut! 

instead Rowelond and Olyver,

in good curtsy of tit for tat

breaks off in peacock feather

don't arise at the daffodils sick with 

fever until I change it to be so, 

to fill a glass to! fill one more persistent!

in temperance or anonymity I sit here 

the wood through trees in morning 

and eve, I sit here in hysteric 

masoch peasant tradition
the laggard smithed sleep with outliers

with this glass of water to be Sweet Chestnut! 

I loe to haste in brine 

my rage is kept in 

DIE HARD broken indices 

the people of England drink for me

the tin Tower of Babel 

but there is no whole body when its 

dark and lively!

phouka inebriate in fern trees 

see all the glistening bottles 

see all the mothers past Christmas

see it all in a millennial spasm!

spit it out always dark 
the distended veins on the carpet 

sobered seva not for more

but uphill the exalted court gold with piss

the eternal mark to church to sophists 

you can carry on

trust me the bracken south runs

into my mouth the noble hop

back to place like sticks and stones

kept on Aperol the dark emerald

spitting before the cuts with Keats & Shelley 

I rolled on Gramsci, he doth not sleep here 

tho but in the reef of knives

there is no sea no matin 

compulsory mirth flogging me a garden,

flogging me the sea

Reviver Otto, 2018

A 2018 Calendar of drawings based on Kim Kwang-Il's experiences.

'We are supposed to think there’s an imaginary motorcycle 
and we are supposed to be in this position 
as if we are riding the motorcycle. 
And for this, we pose as if we are airplanes ourselves. 
We are flying.'

M'17-J'19 (DRAFT)

Anywhere the dolomite head

lays smitten of rest 

with dank jambs in cove

the sky dirt joke puts up 

with floorboards of these 

hissing canisters a sheet of 

chrome smiles to ruck, 

a hard knock on the hip

in Vienna I watched Dresden 

people turn into shadows easily, 

the 100 meter ukase the order speaks 

of an uninjured party

into this our new man,
ostrich head a face I love

you said that would not stop now 

Our Client if you require 

amendments please contact

the sender of which this is not, 

Our Client the 100 meter ukase the order speaks 

at home, is death in you yet
forms a carapace of contempt 

airtight perimeters of this 

wintered slip transmission

rattles out in empty hotels 

unhurt from the habit of boring outriders

with all love and kindness of

this bashed division of solitary 

spectres harnessed in old chestnuts 

now carbon, all this love and 

bromide seen around my village 

the most mettled heart 

is mine and mine alone 

and I keep it in an outdoor 

storage box with 10 year 

anti-rot warrants on my head