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Kofi Boamah
lady day...
Kofi Boamah
death
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© Copyright of Artist Kofi Boamah
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lady day...
a painting in words
Kofi Boamah
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'Jonah was very much himself in the belly of the
whale.' — R.D. Laing, The Divided Self
'But the main thing was, I was born dead.'
— Marc Chagall, My Life
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'And in that atmosphere, Herschel ventured the opinion
that history was the self-knowledge of the mind.'
—William H. Gass, The Tunnel
Wired Thoughts on Mare Street
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...the reflections glisten in the afternoon light,
where most eyes are jutting about the concrete
metropolis, the plastic bag handles dangling from
bodies moving with eyes side to side... bristling in
the feint discord, whilst Melania argues about the
price of green... distillations of disloyalty summoned
over the cattle of an otherwise ordinary lunch time...
rose tinted illusions of catastrophe unveiled to reveal
a seizure of memories enfolding in front of eyes,
dilated, steeped in stupor with the floor turning a
burgundy red, the sky a strange brown with oily
remnants of clouds, now folds of pinkish skin
around strange bodies floating there within... the
sounds of Medusa, Prometheus calling from the
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void, filled with concrete, filled with a heartbeat
of dazed filament still burning...
...the yelling rises around the streets, and
also within those jutting by: thinking of a dead
kitten, just fallen sausage rolls, Argentine
neighbours attracting spouses, time away in exile
without the tropisms of tedium... a winged head
gripping at lips extended towards the sky with the
ornament of insanity herding gesticulations now
circumventing another body, at odds to will...
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BATTERY LOW
...an old Turkish lady holding long shards
of breads in a black plastic bag moves by,
anxiously trying not to pay attention to what is
occurring, where else a man against the railings
close to Melania is eating Baklava, just watching
as if at a screen; eyes quietly peering and then at a
lady with a large pair of breasts sitting in a
burgundy blouse practically jogs past as the taste
of lemon hits the back of the throat, and simmers
over the anger, deceit, melancholy... the oceans of
bodies swell with disparate persuasions mostly
censored, mostly cut short... a woman wearing a
bright red jacket walks by speaking of a trip to
Hackney Baths, where a leering man can't get
enough of her supple body...
...an old lady, a Grandma perhaps, peers
from within a flat above a near empty Coffee
shop, scowling, until she moves out to the small
balcony, half watching, half drinking from a cup...
the creases in her neck fold like a chicken's, hung
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in the cold air with thoughts just as frigid
perhaps calling out to her partner sat staring at
the phosphorus emanating another world not
theirs, and more comfortable therein... before
she falls off the balcony whilst screaming
incomprehensible words:
...the mutton
tip toe
dissolved...
...the inquest begins early after the
ambulance arrives, but soon ends... the death
simply a fall, neck broken, back in two and the
last words just as one last episode of senile
dementia, filling marks on a page written of,
along with misdemeanors from random IC3s: one
Tryon Bagly spray painted DEATH is Gorgeous,
apparently in large red letters outside an off
licence near Bethnal, to then be confronted with
an arrest... though Melania is stood at Broadway
Market upset, reenacting how she could have
reacted... the unreality of existence is that most
of what occurs transpires in the soul / the mind
where the thought persists: the imagination
merely a perspective... she feels slighted and is
unable to accept what she refers to as Amnesia...
the lo fi melody of death pulsates when a car
drives by and nearly hits her, unawares, death
stares whilst holding a doughnut, as hers pierce
the sky, her arms move languidly like an old
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record the dusty sounds of nostalgia had in
present time, evened out by the car driving off
without a suggestion of acknowledgment... a Priest
walks by... even though I am dead, I managed to
buy you flowers, the hollow prayers of thoughts
mostly distracted by the constant remembrance of
the body, the foils of skin, bones, liquid matter
where wants and needs soon seem a tragic system
filled with no real hope of this heaven: a place
with no wet tears, and clouds draped around
desires quenched, commotion of nothingness, or a
searing space of no time... the Priest's eye jut
around the road, pavement, then the allure... quiet
glances at Melania's body... the Bible in his right
hand, squeezed like a gun, six bullets in the
chamber, where are you?
...there's CCTV in this heart...
... xxx...
...Melania arrived back from India, having
spent most of her time in Varanasi, deciphering
thoughts on life and death, eating warm Paratha,
wondering if she were a Poet or a Poem, a Singer
or a Song, in itself, with no calculations on how to
mute a disturbed heart the Indian sun beamed
against her whilst a stupor enlivened her, orange
clothed Saddhu's walking by smoking Ganja, she
said... I saw the seasons in her face, her outgrown
hair, sun kissed skin talking of fourteen hour train
journeys, long nights lurking around a burning
Ghat with bodies sweltering in heat, as bodies
moved about drinking tea, selling Samosas and
boat trips along the Ganges, yelling of sweet chai...
...
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...the world seems so barbaric since arriving
back, said Melania... hanging meats inside
shopfronts, everything sold by big commerce, with
the machine oily and slick, leftover pieces of heart
dashed like dust funneling out into the atmosphere
where she soon takes to watching over at Mrs
Lucelle, the older lady living across the street... Mrs
Lucelle leaves things around for her husband and
then hides them in cupboards, where she then
picks arguments that often results in Mrs Lucelle
having rough sex, Melania would often watch like
clock-work these fatal happenings of strange
realities, twisted in night airs...
...seagulls spiraled above the road outside
the flat, nosily rattling freedoms of living in the
sky...
....heavy rain at dawn...
...death thoughts over hot soup...
...a few pills of mescaline scattered against
the bathroom floor, right up against Melania's
purple lace underwear...
...against windowsill in bathroom is a bottle
of Teacher's Whiskey, mostly half drunk, with a
few papers with writings by Melania next to it...
writing one
seamless pursuit as if
a serenade
the water rinsed
off this wet pussy
that God wants to lick
Miró's drawings more honest
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...she smokes the weed in an angst ridden
mess, the coils of smoke sifting into the living
room, nestling against the paintings, the foreign
ornaments, the photographs, the sculptures mostly
by Claudia, who the day before mentioned she
would be arriving back from Rome the next day...
three kisses xxx
...it's not always the case of loving someone
you marry, as it's not a prerequisite of being with
someone sometimes, explained Melania as to why
Claudia, recently divorced, had broken up with her
Italian husband, Ralph... she twitched the opened
curtains, and then took a sip of her glass of red
wine, an old Merlot the neighbour had given her
one day when leaving for a Ski trip... this wine
tastes like God is dead...
...
...she rests against the heart like a lamp,
posted
...the light seeping out, whilst
...the cage in her right eye settles
...right by the bird flying through sheaths of
clouds
....that also look like coffee foam...
...a dollop of sleep in the eye, along with a
radiant disorder too, watching Mrs Lucelle orgasm,
manhandled on the double bed, apricot duvet,
calmly taking sips as her song plays a mischevious
sound she can't specify as a heaven or hell... Dante
with breasts...
...pulling at her orange blouse, bare areola
now tear dropped into the living room, she starts
to make up a word game...
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...dream after sleep...
...drunk after drink...
....cum after sex...
...wet after water...
...soil after death
....kisses before deceit...
...as she spoke these last words, still peering
through the window, I felt a wind simmer through
the Kitchen window, the taste of whiskey coursing
through the neck, and the taste of deathly
romance... the sky as wine...
...the taste of death soothes, until it
doesn't... where the sounds of the neighbour
knocking molests the night time happenings...
writing two
veiled
the screen penetrates the marrow
yelling into the stars
yellow, i mean into the stars
eyes, looking from out of marrow
a calm festering of life at odds...
i am deathly within this skin
of Medusa's head, hair astray
daylight between sense, sanity
a cattle pulled towards grass
feigning interest in following along
heavy as bunched feathers...
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...Melania hated when i spoke of Pica, at
these times the words sickened her physically, she
said, trailing off like death... the crevices in her
thighs now doused with spilt red wine, drizzling
down soft skin, Jane Birkin's Simply Story playing in
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the background... if you lay down with a dream, you'll
wake up lonely...
...the taste of moist lips more a memory as
it's happening, less a feeling absorbed in the now,
the current of water swelled towards the shore and
then back into the abyss of all these footprints on
our hearts, in the mirror is Picasso's Weeping
Woman, a large print put up on the wall by
Claudia, the trees behind Mrs Lucelle's flat swayed
violently in the London darkness, as night noises
speak their own poetry...
...get your meat curtains in the car...
...i'd love a cigarette from that guy...
...it's late, let's get there quickly...
...where are we?
...the voices spring from without inwards,
though the wonder often summons the idea that
they're more in than out, these voices... screams
that smell of Roses, whiskeys, as eyes adorn the
precipice of Bauldelaire's aphrorisms turned solid...
with flowers growing out towards the sky smelling of
alcohol... like petals falling out of mouths, red,
purple petals now sitting on a bed of discord,
casually attempting to renounce beauty over death,
but soon failing... the day before she decided that
instead of writing Poetry, that she was a Poem, her
very existence, she said with two hands against a
steamy hot bowl, cyclically pouring in the Lentil
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soup, she often explained was taught to cook by
her Aunt who was also a known Witch in Malaga,
or what she often mentions as a Soothsayer with
answers to such things as curses, Fata Morganas,
gypsy folklore...
OSMOSIS OF PEOPLE
...her woolly hats left by her knickers, purple, red
lace with her shoes at the bottom of the stairs, or
next to the record player, where she would often
leave the record playing...some Serge Gainsbourg,
some Jane Birkin, some Funk record Claudia
bought back from a trip to Peru...
...always with a bowl left on the coffee table, wine
glass empty, with the sky a purplish colour, off
blue / black... the smell of pussy like the price of
sugar, the desire or need raised to a level of blows
to the heart like a casket...
...cum on a casket, or an old pair of knickers,
rather than the good pair... an old pair with green
lilies on them... childish affiliations turned on
their head...
...asunder in the rain of sex, where virtue and want
rarely collide...
...everything permitted, everything in lieu of it all
being too short...
...and parodoxically too long, a melting clock, as
she would often start with words from the days
newspaper, murders, salacious gossip, political
satires, illusions of distractions, illusions pivoting
the axis upside down, often cattycorner too...
...a rainbow behind a chalk outline of a body...
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...a bird sat on the windowsill, and coooed for her
to then break the monotony with a smile,
gesturing the sign of the cross with eyes now
peering at naked cock, and then back at the cooing
bird... Picasso still staring down at us from next to
the window... i feel wounded, she sighed with one
hand on the edge of the newspaper, TURN the
Page...
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We're In The Sky
...the day before Claudia arrived, Melania
died, the romance of it relinquished the pain of
being alive, with Goya's engravings at the edge of
the awaiting casket, and her speaking of Vegan
bread until the next day arrived, and Claudia
knocked at the door... her first words being: ...the
glimmer of experiencing beauty is worth the
madness, right? and all in one Melania is reduced
to a bird floating in the sun, which she soon
mentions as where we are, in actuality, reemphasising
her words in repetition and with her
hands too, as Claudia gets more comfortable in the
sofa's cushions to then elaborate on lost loves,
divorce papers, new sculpture, strange
occurrences in Palermo...
'...my grandmother's big balls...' Pablo Picasso
...the burial of bodies always leaves the eye
most alive, the whites still there speaking of the
faded glamour of what the pupils can see?
...shadows formed in nightmares turned
into a pool of flowers, well the mind's eye is also
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an eye, and more importantly, the only eye, really...
though sight catches glimpses of heavens: supple
breasts, green eyes perched over glass of whiskey,
swaying hips into and out of hell, lips... the burial
of God attended by the masses, where the Doors
were left unattended, those that enter into the
radiant hue...
...at the funeral Melania speaks of the Uncle
as the ridiculous one of the family, the painter, of
course... a youth spent drawing and looking up
girls skirts turns into small infamy in Buenos Aires,
before a fated decision to arrive to London with
numerous stints in legal and illegal forms of
gathering monies: ice cream truck driver, pyramid
scheme manager, death insurance finagler, a one
time potential hitman faltered: unable to gather a
gun with correct bullets, apparently... though, the
tears still fall, his long time girlfriend, loudly
speaks in Italian a poem, whispered Melania, a
poem her Uncle would recite whilst painting:
...the wounds never heal in the canvas of all
this...
...our colours repeat, until a new hue arrives
at dawn...
...Melania seems annoyed that these words
were spoken so loudly and right up next to the
casket by a woman all the family considered his
Mistress, with her Mother nicknaming her La
Whore — the red dress tightly fitted against
breasts, grey hair long and bewitching as if a
shadow of a giraffe, burning in the linger of the
Priest speaking words of good news... before the
eulogy disrupted by old rotund Argentinian
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women mumbling words as: whore, witch,
philistine... the nocturnal sounds of the black
orchestrate a boredom: Melania attending to an
Aunt, more so, for how she treated her when she
was so young, where strange asides, although
prohibited, were investigated... as by the time
Melania was fifteen, and had a boyfriend, she
found the whole assertion of ordinary life a
formality... waking up, going to bed, eating, sex
seemed all manner of strange... Thursday's would
mean her Aunt would take care of a young boy
with Downs Syndrome, she would soon call,
Paella... Paella would mostly be interested in toys,
sugar, play often alleviating all his clothes and
running around the house... though she soon
would watch him, play with herself, as he grunted
and stuttered around the living room naked, for
his member was large, thick and ravenous to her
imagination: watching this young boy run around
naked... Paella's disability was inherently
debilitating: most days he could do nothing more
than sleep, eat, play... cruelly, this caused an ideal
sensation within Melania, of the use of this thick
member that could be used anyway she could
think of, in her mind... licking, rubbing in
exchange for sweets... games where Melania soon
taught Paella how to wade inside her up next to
the toy box with him grunting incomprehensible
words... the sounds of Children's cartoons on in
the background... Paella didn't know much of
what was occurring, though often called what
they would do, Bullicio... his Mother would often
casually inquire why when she would exit the
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shower he would often shout about some sort of
Bullicio, some game, where once boisterously he
grabbed hold of her right breast... Melania knew
however, but said nothing, until her Aunt, this
Aunt sat crying about her Brother, caught her
riding a roped Paella, eating a cake, a few days
before her sixteenth Birthday... the confrontation
ill at odds, sordid and resulted to those two years
spent at that Convent / Nunnery, of course...
...Melania's Aunt accosts the conversation
with wonderings of how I was treating her Little
Cake, which was her nickname for Melania... her
woman flower left to ease into the atmosphere...
the daylight of her fascination creeping into the
morbid atmosphere of subterfuge, coerced
pleasantries, artificial realism gone wrong...
Ludwig seemed to enter into the fray as if there all
along... Melania found her younger cousin
interesting enough to forgo ignoring another
member of her family, which in honesty really only
stretched to her Aunt, though Ludwig was arriving
to Europe to stay in London to study, said another
Aunt with beady eyes... they were staring into
Melania's face asking if Ludwig could stay with us
for a time, in order to save money... she had only
interacted with Ludwig infrequently, but when she
did she had no problems with him, he even seems
effeminate, said Melania of Ludwig, who was long
and thin, perhaps predisposed to studying
Philosophy by the pensive looks he would give to
most questions... mostly relating to what he
wanted to do... write a thesis that, ultimately,
discusses all of life's logical propositions...
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Hedonism As Our Only 'Meaning'
'But deep inside me there’s a perpetual seething, like
the bottom of a geyser, and I keep on hoping that
things will come to an eruption once and for all, so that
I can turn into a different person.' — Wittgenstein,
Correspondence
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...a man places right hand against fire, the fire
burns in his eyes, the red of the illustration of
heat no more a depiction, but now a more
objective feeling, Man One soon removes hand
from the firmament... for the fire has produced a
feeling of pain within him that is acknowledged as
unwanted... however Man Two leaves his hand
there, perhaps, here, the reasons could range
from: stupidity, curiosity, stubborn assertions,
absurdity... the experience in hindsight, when
contrasted, can seem logical on one hand and
illogical on the other... but the second man, Man
Two, is rather advanced now, in terms of
experience he has gone beyond Man One's
notions of what is, he has interacted with the
Gods, in a way, as most will accept that Man One
is correct, and that they would do the same... our
Hedonism begins early, in some regards, it
isolates our desires into neat categories: painful,
not painful, pleasurable, indifferent... but Man
Two only has the right to truly delve into the
eruptions of emotions or what can be called the
true nature of the thinking-man... the need to
accept amounts of pain in order to discover what
is beyond there, if there is a beyond in this
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sense... this notion could be exemplified in that of
a more pleasurable experience... the depth of
enjoying a thing, an experience, is most sagacious
in the throes of discovery... the deeper the more it
becomes what it truly is... the taste, the texture...
Heaven pronounces itself, by way of probing this
thing, experience... though our Heaven is still
orchestrated by the simple tropisms of Hedonism,
it can be said, because without this pursuance, or
need of a motion towards, there is an inability to
truly gain the true ingredients of what it is that is
occurring...
§§§
...Ludwig seemed quiet, on arrival, but
would leave his manuscript around, Hedonism As
Our Only Meaning, though often came across an
aesthete, a disciple of some sort to a reckoning of
some order... Melania would quickly enjoy their
conversations, her one hand holding a glass of red
wine, the other twirling in the air like a cloud...
...particles bunched into potential rain
drops, white against blue some days, moving in
our sky, and maybe or maybe not there when not
looking, these clouds...
...a warm piece of bread hot out of the
oven, produces a question: what am I to this piece
of bread?
...a walk along Victoria Park with lingering
doubts of achieving sanity...
...the threat of death staring down from the
window of a Tower Block next to Broadway
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Market...
...the funk of being someone else, with the
onus on the thought that who is anyone, who is we?
...the taste of everything doused in the fabric
of language...
...Ludwig heard the last sentence and started
to think, I could tell, his eyes went big and then
narrow, cloistered into the centre of his face with
his soft hands touching the right side of his head...
...Claudia had then rented a flat in Dalston,
though explained that she had problems finding a
studio, she said to us in the living room holding a
sculpture she mentioned was for us... it's a bit
Giacometti-esque, isn't it? she said, rhetorically
whilst i stared at it... the indentations of the
spherical part of it, which was made of bronze, and
then the folds upwards suggested a feminine
beauty more so, in comparison to the spherical
part... she called it La Femme before placing it next
to the bookshelf near the balcony door...
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writing three
a couple of days with hand inside
lips, dry with your hand
God..
you're disturbing these,
dishwater notions
God...
did Mary orgasm that night?
the water gets wet
God...
in the shadows of warm disorder
does anything truly exist there?
God...
are you art?
or simple instructions
God..?
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xxxx
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...Ludwig took to walking through Victoria
Park languidly musing, and ultimately doubting
sanity, instead deeming it sanities, being that to him
there were innumerable and too plentiful to specify
in a whole, as the word sanity often misinformed... as
if writing a letter to sanity: Lighting a bridge with
footsteps damp with violent sensations: eruptions at
the absurdity of it all over fallen pieces of glazed
chicken, the toils of the night spring from the matter
of windy trees where teeth soon fill four walls, gums
yelling quietly the ordeal of knowing, the blunt ashes
of lucidity... watermelon dripping onto casket, sugar
all over lips... caught in the sugar jar...
...although Paradise seemed an ordeal, the
ideal, Claudia enlivened a certain way, a certain
mood, atmosphere... Melania a deep dive into the
ocean, Claudia a swim in a pool... Claudia, mostly,
delighted in what she saw:
...a single burgundy red candle on the edge of
a curb near Dalston...
....two pigeons sharing a discarded piece of
brown bread...
...a young girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, and
conclusively a virgin, asking her embarrassed Mother
if she could go for Jordan's erection the next day
after school...
...the wind blowing against a used pack of blue
condoms spoke of an eventful night somewhere,
someplace...
...the structure of an embarrassed silence
between two meeting persons outside the Art shop,
the unintended poetics of Performance Artistry, body
poetics...
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...the wry smile of a man that missed his
bus, compared to the belligerent swear words of a
corpulent Chinese man, coarsely shouting into the
afternoon with the lingering smell of duck and
plum sauce emanating...
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..age occurring in thighs, with slight
cellulite...
...the contours of freckles around pubic
hair, soon shaved...
...again, Claudia emerges from out of the
darkness, light yellow dress under a long hooded
jacket, arpicot coloured, where she is now sat on
the sofa speaking of eternity as if a walk through
Dalston Market... an Argentine man with a caged
blue throated macaw buys seeds before boarding a
Bus in Stratford towards Romford... two women,
Polish and Russian, decide to quit their jobs as
Lawyer and Shop assistant, respectively, to
become strippers... a breast outside Bethnal Green
Tube Station is vehemently grabbed with
sandwich meats residue caressing the nipple,
before the hand is pulled away and the lady moves
off hastily down towards Hackney Road... three
candles are purchased by a junky for a crack den
near Queensbridge Road with coins stolen from a
Muslim man, that moonlights as a pimp on the
week days, mostly Thursdays after Eastenders...
four discarded sheets of off white wood panel lay
on the ground, having been placed there by
Claudia's landlord, who she comments of as,
absurdly misogynist for reasons she fails to
disclose... though Melania can fail to pin point
what she is supposed to feel? how she is supposed
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to be? the daydream of her ways unpunctuated by
days spent drunk around the flat, casually walking
around, sometimes wearing just a bra, sometimes
just purple lace knickers, even amongst Ludwig...
the writings continue, all stuttering around thoughts
on the sky... Melania at the window, overlooking Mrs
Lucelle putting away a pair of brown boots, that
soon has her shaking her head about in ignorance
of, and then the consequent occurrence Claudia
deems something we should perhaps call someone
about, though Melania concludes this as none of our
business, whilst she cooks Paella... fish, chicken,
rice, desires and their memories wafting a certain
perfume, an aroma...
...close after open...
...life after soils...
...tree after wood...
...catch after fall...
...Valentine after Funeral...
...Forgiveness after Judgement...
...Sex after Death...
...at once Melania seemed to probe around
the idea that giving herself, and she kept repeating
the words, giving herself, was just too much to
bare... arguments with her weed dealer, shop
keepers, and even Ludwig sat on the sofa with her
stood in just her purple bra, pussy dangling as if
meaningless... the alternate view being allure, the
pragmatic view, being trouble...
...apricot coloured memories xxx
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the foreshadows of Jung
...the coils of our ways spiral, and ricochet
off the debris of our interactions under the sun,
the murky water of animal spirit, as Nietzsche often
mentioned is that which goes unnoticed too
often... our problem is that we sense it is there, this
darkness, but do little about it, or worse, ignore it,
claiming it's non existence... the antics of our
nature is indebted to this very darkness, Jung
investigated also... we see the perils of our moods
blowing in the wind, but really these darknesses
are part of our being: flights of fancy, ideas more
angry, death...
'That line about Beauty, serenely
disdains to destroy us?'
— William Gaddis, The Recogntions
...Pica gripped at the photograph, fingers
against the oily front of it with time elapsed inside
the still... two men stood, one muscular, she called
Beryl, outside in front of a tree with a young girl
riding by on her bright red bicycle... I couldn't
understand what to say to her, as we had met in an
absurd fashion that mostly culminates in a trip to a
Homerton Hospital Mental Ward where she sat in
those long hallways staring into the abyss, the
lemon light of the Hospital protruding into her
poetry that was quick to summon... I'm a singer,
not some piece of wet meat for these cunts to stare
at, it's a song in here, she said staring right into
these eyes causing a tropical wonder, her hands
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shoved around her small Cypriot frame, her short
hair scraggly, her eyes wild, the left a little higher
than the right, slight tears in them... Pica had spent
a month at the Hospital, mostly because she was an
addict, the loveless marriage of addiction is tragic
sometimes, it dismounts a person from reality, they
then live in this constant flux, that is not boring,
but too eventful, too wickedly skewed towards
some other being, she called the Ugly Spirit, quite
aptly, though Pica was far from Melania, not near
Claudia, she was mostly uneducated in the old
fashion sense: a few GCSE's, perhaps three at best,
and short lived attendance on a few courses, Hair,
Typing, which seemed a strange thing to study in
this day and age, I thought, but there were such
places, she comments, it was near Finsbury Park,
I'd take the 276 up there and this teacher, this guy
would teach us Typing or how to Type quick, but
he was always really trying to get off with the
students, she added, he was always trying to get his
end away, shag me over the desk... she displayed an
honesty that was at once devious, but childlike
too... i let him fuck me once, she mumbled in the
Park across the road from the Hospital one
afternoon... dissonance, suicide and Wittgenstein
were not in her line of thinking, but she had this
coyness I found framed in a picture I believed to be
beauty... this idea floats in and makes decisions...
...drugs after High
...high after Prayer
...sex after Violence
....clouds after Rain
...laughter after Teeth
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...death after Knowing?
...walking through Mare Steet speaking of
her Aunt, her dead body moving along outside fast
food joint, lips parting to words of sticking to
whiskey, staying off the B... the green sifting into
the street, a Sikh man passes by... the future
happening in the past...
writing four
celestial candles sing
fire breaths gravity
pulled up into air
winged by nature
which breaks
the wall behind
is a Greek God..?
the same one pulling
then pushing the moon
Helios lonely after a night's work
the sky taking all the credit
the wind adorned with
this blood now...
...the blood seeped off the page more than
the words, finger printed mostly next to the words
Helios lonely, the claret a Picasso, a masterpiece,
unframed, unmuseumed, unadorned with the
orchestration of putting things in order... the
words sung from without the little frame, My
Funny Valentine... though not for long, the bottle
picked up and water burning beneath foils...
49
earlier spending the day baking bread, wiping
flour from chin when a knock goes against the
door... Jehovah's Witness to a young lady at the
door, naked, asking if this is really what God
wants, her naked at the door... the Man at the door
stutters around words tripping over where to look,
as laughter springs from a face that comes to life:
arresting her features, closing the door and
declaring without words this thing that wills our
interactions, [eternal return] our laughter liberates
her into this thing that wills our interactions, and
seems so uncomplicated and lo fi, but audacious...
soon singing into the flat a nice melody, the same
rendition, My Funny Valentine, a record I had...
You
make
me
smile
in my heart...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
...nightmares arrest mostly from dreams,
often the latter is so close to the former that it's
not discerned, even in REM sleep... secretly Pica
would remember words and check a dictionary,
she wasn't ignorant in that sense, she just accepted
she didn't know, her desire pronounced an
elegance she didn't even notice, one leg up in the
kitchen against the wall looking through a
dictionary, where she would sometimes add a few
extra words to her vocabulary and humorously
drop them into conversations... you've got to
appease the feeling to drink, i was feeling
disconcerted in a good way... she put effort in: her
50
green eyes peering into her own skull from the end
of her nose, the rattle of a passing car blaring the
Radio...
...
...
...
...
...dusty recorded sounds, over dry whiskeys,
the nights merging into days, like vanities... not
knowing between either... the latter into the
former, the former into the latter...
...the rain drops...
...smell sinewy and fat...
...where black thoughts...
...takeover after...
...the fatal OVERDOSE...
...
...Malevich's Black Sqaure...
...lived out in real time...
...
51
...
52
...
53
La chanson de Prévert
...how to explain to yourself, the cold remnants
of their socks left on the landing, the pink-ish red frills
pleading into the mire of drink slipping down the throat,
like another is pouring it, the darkness creeping around
every corner, in front of eyes, and even more so behind
closed eyes, the the cans multiply as do the memories
more vivid in distance, they pronounce poetry unseen in
the moment... her food fallen on the floor, her sighs
brood only momentarily, before she walks in holding an
unfallen plate of food without a thought of herself... she
wanted to do something nice, is how she described it, but
not remotely as Poetry... her violence at times humorous,
now a eulogy, for a spirit... flying off the handle on
Kingsland Raod over the eyes casting, apparent gazes at
a passing woman's chest...
...D Cups of a Paradise soon lost...
...
...you find her cut up pages of magazines that
Tristan Tzara would have been proud of, that she
passes off as just killing time...
...the cut upped magazines have scrawled lines
Melania asks about, tugging at purple lace bra...
looking at photographs of Kate Moss grasping against
pieces of paper...
...notes of scribbled schemes of making money,
with an assortment of asides, as 'Griselda', the smell of
memory all chewy and wet in the proximity of these
artifacts that mean more than words can explain...
...eyes adorn the past with tragic lulls...
...animated, distorted colours eschew...
...
54
55
Bed Of Flowers
...gums red rose tinted wild, Claudia speaks
about Ralph, imitating his figure of speech when
suggesting anal sex, with a Dildo he had bought
from Modena the day before... she fails to take his
speech serious, which is predominantly of everyone
needing their fantasies realised, particularly
expressed by the animated kitsch hot-pink Dildo he
holds in his hands, of which she only eventually
uses in a fit of anger, months later, where she ties
Ralph up, and buggered him, with him hiding his
glee with pronouncements of anger for the
aggressiveness of her ways, though Melania is
upstairs in the bed under dark sky blue duvet
covers, complaining of jealousy of the birds, Plato,
Socrates, Death, a Supermarket assistant selling her
the wrong flowers.. are any flowers wrong? I asked
to her sullen face, before Claudia arrived...
...Melania had also taken to drawing, what
looked a sketch, or a doodle, but, it in actuality took
her all of one week, slowly working on the lines, she
reluctantly described as her perspective of one of
her meanings of life only able to be ascertained by
the investigations of this sketch, that had numerous
squiggly lines that suggested some sort of face,
though i said very little of these thoughts, as our
interactions were descending into:
...only one cup of coffee made...
...hoarding ideas, deemed too precious to
share...
...is there such a thing as virtue in arousal?
perhaps not, as these happenings are mostly in the
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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58
59
gutter, though sometimes looking up into the stars,
missionary as if a Priest knocking door to door...
these sexual escapades get more and more violent
than sensual, screams of harder and harder simmer
down the stairs where Ludwig is sat, studying the
creases of the back of his right hand...and then a fly
that arrived through the open Kitchen window...
...existence
non —
...is the sun
not looking..?
60
-existence
there when
? xxx
61
62
II
'Others say, however, that the dead are whatever can be
reconstituted in the memories (assuming they remember)
of people who knew them, if only for a moment.'
— Jacques Roubaud, the loop
63
64
...Pica's dead body stirs a black metal pot..
with a wooden spoon... the ingredients:
tomatoes
peppers
chopped onions
asparagus
slices of Chicken breasts
salt
paprika
olive oil
chopped potatoes
garlic
tumeric
sugar
innocence
65
...she soon moves the pot, further to oneside
to capture the fullness of the heat, but is soon
staring down at all the ingredients that were boiling
now splattered against the Kitchen floor, her small
frame enraptured by an anger unable to be
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
contained... amounting to forays into swear words, a
plate thrown against wall, a cup against floor... the
ordeal is only calmed by the burial, the soils...
...she appeared out the haze of days gone by,
whiskey on breath, a cold air penetrates the dark
night, where she is stood staring, looking around,
apparently, after stopping to ask if she were fine,
looking around for a friend that has told her to wait
on Kingsland Road, she said... black night moves a
mask upon sleep, the incense of dreams falling into
the night, voices spring... insensate... the usual
chasm between...
...her friend failed to arrive, so we walked
along taken by the night... arriving to Queensbridge
Road after discussing ideas related to Grapefruits,
the misconception of what constitutes reality, a
local Madman we both knew called Ralphie... stood
staring out into the eyes cold, the hue of wind in
eyes seizing the sky between us, the taste of lips
soon less vital than the words, acts as we started to
delve into our worlds... where it had slowly, after a
week or two, become our game... our game
consisted of feint disclosures... some violences... sex
a game of who will come cum first, with a
scoreboard pinned up on the wall, and her promise
to adhere to telling the truth, accepting that i
couldn't do likewise, though competitive we both
remained... and after a week she had been winning
66
by five, whilst we went further into eachother's
pysches: deeming them a world we also called
Candelebra, where the structure of our every
thought under attack by a character we agreed to
call Ordog... at the edge of the bed, with the
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA
Saturday dawn simmering around us, she
describes elements of exile... there being no need
to sleep in order to dream... the taste... we go into
the night thinking about thoughts had behind
closed eyes... and fail to sleep for a week, fully
accepting this as urgent... everything we are
taught, she said, is forced on us from the very
start, the sun could be a candle, lit on a loop...
...showed around by Ordog, the facilities
were primed and ready for total mind control
through waves sent out from the Division Room,
marked Green Room, eyes tend to be always
greenly looking elsewhere Ordog muttered
opening the door to a series of Servers that were
sat against pristine white walls, with a lone figure
sat in front of a machine lightbox with a skull like
head, sockets, barely any eyes, of which Ordog
mentions as the way things go, adding that this
man was found in Girona playing Spanish Guitar
with a mental cocaine imparted, explained Ordog,
mostly delivered through the parting of the butt
cheeks, where two fingers probe the character and
a secret serum is placed there within... though this
is only in extreme cases of dealing with a problem
individual that is unable to be controlled via
Calebra...
...Ordog stops outside a room, marked Red
Primary, which has four rows of beds on each side
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68
69
of the room with three emaciated looking men laid
down on grass green sheets, with two nurses, one
with red hair, applying Compositions that involve a
period of dream torture, maybe solitude, casually
said Ordog with a flap of the hatch, and sometimes
fellatio... she spoke in staccato sentences whilst
licking the erect connective tool, she had deemed it
the day before... propositions of deception...
writing of Candelebra in our Dream Book, our
Dreams began to configure around the same
happenings, often over lapping, sometimes
identical... hence the days spent without sleeping,
the music a stupor beat...
...the Devil's Saxophone...
...the sun wasn't there when we weren't
looking not for Melania's philosophical edge, but for
days spent with curtains drawn, drifting into astrays
that cyclically become important and then
unimportant, shuffling into spirals of time
unconstrained by the clock, until Ordog reared his
head, appearing as real as anything, nothing
dividing between realities...
...apricot after seeds...
...prison after walls...
...sun after moon...
...bloodshot after tension...
...ejaculation after oppression...
...the curtains twitching, Mrs Lucelle going
about her usual fussing... paying dues to
masochisms with a beef supper on the stove...
Claudia is in the Kitchen closing the window, for a
breeze, talking of a flamenco song that sounds like
raw strawberry, melting snow...
70
Mask Your Soul?
...slave morality [Nietzsche] exudes in the
bridge between day to day occurrences and the
ideal which is saturated in language creations that
often prohibit expansive thoughts, due to the
allegiance of predisposed systems of thinking,
which are predominantly set up one against
another, like dominos, they fall against eachother
to declare certain constricted methods imposed
on us from birth... monogamy, god, and evil,
honesty...
...Ludwig had taken to late night walks
now, soaking in the black expanse of London
vicissitudes with swelling thoughts of how to
be: starting conversations, sometimes with
Melania that would end in rhetorical
questions... what is the point of it all? over the
sounds of Werner Herzog films playing in the
background... I am at these times asleep,
upstairs, listening to Lutoslavski... Melania
complains of being unable to dream for the
weed has stupored her dream life, and these
words flaunt melodies of time...
...ink before books...
...cow before beef...
...sanity before crazy...
...dawn before dusk...
...fumes before arson...
...water before island...
...chrysalis before butterfly...
...gravity before fall...
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72
73
writing five
i want to be violent
specifically to you
god, aren't you...
wanting to react
the deadlight of sensations
hovers, haloed around
and the sky swells
like that over the Earth
as if Genesis, the full
brim filled air
light kisses at death
milky thoughts
bare areola suggesting
god wants to taste
the drip of sweat
but it will never be so
which means complaints
brain waves oiled
chances of fissure...
...with a slow emergence
of illusion?
contracting the concrete...
74
...Ordog moves briskly now [Dream Book,
Entry November 21st 21:51] the long hallway further
than the eye can see, hollow white walls, separated
by Doors an assortment of colours... Ordog's
shadow, horn rimmed, with long white lab coat...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
his voice shrill but punchy: he rarely rests on a
A
syllable, it's all quick sentences, matter-of-facts...
where we pass a room, as daylight seeped from
without her eyes, the white-ish yellow sun like and
radiant... she is alone on a telephone speaking to
God? the black dial up telephone is sat in the centre
of the room attached to a long cord, as if a Helmut
Newton photograph come to life in front of eyes
where she is staring at the window in the door... oh,
that's Claudia, we don't go in there, that's for those
we reluctantly deem in communication with God,
this higher power, said Ordog, we ought not to
defile ourselves with people that are mystics, they
distract us from the work, and often turn against us
after a period of working for us here, deny what
they themselves have also created, as Estrella did...
when he spoke her name a telephone rang, perhaps
god? ......dial tone......
...Ordog continues to explain the telephone
room, he calls it, where basically after a routine
dosage of time, let's say months, we allow a person
a telephone call, we answer, sometimes we don't
and we feel it acts as a thought experiment into
what people want, and of course they often don't
agree with many things, but the subjects are
tremendously engaging and written down here
inside these folders... Ordog touches bright yellow
folders marked: Attache, Red Room I, Emergency
Deaths 69, Dream Killing 079.... albeit what
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76
77
occurred the Buddhist sign, the ol' Nazi's used is
quite a bit of branding...
...a speck of dust moves about the air, a
gospel of disorder... we move into the night
speculating on what to do? humorously Ludwig
says it's all a big to-do, and then sat back down on
the sofa... to then verbatim quote the words of a
man called James, written of by R.D. Laing: I am
only a response to other people, I have no identity
of my own... the clock ticks a bit more loudly in the
mirror, said Pica without a thought of the Ginsberg
flavour to what she was literally referring to but
trailed off the words: I can see it, as she stared at
the time through the glass positioned at the end of
the bed... she then added that it would be great if
there were two guns on her chest instead of these
breasts, she said with a laughter showing gum,
teeth, combing her hair...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
...Sky as Wine...
...in the room called, The Gym, [Dream
Book, Entry December 11th 22:04] Ordog opens
wide doors, expressively marked, 'Guilties Until
Proven Innocent Observation Unit 06'... and soon
we see scattered bodies undulated in the frosty
yellow light as if a scene as Van Gogh's Night
Cafe...
...a milky skinned man without decipherable
teeth moves towards Ordog before being
obstructed by two faceless Amazonian men in
Orange suits... O you're probably wondering about
his teeth, i can assume, but it's all above board,
78
when he is done finishing his training he'll receive
his teeth back and that will be that, teeth are very
arbitrary things in most mouths... an alarm sounds
and a tannoy calls for Ordog's attention before he
exits The Gym, leaving her staring out at the trees
flutting in the night air, purply black with one
hand on her naked right butt cheek and another
on a cup of pepper mint tea, i can see the bird in
her eye up next to the cage when she turns to
look, and the Picasso on the wall next to the
window looks down at us... the smell of pepper
mint oscillates around her now on the end of the
bed in a yoga position...
...after explaining that he would be
interviewing philosophy Professor Michelada the
next day, including that he was nervous to speak
to someone so revered, Ludwig picks up a glass
coaster, that soon falls out of his hands as he
speaks the words: ...shattered the eternal return,
though as clumsy as it all is, it'll probably happen
again...this... here we are... Melania's voice is
croaky and love is beyond the point, really, her
hair is scraggly and she spends longer at the
window, twitching the curtains voicelessly
watching Mrs Lucelle, sometimes with whispered
words as dramatic: no don't do that... or he's
gonna really hit you hard tonight... the antics
televisual... a full stop in one of her writings has
caused her a week of anxiety unpunctuated... she
crosses out words, that eventually become the
same words...
79
instructions on diverting 'Dream Death' 01
...a formality of escaping into dream is a
clarity of an ideal able to be brought about at will...
suggestive of space, not forcibly, related to time
such as an Island, another's soul...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
...old jars of mustard can be used to store
saliva in case of induced Amnesia...
...tropes passed down from LSD junkies as
remembering a key element, as a cat or a coloured
piece of clothing often can help distinguish
happenings...
...
interview with Professor Michelada
[transcription one, February 28th]
...of course you often want to ask death, like
it's a joke, knock knock, is it you? but often the
words don't come, mostly because of distraction,
though they float somewhere around the frontal
lobe, and sing a sort of hummed melody, or ditty of
a tune... like the song of a consistent madman: at
the coffee table pouring its contents down the
throat, you wonder knock knock? walking along a
bridge, sat to the Tate Modern, you wonder knock
knock? chewing some meats, you wonder if this will
be your last chew..? though the day rests up against
the night, and you go about your way, moving
through the streets where bodies are mostly walking
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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
here and there, most dead, but they seem the last to
know... outside Churches people gathering to go
home after time spent listening to interesting
stories about Adam and Even as if more important
than Helen or Troy, The Odyssey, of which gnaws
at the idea that principally we want delusion,
lucidity is nothing more than some Series we don't
want to watch full of characters that don't appeal to
the masses, where the real hysteria is occurring
without them knowing, and time goes on at any rate
fingering us, with the only heaven being these little
heavens, these women, who often convolute our
needs, our desires... it seems, of course, though to
promise seventy two virgins seems wholly endemic
of this idea, but we are subdued walking through
streets motionless, devoid of the taste achieving this
Paradise that is rumoured of as the after life, when
we are simply deferring, it's simply a heaven
deferred, not nearly the quench people speak
of...seven billion into a hundred and forty four
thousand doesn't fit at all, it's not nearly able to
work, but it remains the talk on many lips smeared
with green eyed notions, jealousies, identical to
their god's, these ideas that behave as if not being
able to catch a cold in heaven is a desire, granted,
i'd like a few of these virgins, one or two, perhaps
seventy two will be awful for the back... even one a
day would take some time to arbritarily go through
them, and you'd want to perhaps enjoy the
moments, maybe a bite here and there, but it's all
secluded these questions and answers, people call
philosophy, but it is more akin to reason... we ought
to fully seek reasons because without them we're
81
merely barbaric, throwing those big stones at one
another, so we go on, but if anything at all is
sacrilegious it is this very perspective of even
wondering whether knowing is better than not
knowing... ignorance is a form of idolatry these
days [for the purpose of the recording there is a
knock at the door, 15:36]
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83
writing six
...the incidents of words... mosaic... now
Mary is taking it with Joseph asking if he's as good
compared...
...the quiet hysteria of codes...
...secret histories displayed openly...
...tired exasperated mania without any semblance of
politic, justice a yuppy dip in a hot tea, without
acknowledgment of this very biscuit, reality, tea
bagged like some bitch... lopsided trailing through
days sat in coffee shops with the same people with
different faces...
...flowers bitten off insects, all
scurrying for a peace, of beauty with whorish
charms... with incidents calling of Fuego, heat
hitting with Corashe... i can hear the streets of
Buenos Aires now, right here and melons sold for
pesos held in old wrinkly hands, subjected to you
God... without a doubt in shadow of your ways
suggestive of why you would need a shadow,
knowing even disbelief functions the acceptance
that you are there: if you were not wouldn't we need
to invent you anyway, to stop the barbarians getting
in?
...i ask, but i of course know, because these
hands are tied behind a back with legs waiting for
the throb beyond the throb, the eternal throb where
i sit in the sky after the soils, amongst the Roses
spiraling into the eternity i prefer as opposed to
your stipulations...
...xxx
84
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
...after a month apart, dead Pica rests on the
bed after a week, she merely mentions of as a little
crazy... moving from junky Queensbridge den to
corner to retrieve a hit, and back again like a
cycle... redemption after an Episode of Eastenders,
then re run on Sunday... she admits to fucking
about seven or eight guys as she needed the
money, and that she could think of nothing but us,
she sighed, with visions of her swinging breasts
like conkers... I feel brutish but say very little... her
misspelled letter still pronouncing a sweetness, she
is attempting to defile, but i then ask if she thinks
the drugs will kill her one day, and she says,
maybe...
...i take a sip at the Whiskey...
...oil before fried...
...time before perfection...
interview with Professor Michelada
[transcription two, February 28th]
...of course you wonder if he's there, and if
he is there he's probably on the shitter because he
is like us, but really i doubt he knows what it's like
to have the runs whilst on the run, perhaps on a
commute to some cubicle with some manager
complaining of forms, mistakes in spreadsheet a
thousand and sixty six, we all know this man in the
sky wouldn't truly know how that feels, he
wouldn't truly be able to emphasize with the
delights of diarrhea, as he is sitting on a cloud
assuming, apparently, but of course, philosophy
accepts others beliefs, it's a grandiose tale of mostly
formulating some sort of pragmatism, some
85
86
87
understanding of what it is that all this actually
amounts to, what it is that this actually is in need of
cultivating... though the misanthropy calls, ring
ring, is it you..? [for the purpose of the recording
the interview is again interrupted by another knock
at the door] Q: How do you feel about philosophies
relationship with sex? O that is a loaded question,
very loaded, as I can't deny the truth of this matter,
in a sense it is taboo to mention such issues as this,
with one hand on your cock and another holding a
book by Wittgenstein, who is more distinguished
than even Nietzsche, the fans favourite, as
Wittgenstein's ideas were more concerned with the
edge, the corner of the sheet of paper most don't
even look at, they're more concerned with the big
questions, the length of a piece of string, free will
and so on, but Wittgenstein who rarely mentioned
anything of sex had this crucial thing called lust for
life, which resembled sex, it pulsates, though
Tractutus is mostly ridiculous until about the last
pages, he is still very much important in the way
life should be lived, which is very relative to sex
too, in some senses it is the secret crux of reality...
all we are really here for, and more obviously why?
i loved Mother but I can be sure she was very
acquainted with the cock, i'm sure it was not such
an absurd thing she would often deem immoral, if
done wrong... but virtue in these issues is a
fallacy... [for the purpose of the recording the
telephone rings interrupting the interview]
...xxxxxx
88
...Melania has taken to also watching Serge
Gainsbourg's 'Gloomy Sunday' as if post irony, post suicide,
without actually leaving for the sky...
89
...in Ordog's absence, like North Korea, the
antics go on as if instructions were provided... and
the faces at once seem mundane: former Bus
Drivers, surly waiters, delivery men, butchers, Piano
teachers... though they're only this way on the
surface, beneath there's bodies moving without
teeth, a man screaming with a smiling face...
interview with Professor Michelada
[transcription three, February 28th]
...of course, we know more of fallacy than
truth, especially so when those we deem Holy,
worthy of special attention, deceived us... people as
Mr Orwell, where you read this long novel, 1984,
you read about all the rather dark machinations of
things that actually soon occur, like a warning, o
thank you Mr Orwell a clever person thinks, thank
you for warning of what is done to our mind's, this
Big Brother is very much not a figment of a fictive
imagination but really a way to process our ways,
move us around in unquestionable ways, and then
he has the audacity to write: He loved Big Brother...
how can you do this, these words are an affront Mr
Orwell to everything you warned us about, and I'm
surprised more people are not disgusted by this...
this idea that regardless of the illogical fallacy of
sterilized thought, mostly of control there is no real
escape, there's this hanky panky of acceptance... i
feel an anger erupt when i think that this is the
ideal perception of the intelligentsia... it's absurd
how we must sit through such ordeals of deceptions
that are rarely mentioned, and when they are then
swept under a rather dirty rug...
90
...in many ways, she said after placing the
Dream Book on the window sill, we're not
obligated to many of the ways we're told to think...
we just assume, though the expansive is more than
the linear... and Candelebra had become the basis
of all our conversation, ferrying to gather food,
usually late at night talking about an island in our
souls, ignoring the world out there... her line
drawing made with pen sprinkled around the flat
that had become our universe...
91
...drawing by Allen Ginsberg...
92
...Melania had taken to obsessing over a
drawing made by Allen Ginsberg, constantly staring
at it in wonderment, eyes transfixed venturing into
all its slight meanings... taking long amounts of time
now to write woman down with drawings to go with
it, differing from spaces inside the soul... every
where i turn, the words:
...woman dies...
....woman dies...
...woman dies...
...a moment of clarity swollen with subterfuge...
...xxx...
93
writing seven
...i don't want to go
into the night
without a kiss
on the lips of sanity...
...i'd like to take a last
bow before professing
any beliefs
stroll along to depart
and never see again
...monotony of forms
of sanity, bleeding from
this pen / pussy
sounds that also
taste Icarus' wings
nestle into the sky
birds of a feather
alone, with not a single
sorry on this lipskiss...
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95
96
97
Kant Cums
...on these lips slightly parted, she attempts
to walk into The Gym, we had both accepted this
place Ordog referred to as The Gym, though our
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
ideas on the next occurrences differed... she
divulged into a neurotic breakdown of wondering
if time a mere non factor... would you assassinate
Hitler? the words formed into the room, that had
become ridiculous, we knew, but with only brief
spells away from our universe it was our
ridiculous... and truly disconcerting of a thought
for her...
...Ludwig accuses, with the idea that all of all
these women, these ladies, now have merged as
one, and not what they really are, which is separate
distinguishable beings, all different but now only
one memory, one mood now, one idea... which i
call an affront with a raised voice that has him sigh
and mention buying some mate from Buen Ayre
later that day, after he has written of Kant in the
last parts of his manuscript that i secretly read, of
course...
...pussy after wet...
...sweet after sour...
...hard after gentle...
...will to deathly antics with the curtain
twitching, bare bottom with right hand, eyes still
over towards Mrs Lucelle, and then muttering
about something to do with his chubby finger and
poking him in his chubby finger... our best
episodes before death voyeuristic... though Claudia
calls, picked up after the phone rings, she suggests
98
that if it is God than he should call back later...
...though Claudia speaks of the room, where
she is the smell is poignant, and she receives calls
from Him...
...we walk fast down the long stretch of hallway,
fatalistic ideals tighten around the mass of unspoken
words elected towards the frontal lobe, the voices sound
before passing the room with her sat inside on the
phone, now joined by a flamingo... its pink glowing in
the scream of lonely figure on the shiny black
phone...receiver held with mouth opened wide...
MOUTHS
...like a real poem Pica has scrawled a series
of words on an envelope perhaps to Dictionary
later...
...taxidermist...
...rhododendrons...
...nympho...
...undulations...
...mastodons...
...masticate...
...caboose...
...demiurge...
...unknowingly to her, these were her very
last words written, and the skin of not truly
acknowledging the true meaning of so many words
is moreso swelling by the last word, which is
another word for god, i thought, though we never
ventured onto the subject... there our naked soul
lays, i muttered, staring at the piece of paper...
99
100
101
instructions on diverting 'Dream Death' 02
...xxx God moves censoring our deathss....
...dream intruders are most prevalent in
saturations of blue, tint most averse to invasion..
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
...realise early all the voices cultivated
become us...
...Claudia arrived after another phone call, in
the mind she floats in with ideas on fixing us a
cocktail called Michelada... she explained that she
got the recipe from a trip to Mexico City, where
she looked for Poetess Candela who had ties with
the Infrarealists, and grew infamous from time
spent sculpting a physical poem, that Claudia only
has a grainy photograph but of which has still
arrested her to investigate deep in Mexico City,
between palm trees and the voices... soon hearing,
No sé la, said in repeat, with the night drowning the
hot day's sun, she moves to a Bar where a corpulent
Bartender offers her a free drink, calling her
Estrella, and soon speaking of a Peruvian wife that
he secretly thinks loves another man, a Columbian
Ballet Dancer, Quievero... Claudia then learns how
to make this drink he had made for her... Melania
moves from twitching curtains towards the sofa
before dolloping into the cushions a cloud of
matter perspiring with hair astray and little concern
putting on clothes, wearing just her red laced
knickers and nothing else... you've got you try it,
Claudia hands over a glass whilst explaining the
ingredients...beer, lime juice, assorted sauces,
102
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
spices, tomato juice, and chili peppers.... and,
look, it has salt on the rim... Melania sips slowly, a
little dripping on her right breast before saying:
...Jesus, put everything possible in one drink, why
don't you? leopard skin, salt, eggs, beer,
ridiculous... too demure to retort Claudia just
ignored this episode of Melania's increasing dark
humour and began riffing of the fatalism of finding
Poetess Candela, reciting a few scratchy lines of
Poems she had remembered from a small book she
lost in the outer regions of Verona... everywhere i
went they said and i never saw her again... i hoped
to find her so badly... Melania had placed the near
full glass on the coffee table, next to Ludwig's
writings, and said: Hope is an affliction... and
beauty is a whore... before waddling up the stairs
with one hand rubbing her left butt cheek...
Jung Over Jizz
...the game had become more important
than the act, the seaman a mere spectacle to the
dues of winning, whispering as many dirty
thoughts into the ears as fathomable... little secrets
only spoken of in passing mentioned within the
ear, her cumming that one time to her Dad coming
out of the shower when she was twelve, twisted
foilage producing a win, orgasmic into the room,
our universe of little to no sleep... Candelebra the
island our only true idea... disjointed reckonings
of an Anshram in the outer regions of Rishikesh, a
small secluded area in distant Peru... the nearness
too far... with her hand in my brain she asked for a
rematch, with slight oulipo restrictions whilst
103
104
105
taking off her green panties...
writing eight
it would have been better, cleaner, if Jesus
was a woman,
tidy breasts out and about
with much more organised thought
than a turning one loaf of bread
into what is less than lipstick
the red glow of lips
wrapped around allure
before it gets away
to never revisit again
like a thief in the night
you would say
it's gone like a thief in the night
life's most important essence
allure quenched...
106
i, Claudia
...she answers the phone after the sixth ring,
the bell of elsewhere chiming closer as if the call to
prayers at Jamla El fna, and hears the voice speak,
reciting verses from Poetess Candela, with hypnotic
sadness that comes across sensual:
...in the night Candela cries,
in the daytime she is much too busy... she
spends most afternoons cleaning Hotels,
and makes instructions for other cleaners...
suggesting tips as cleaning more so
behind the sofa, which she has experienced as the
first place a person looks to see if clean...
...she smiles at night after she finishes
crying, the last few drops of tears time to reflect,
like a child crying you wonder
whether to cry a little bit more or go for a sandwich
or that sweet left in between the sofa cushions,
but by the time you have reached the
sweets you're drowning in them and apparently
dead...
signs of life
...flying through the air the dead bird is at
the window sill overlooking Mrs Lucelle, where
Melania has said that her book of Poetry will be
published by small publisher Italiapa... their
Spanish editor concluding them as suffocated in a
Whiskeyed up Wittgemstein type of way...
107
...and she moves about detailing that she
needs to leave, before intercepting her own words
with how much she needs to stay, before again
speaking of how much she needs to go... I sip the
whiskey straight... king whiskey... Whiskey king...
the night before she had been reciting poetry over
sex... Virgina Woolf, Walt Whitman, Baldwin, her
own, Wilde, Cum...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Leased Souls
...casually Ordog arrives back [Dream Book,
Entry March 3rd 23:16] into the hallway as if we
weren't trying to escape, and carries on
hypnotically... speaking about the procession of the
nights... Giovanni here is the assistant, and a
connoisseur in dream disorder... where we usually
deliver the medications we develop and sell, though
I do say prevention is better than the cure, but
there's no money in prevention, you've got to put in
the disease, the wound or else people lose jobs,
economies suffer under this type of uncondoned
system, where accept we ought to continue to work
with the federal or police system to allow our ways
to prevail... it's much easier that we can locate a
man in Chicago or East London, Modena with
delivering medications, usually GPs play along... a
sleeping pill given to a lady has elements of more
dopamine and our serum which produces an
addiction that fuels this game we need to play... this
system... a headache tablet constantly bought in
Brownsville soon replaced with a little cocaine, not
too much, but just enough to allow for the person to
go back, and us to pick him one night... said Ordog
108
walking us into a room with a lady spread legs
open, to then place a bright flamingo pink pill into
the wet cunt, with a matter of fact lick on the edge
lips, before we leave the room, to enter back into
the long hallway further than death itself... the
sounds of the hatch, dah dum... dah dum...
...we spend a lot of time making notations of
the dreams of criminals... these are our people, in a
sense, said Ordog... they mostly dream of palm
trees, fleeing revenge soaked murders, you know
the usual pie in the sky... these systems know
everything now, of course they let a murder here a
murder there go, if they think the dead is of no real
use...
...all that was left was the belated suffix of
confirmation, since she had said goodbye in her
heart's only poem months before... time is only
now...
...Pica had started to dabble with Brown
more and more, and less with white, for the
quickness... the high faster, even with the use of a
bottle, water fireed up fumes inhaled through
pierced foils, gaze soon tranquilized, but little
spoken of the reality of the high, this game she
plays... the first time being really the altar, the
specific feeling being chased, and perhap a few
other times rival this Holy first time, but the rest is
all chase, no give... though now she is out of the
arms of B's belladonna and sat on the floor naked
putting on red shoes speaking of needing to get to
Dalston to get those cookies... it's five fifty six am...
the Town sleeps with the lady's red shoes slowly
wrestling onto tiny girly feet... she soon falls over
into a deep ponderous sleep...
109
110
111
love
is
camaraderie
with
a punch
|
|
|
Claudia dipped words into the
brain like warm soup...
...we never felt the need to begin the
procession of cliche... she comments that she's
barely worn her knickers...the big I Am... the
grumpy pin stripped knickers left on the radiator..
the numb
...the residual fuzz of the clear blue sky,
tickling without an ounce of reaction... speeding
slowly by voices outside getting in meaning
nothing, voices inside meaning more but still not
very much... the hum of black covering all over
the surface of dream / life, neither distant to one
another, but calling on the receiver, Jean Cocteau
speaks of transmissions, beauty... the coarse liquid
slithers through the veins with pallid skin now
sweating and shivering with the voice springing
out the milieu a dazed honey of nothing... the
abyss, momentarily sweet, but more violent and
edgy towards the precipice of squalid black
touches at the nape of neck, she sings lady day,
lady day... owing to being little else but that which
is in another's eyes, i pray...
112
writing eight
my pussy died
but God you don't care about that Cat
rather you're
gynecology is fingering
lips
not in the least bit wet
not nearly so
for the water must get wet
who wet the water
before the water got wet?
childish games attempt
to lure away
the cold tax of you
the truth through
a child's eyes...
***rainy***
§§§
xxxx
113
Je suis venu te dire que je m'en vais
...she had been gone physically a week,
though arrived back, as I thought that her
departure were enough of a goodbye, her absence
her decision, she came back to stare out in our
eyes, which through our fucking had become
siamese like, when she looked out at Mrs Lucelle, I
saw too, when she looked in this abyss that I
accepted had long taken her, I saw too... she
explained that her book, she held in her hand
seemed like an aside to what she was trying to get
at, with a poem her Spanish editor had complained
of for a comma and a dash, as not quite right, the
time bomb exploded into the sky, Estrella... it's
about all those years at that convent, sent away, to
then be fucked by a young Priest who wanted to
marry her... her cum over Bible pages, rosaries
reduced to a comma and a dash... she said she was
in pain, and that she was leaving for Buenos Aires
in the night, away through the sky... i just need to
get away, get away, she said with one hand placing
the book on to the coffee table, next to Ludwig's
purple lighter... I couldn't escape the thought:
wherefore we cannot speak therefore we remain
silent... she crept away into the night, as a fluffy
cloud from out of your periphery... chubby in the
now vapid air, her head bobbing along down the
street, uncombed...
...her poems, two hundred and twenty eight
pages were searing, and sprinkled with humour...
her words sprung as if reading them in a whisper
in our ears... you can never own a beautiful woman,
you can merely have her attention for a period of
time...
114
Italiapa
publishings
Melania Estrella
poems in the key of death, tickling
rainbows chubby clouds...
115
...notations from the black, one...
i can barely get out of bed
whiskey bottles sprawled everywhere
along with clear sanity
cotton mouth
116
...notations from the black, two...
...diving into rims
of whiskey bottles
king of the night...
117
118
119
120
121
notations from the black, three
...i'm disappearing
not but a constellation
of birds feathers, chicken wings
bought from the chip shop,
blackened stars
with edge notes
fifty fifty chance
of death...
122
notations from the black, four
...
i am nothing but
highly strung guitar strings
pulling into a
tongue scream
propelling into
dry notations
...
neon sisyphus
...
123
Candelebra
...the distance between our bodies a
misconception of conspiracy passed down, the
deep recesses of pieces of spirit, heavy as Russian
Vodka, though the tongue kiss of insanity
...as she moved around the coffee table she
suspended arms now deemed mouths, mouths
twirling into the room, as the light went out, we
had called the book shelf spacial region of heaven,
which meant her eating pages of paper on the top
shelf reaching in the dark, with mutterings of the
Book of Dreams, and then Molly's monologue of
Joyce she starts reciting off head... ending with the
words Yes! as she took off her shirt, bra, knickers
and ran downstairs outside screaming: the hills
have eyes... the ambulance seemed to arrive like
they were watching... they took her away, with her
yelling: ...can we escape from the hooliganism of
our desire, naked!
...Ordog pens notes against a purple binder
held close to his chest, red pen in hand, peering
over glasses towards man spread eagled butt
cheeks like ivy... quietly sliding in a bright red pill,
and then squeezing the man's cheeks together,
goods as new, said Ordog...
124
...Pica Paradise...
...Pica is on the end of the bed staring
childishly at some drawings of Leonardo, and some
cars... red, vein purple, green... her drug smell a
jamais vu sifting out of her, before she starts at an
idea: it would would be great if men displayed
their ball sacks more, she said riff like, no don't
laugh it's fashon, like balls are really cool, they're
all chewy and soft, even the saggy parts of the balls
look funny, don't you think? she asked, unironic,
to then pick up a pen and draw what she meant,
with arrows towards each ball just in case i hadn't
caught on...
125
126
127
pica
128
129
130
III
'I've a dream of my own. My one dream. A
dream of dreams.' — Slyvia Plath, Johnny Panic
and the Bible of Dreams
131
132
notations from the black, five
...cryptic messages from god, coming on
defensive, and all shirty, something about Jesus
never having an erection because he'd been too
busy with all the bread and wine... to soon
reluctantly accept that Mary got it good though,
Mary took it like a boss, said god drifting into
further explanation over the twirl cloud smoke,
big smoke, circling into the air...
133
134
135
...Letter From Estrella...
...she started to write letters, without an
address and no identification of knowing where she
was, just these words...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
...Dear Us,
...I spent last night, close to Buenos Aires,
near an Aunt's, close by to Alfredo the man that
was a Priest in those years I spent when I was sent
away over Paella, and overlooking the night sky I
crave your touch, i do, but even with jealousies, I
can't pour ice over us... pieces of your soul are
always transferred in this manner, whether we like
it or not... only the hippocrates would deny this...
and they seem so plentiful here, as Italiapa
published the novel here too, a few weeks ago, so
people speak of the words like ironing boards,
house kittens, there is barely any violence in them
for these people that read them, not nearly as much
as i'd like to call it... though i can't call it...
...there is a small ginger kitten where i'm
staying, called Chancie, it's always asleep, more
than it is awake, it's asleep or trying to finding
somewhere to get some more sleep, a local girl said
Chancie was once fat, but had slimmed down the
previous summer...
...i can barely stomach anything at all, and
mostly vouch for the sky... the sudden eruptions,
tectonic... and especially so when Alfredo explained
what happened to the girl I once would call my best
friend... Alejandra spent most of her time secretly
136
reading Cortazar and praying... i never disturbed
her, the centrefold of her main lust was to become a
painter... she held this higher than anything... so
anything was secondary to her... she mostly spent
time drawing, late into the night the lantern lit light
on her desk went on bright as she sketched and
drew...
...she had a firm hand, though these works
were mostly ethereal... though after Alfredo told me
the news, that she was in the sky with Mary and
them, I felt a twinge... it's calling us so loud, so
feverishly... i thought of you and your mugsy face (i
tease)...
skin?
...are we notihng more than bones,
...still Your Estrella
137
138
139
140
Little Red RiDick Hood
...in the early evening i would see her
moving from Broadway Market... this day she held a
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA purple vase with water in it with a large bouquet of
flowers, perhaps Lilies, some Roses, sparsely
Tulips... she walked slowly concentrating on her
steps ahead, with a hooded red coat on like little
red riding hood, moving towards Queensbridge
Road, as I walked the opposite way... I watched her
carefully, trying not to disturb the flowers, the
water within the vase... but it starts to rain, as if a
piece of performance art unrecorded she carried on
walking, the onset of a slight flash flood, the
delights of London weather, failed to disturb her
whilst walking along the street, at the corner of the
street where she turned left, i saw the rain water tap
against the flower in her hair, still in intact...
...it was the fourth time seeing her doing
something similar, albeit the high point of that rain
drenched early evening, that i spoke... the black
had been so lucid at this time: no real desire in the
expanse of melancholy... you treat those flowers
like pieces of poetry, or a painting... i said... a
Rembrandt! she said with big eyes... she said her
name was Claudia, and we discussed perhaps
getting a coffee one of these days, before asking if i
had time the next afternoon... i hadn't seen the day
light for a time, and caressed the night's curb
mostly, so i mentioned six or seven ish... she
explained that the children's story industry was
hard to endure and continue to write stories, and i
pulled sock over feet, clean clothes on and began
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
anew... one sentence at a time, i concealed all
notions of lady days, or days spent amongst those
soul within...
...i'd quickly call her little red riding hood...
she had a lighthearted spirit: she found Charlie
Chaplin to be the height of comedy, spending days
on end watching sketches... she sat against the bed
rest where she starts smiling at a made up story...
But what a big meat stick you have, she said, i
joked... all the better to juice you with, said the
wolf... a quiver of a laughter punctuates, but feels
cold after this, all the memories wafting now
feeling less realised... less true... a rose-white chalk
outline around this body... where things were
falling out of the sky...
Ordog [Big Brother]
...mentioning how the things falling out the
sky were messages, and that an old man they had
recently taken in had spent most of his time
picking these things up, and placing inside a skip,
that one day was tipped out into the street by some
unknown person's for him to straighten the skip
from onto its side, and continue to fill it up with
the falling things... [transcription sixty seven]
...kettle, manna, cats, pussy... i cry at night,
because i'm too busy during the day... but if i cry
in the day, i have to find some time during the
night while i clean the hotels to cry a little for a
time if i miss a little during the day, but mostly i
try to manage, though sometimes i fall short, yes i
fall short, and i forget to cry during the evening
141
and the night and have to make up for it on the
weekends, spending a little time during the early
evening...
142
143
144
145
WH
...Claudia dipped into the room with the key i
had given her letting herself in, to see this naked
body sprawled on the bed, with the curtains,
strangely, she said, opened... Mrs Lucelle getting
buggered without an audience, Alain Robbe-Grillet
without our Voyeur to enthrall the mundane drama
with the sensuality of the artist... though she rested
against the phone and propped another hand against
her chin, elbow on desk... with little or no scent of
God, the broad too busy in the kitchen he would
assume, i wonder, and you can deny this all you want,
all that it may mean to you... i'm careful with my
words, so so careful, they practically creep around the
ear lobe into the ear towards the frontal lobe waiting
for an eruption, a quiet storm... WHY?
...
WHY
146
?
Y?
WHY?
147
Pica
...your dead body, one version of she, sits on
the bed of flowers in the mind i share, the
distortion so vanity, blue... where your naked
breasts can play with the lonely sun, and the
stars yellow teeth can enjoy the night without
appearing to need, a brush with teeth now
clear to see and red gums laughting out into
the void, now filled... she sleeps now, with
one hand on The Book Of Dreams, our
dreams drowning before now swimming
amongst birds in a sky-wine blues, wet with
the taste of diving into the deepest end...
148
...Ordog speaks about the tight end now,
drawing comparisons with communicating through
mouths, adding that mouths can no sooner than tight
ends become corrupted, where as messages sent
through the tight end are more direct... a direct line
to Papi in the sky... Papillon a butterfly before the
cage flying around the observation centre and the
beady eyes of the ever present Ordog, which he jokes
has the words god if not back to front...
notations from the black, six
...it is better to be alone with yourself than
alone in company of others... i read these words the
day after Ludwig decided it was too awkward not to
leave... although he admitted he found it difficult,
being that suicide seemed so close, although he used
the words, doing myself off, Estrella style... reminded
of Melania explanation of a series of suicides running
in the family, madnesses as birds on the wire...
messages through time sat on ice, cool on fire... i
quickly miss Ludwig's writings, and their continuous
updates... Melania had taken to jotting down more
and more of Mrs Lucelle's ways... the red polka dot
bath robe after research was discontinued a few
months before last December, and the pills on the
counter have only a month left before going out of
date, though the Man ignores this, along with time,
everything important is happening now, nothing
crucial happened yesterday and tomorrow is merely a
relic before it has come... Mrs Lucelle's violently
cums at exactly 19:21 — 22 minutes later than the day
before because of the traffic on the M25....
149
writing nine
in the theatre of the mind / the world
can we really see past
our own soul / mind
slash too many slashes?
here, regardless
I Am, and the big I Am
King Pussy
God... Me!
150
151
...i answer the phone only to her...
152
153
154
155
...Dream Book, Entry March 21st 18:36]] we
spend our nights with merely any regard do we, as
Ordog spoke from two way mirror the words sent a
deathly romance down the spine, as i've known a lot
about your decision for this Candelebra... palm trees,
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
an island o, let me guess, a little Chomsky before a
lite lunch? a dip in the mango juice filled pool over
looking a sunshine yellow sandy beach, chocolate
cake by the ton, hours spending time lodged
entwined in genitals smelling of ocean water salt, a
papaya tree above your head with music playing,
Ravel, Bolero Ravel I can imagine, backgammon... o
I've heard your sordid desire to get off the grid, as
you put it, and it won't happen... these teeth in this
mouth won't protrude into the sky like birds, to
escape some sort of laughter of escape from under
our control, meds and feds, our system of order... it's
high time we distance you from what you think this
is... the cool breath practically reached the end of this
nose sniffing in the aroma of his lust for mischievous
deeds... as I woke to a strapped up chair, where I now
am, a man in his final hour on the death row with a
board held up with Ordog asking what i wanted for
the final meal... a drink of Michelada, i said, which
Ordog writes with a smile, muttering o lovely that'd
go down well with the death...
...hot chicken soup...
...tomato stew with paprika...
...a slice of salmon with a sprinkle of pepper...
...potatoes... Ordog's features move into the
middle of his box, you'd like them boiled, i can
imagine, as a man as you are... no grilled, i said... o
how disappointing, sighed Ordog, i expected more...
156
and perhaps i'd have half a lemon... o like Kafka!
you have seeped ol' Ordog out of the pits of that
little grilled hell and transported me to a a little
paradise, i may even you with the half lemon and
the salmon, which is interesting for a pisces to be
eating this last fish... not that i believe in this, of
course, i speak to the man in the sky often and he
rarely mentions any of that as meaningful beyond
slander, though he has to take a lot of calls from
Prometheus at the moment, and a few Voodoo
spirits have really moved up the stock exchange
ladder of attention, i should say... but yes salmon,
medium rare, not too chewy, as if it breaks off
into your mouth wet and with a little bite... o what
a little death we have here, this little death...
...the black reaches around the neck, cue
the curtain, drawn over the acts of life... i try not
the break the fourth wall and mostly decipher
words into images, images into satisfactions....
...death before resurrection...
... street before pharmacy...
...chaos before order...
...perfection before casual-mess
...Candelebra before Pica...
...hell before she, her...
...
her She..
157
half a lemon
158
159
Prayer to Angels
...Ordog opened a jar, red top, and spoke: o
this is a simple jar of brain, though you'd assume a
spectrum of deception in the production of a simple
jar of brain, human, of course, but you'd be
wrong... these brains are the best minds of
generations, we have pulped down to a butter,
spreading a little on his tongue released far into the
lair of the four cornered room, empty but with a few
chairs and a desk with a skull perched towards his
face savage with TEETHY smile... it's the
endorphins that make it taste so good, and so we
usually cut them down in the throes of a dramatic
high, sent a whore in to kill after a fuck, a gigolo... it
make it tastes so good.. the buttery brown dripped
around his mouth wide open with all the beauty of
the mouth on show... gums, tongue, teeth, tonsils,
uvula, a few discloured canines, definitely
premolars, barely any molars... he fails to wipe the
brain, which is unlike Ordog, as usually it's all neat,
with purt lips closed after mentioning having to
force an incident with a particular tight end... his
teeth drip into words about loving the quench her
taste buds with mouth twisted and then one hand
on breasts hanging into the expanse of the closeknit
four walls, Picass still on walls, as she asks
about the fat ghost we wrote of in the Dream Book
[Entry 72] and I go into the mind the find pieces of
sky... before a naked piggy bank over Bolero... with
Pica's ghost breast slipping out...
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
notations of from the black, seven
"Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be
silent." (Tractatus 7) Wittengstein
...a Priest of disorder, waking up with the wet
dream a mutiny, an erection hot with verses from
Luke... i then hear the voices of neon lights
switched off, sisyphus blues singing here alone,
since Ludwig decided to also leave with the phone
ringing, Ordog or Claudia? the taste of her, her
her...
174
175
176
177
178
IV
'Floats calm as a cloud.'
— Slyvia Plath, Collected Poems [Heavy Women, 26
February]
179
180
writing ten
there's an allure so voluptuous
God?
is it you?
i'm sure it's not as you'd assume
Mary wanted it,
on the phone to your planet leaders
talking of Mary gettin' this work
tonight
she wipes Your bottom
Jesus, don't you remember
when your wanted to play with your ties
toys and offerings
descend into the only
heaven that i true
rainbow un femme un femme
smoking God's clouds
spiraling around Man's TEETH...
in Varanasi i am twirling in a Ghat
like a Kebab with an
a drum beat all heavy...
twisting by your hand God
closer to you, but so far away from your
godjizz...
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VARANASI[time 6:66 date: 29/02]
187
the beginning
CREDITS. purple. [naked pictures of God]
INT. naked woman and man as if Adam &
Eve are stood, molecule against atoms, hands
against eachother but away from one another, until
man sat alone on sofa hears a knock at the door...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
CUT TO. the lady moves between the day in
the mind and out of the mind they are walking
towards THE DOORS, where she mutters of the
world being all but a stage...
SOUNDTRACK. Boléro, Ravel or Aguanile,
Lavoe
...US. we speak from one mouth, us, with
tears falling out of both eyes as the door opens for
four eyes to delve into one body [depicted simply
with illusion masking the reality of magic] and
words in from the abyss that was but is now himher
or shehe, as in one dual component of body
speaking and throwing the ball now, at mercy of
the altar is the slow release, that you came all the
way from Buenos Aires for? that i came from
Buenos Aires for...
CUT TO. [God breaks the fourth wall now,
with questions, rhetorical of being here and not
being here]
INT. the door closes shut, against the night.
...US. bodies together, speaking of days
188
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
apart, with melody of the intensity of such a highly
strung situation... do you forgive me, [her, she, this
lady moves towards] they sat down one in another,
two minutes in and it's cutting it close don't you
think? we depart into eachother never to return the
same again, this taste called love...
CUT TO. Narrator / God [illustrated with a
simple convulsive Soundtrack development] ...they
have little else to do but find each other closer
through lips, skin, penetrated by memories that
become present and move into the future, as a
phone now rings...
CUT TO. [CLOSE UP of shiny black
telephone, with just eyes appearing in the
periphery of sight, with words]
Un femme. Un femme... Claudia... no, yes...
...it's the line which is bad, what with God on the
line too... it's always busy these transmissions
[juddered close up of a book by Jean Cocteau] but
the sex of joy, our secret visits to [inaudible sounds]
of this Cunt, this Cunt that you make wet, undone
with the painting of our unreliably narrated soul,
which is now doused in you, i am speaking to you
from within our soul... Machelada sipped with
dusty record player heating our numbed hearts
thawed by melodies of voices that sound through
this receiver...
CUT TO. [Ordog sits with wide open mouth
laughing hysterically and stuttering repeated words
189
- juddered shots at a book entitled: Jung's Shadow]
...o i tell you behind immortality's tongue is the
realisation that the dark is needed but is merely
reduced to the detritus of heavens bin... [audible
sound of choral choir] as open mouths fail to get
fed señor coroner, or as you said you'd liked to be
called Pica?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
CUT TO. A PAINTING OF WIRED VOICES...
...here we are, it seems said Orpheus, in the
melody as a few minutes before he had dreamt a
song still playing eversince, or until... as the light
whiskey coloured lamp-post draws down onto the
now empty street, where soon a woman walks by
wearing a frilly burgundy dress under a long black
fur jacket with mango yellow finger nails with the
start of a twirl of a dark brown henna tattoo
curling from the tip of her ring-fingered index
down to the tip of her elbow... when a Spanish
man drives by perhaps noticing the Catalan flag
stitched into to the shoulder of her long fur
jacket... when into the night the voice goes: Verlo
desnudo es recordar la Tierra... the Federico García
Lorca line [...to see you naked is to remember the
Earth] where the stage's has a middle finger
introduced, and then propelled into the
conclusive act of that particular play... as a wet
puddle is stepped in to douse a pair of bright
peach coloured hi heels... as layers of smoke
congeal around a black spoon soon treated like
the last utensil to exist on the face of the planet...
the aroma of a woman just naked from a bath
190
lingers a strawberry hue... the nestle of a tongue
against an ice cream causing mango flavoured
brain freeze... Silenus silently sips still revered...
the elevation of a never ending story only known
in oral form in a remote village of Quintana Rue...
a painting of bodies, unrestricted by binary,
smeared into eyelids from the back of abyss, where
weird languages soak into an emerald planet
reflecting the same lonely Sun Ra, prayed to by a
lady from Alexandria that earlier from this very
moment sold pearl earrings for a gallon of milk
uddered from a Cow with a bum leg... a bouquet
of roses for Nefertiti's just passed son... whilst
Dalí's persitence of memory receives its last
paintstrokes: first the melting cloak, and then, ever
more delicately, the eye lashes...
...as the words utter a multiplicity of
universe but go unsaid... replaced by words
formed by actions of lips on lips... lady day lady
lady day... eternal day, even in the black, lady day...
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end notes:
front cover artwork interpolates drawings images:
front: 'untitled (two models)', c. 1985
back: Helmut Newton:
evie and her mercedes, Beverly Hills, 1996
drawings co directed and executed by Kofi Boamah &
Urda Heidi Alösa
paraphrased quotes: 'Beauty is a whore.' — Michael
Cunningham, The Hours
'a man resembles god and god resembles the world' —
Daniil Kharms, Today I Wrote Nothing
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