lady day...

  • No tags were found...

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

YUMPU automatically turns print PDFs into web optimized ePapers that Google loves.

Kofi Boamah

lady day...

Kofi Boamah





© Copyright of Artist Kofi Boamah


lady day...

a painting in words

Kofi Boamah



'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





'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


...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


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...



...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




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


...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




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...



...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


....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




...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,


...the light seeping out, whilst

...the cage in her right eye settles

...right by the bird flying through sheaths of


....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...


...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


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...




...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


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


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...


...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...




...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



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




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


...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




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



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...


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,



...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




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



...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





...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...


writing three

a couple of days with hand inside

lips, dry with your hand


you're disturbing these,

dishwater notions


did Mary orgasm that night?

the water gets wet


in the shadows of warm disorder

does anything truly exist there?


are you art?

or simple instructions








...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,


...the structure of an embarrassed silence

between two meeting persons outside the Art shop,

the unintended poetics of Performance Artistry, body



...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...



..age occurring in thighs, with slight


...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


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




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




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




...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...


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...





in my heart...


...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


green eyes peering into her own skull from the end

of her nose, the rattle of a passing car blaring the






...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...







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...




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


...is there such a thing as virtue in arousal?

perhaps not, as these happenings are mostly in the







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...


non —

...is the sun

not looking..?



there when

? xxx




'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



...Pica's dead body stirs a black metal pot..

with a wooden spoon... the ingredients:



chopped onions


slices of Chicken breasts



olive oil

chopped potatoes






...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


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


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



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


...Ordog stops outside a room, marked Red

Primary, which has four rows of beds on each side




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...


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,


...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...




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...


...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...


his voice shrill but punchy: he rarely rests on 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




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...


...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


...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,


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...


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...


...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



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




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


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]



writing six

...the incidents of words... mosaic... now

Mary is taking it with Joseph asking if he's as good


...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


...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...





...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,


...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




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]



...Melania has taken to also watching Serge

Gainsbourg's 'Gloomy Sunday' as if post irony, post suicide,

without actually leaving for the sky...


...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...


...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...


...drawing by Allen Ginsberg...


...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...



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...





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


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


...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


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...


...like a real poem Pica has scrawled a series

of words on an envelope perhaps to Dictionary










...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...




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..


...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,




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




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...


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


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...


...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...


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


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


...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


...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...








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...


writing eight

my pussy died

but God you don't care about that Cat

rather you're

gynecology is fingering


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...





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





Melania Estrella

poems in the key of death, tickling

rainbows chubby clouds...


...notations from the black, one...

i can barely get out of bed

whiskey bottles sprawled everywhere

along with clear sanity

cotton mouth


...notations from the black, two...

...diving into rims

of whiskey bottles

king of the night...






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...


notations from the black, four


i am nothing but

highly strung guitar strings

pulling into a

tongue scream

propelling into

dry notations


neon sisyphus




...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...


...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...









'I've a dream of my own. My one dream. A

dream of dreams.' — Slyvia Plath, Johnny Panic

and the Bible of Dreams



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...




...Letter From Estrella...

...she started to write letters, without an

address and no identification of knowing where she

was, just these words...


...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


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


...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



...are we notihng more than bones,

...still Your Estrella





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



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


and the night and have to make up for it on the

weekends, spending a little time during the early







...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?









...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...


...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....


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!



...i answer the phone only to her...





...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,



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...


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..


half a lemon



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...















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








'Floats calm as a cloud.'

— Slyvia Plath, Collected Poems [Heavy Women, 26




writing ten

there's an allure so voluptuous


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


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








VARANASI[time 6:66 date: 29/02]


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...


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,


...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




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


- 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?



...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


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...







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




Hooray! Your file is uploaded and ready to be published.

Saved successfully!

Ooh no, something went wrong!