From Sunshine:

The wind that lives within the Denver basin is unlike the winds I’ve ever known, a wide flat draught of imperceptible temperature. In great sweeping tides, a roll of unhindered form glides across the soundless desert, burgeoning gracefully up to the ridges of the mountainous rock and slides round, ever uniform in languorous swirl. A constant energy commanding the land. The land itself seems unearthly. There are grid tracks leading to lonely sentinel farms, corralled by scant, lone soldier trees and defiant vegetation. Towards the northern horizon, the unmoving flatness upends a morass of beached-cooked rock, sleeping as motion, hewn smooth by the wind, like an enormous creature left parched beyond reach of the ocean. Together this wind and rock arouses the fealty of survival, and the people squirm on the plateau floor. Forever, the work turns in the breeze, this elemental work scatters hard mineral dust over them, settling on their doormats and in their hair. The atmosphere reflects pre-history in their eyes and they stare at the magnificence of space and monolith, and try to take on the earth’s apocalyptic dimension.

 

 

From the Paradox of Sex

Man destroys the fantasy of relaxation because he is at the centre of it. A woman destroys the glamour, hiding the truth, that there is no centre. This is how they fight and what they fight about.

 

 

From One Bastard Too Many

Note to self. When is one bastard too many? Cogito, ergo sum, I think therefore I am, even if I am not in his eyes, but there is deus ex machina, something or someone that comes in the nick of time to solve a difficulty, the saving of a seemingly hopeless situation, that he don’t like me, a riddle trapped in an enigma, for there I was and he wanted it, but it’s namby-pamby now, it's hoity-toity, higgledy-piggledy.

He said, “I love you to bits!” but I know it’s Kyber Pass-arse, Ayrton Senna-tenner - who's going to buy the wine? It’s a boat race, your face, some bread and honey-money. It’s not for sure my Bristol-cities-titties, and I feel brown bread dead, and like I’d pry and have a Butcher's - butcher's hook-look. My old China, China plate-mate - I thought we did?

But now I’m cream crackered - knackered. So I ring and say, “I love you!” on the Dog and Bone - the phone, and all day I’m an elephant’s trunk - drunk. I’m not a ginger beer-queer I swear - and I see your Hampton-Wick-Prick/dick cos you treated me like a horse n’ cart-fart, though I’m not a Sexton Blake fake or a tea-leaf-thief on your tod, Tod Sloane, alone, but a memory of a bigger bang for your buck, a foregone conclusion.

But a fool and his love and his money is soon parted, a legend in one’s own lifetime, all at Lloyds.

A charm offensive I didn’t win.

You must be like a sick old dog who keeps escaping, committing a crime and then returning to hospital pleased as punch.

You’re the iceberg to my crazy loco britches, you’re a booby prize though I hit the target, utterly potty-dotty, a brilliant display none the wiser. Low and behold you threw your hands in the air and made me feel I belonged in the cheap seats, but you are a bad debt and you won’t pay up.

And you would understand me if you thought inside the box and I was hoping you would think inside the box.

But don’t risk your biscuit, the trumpeters might strike and your psycho-kinesis is where you moved me outta there by mental influence without physical contact. I know a bad hand when I see it.

So do one.

Doodah, you’re just one bastard too many.

 

 

From Karen and Leo

What is Love?

Love is an open eye

you can look into me

I won’t stop you

my eyes will receive you

give unto me or take from me

I cannot deny what is there

If I am innocent before you in my eye

or cold-blooded

or for myself

I will see

Seeing is impossible to ignore

In our mind’s eye

If I close my eye to you

or blink, or refocusing what I intend

you will know

If I am doe-eyed or emptied in my eye you will see

If I am lost you will see

If I have been lying to myself about you, you will see

For the eye is in the mind and the mind is in the eye

But if you ask of me the ultimate questions

I may not answer you with my mind’s eye

See for yourself God says

You cannot stop seeing for you are my vision

In all, but ultimate power, in the eye

What if I carried out my will even if I was deciding to bend to your will

Do I have absolute power or any power in my eye to see?

Am I submitting to God or to myself?

But I have done it all, I am complete

I have been your doormat and your chairman

I have been your grain of sand and your universe

And I saw your every advantage

To prove?

I called you spirit creatures

But you called yourself human

By give and take, what’s the difference

We are here

If it didn’t matter

We would simply die together en masse and never want to exist, finale, end

This is not the case

I leave you with our trace

I leave you with our consciousness of our being

no one envied us

 

 

 

Fuckarama

Fuck is about the defeated character

about people who are fucked up or fuck off,

Who say fuck it,

And say Go fuck yourself

We think about bad fuckers and fuck you

What they do to people

The fuck is excess and limit

The carnal destroyer’s full stop at debauchery

But by then the whole fuckarama has become

Reliable, spectacular wonder

 

 

 

Alora Venchaza Va Sera

Alora venchaza va sera

stole it from the Italians

came to me one day out of the sky and I loved to say it

exasperation; so what’s next?

from the end of the book I wasn’t trying to write

it’s meaning, you’re getting on my last nerve

As Rose said

But it’s why I ask you again

You got my attention

But what do you want?

I can’t see your peaceful self

But your omnipresence

I can’t forget your absence of presence

A negative vortex of antimatter

I said to myself

But something else I know you were not saying innocently

(The unlimited source, the soul value of the core of creation)

So you created alright,

But thus be spake

The unguid, thank you James,

Sadly I’d never read a blueprint for a woman

(Nymph, sylph, crone, vamp, medusa, the list is too long for a woman

and too short for a man)

How to think, no aspersions on the pillars of wisdom

But Alice and Cinderella just seem to be young ladies

that we know what they are thinking

but be sent to Coventry

As if an existence wasn’t existing

But in some dark corridor in your mind

So nothing alarming

A thousand abandonings

Around the world in eighty thousand miles

Down the lonely highways

Where home wasn’t within

And home wasn’t without

I expected your love

But the four angels for that very hour

That love guides us all?

That is our home?

Alora venchaza va sera

I see

 

 

 

From The Evil Tail

Ma taught me to take shit from people and Pa taught me to punch them up for it. Ma gave me heart and Pa gave me muscle. But all that's my own is my ass. And for that, the World spits and denies, flag-waves and enshrines. Fascinated and repelled by ass currency: ass subjectivity.

I drive through the crowded streets, thinking I am driving to freedom. Free from this diamond-ass status and glory, far from salvation and nemesis, free from the truth – my ass is the history of mankind. The unwritten bible. But I am just a crack whore.

For I live in the atmosphere of general auction and I fuck the moon. I am hyperbole dressed for dinner at the function of distrust as the monsters, clowns and psychopaths arrive resilient. They wear unholy masks and walk in chains in dungeons and they make no mistake or are caught instantly admiring themselves. The management stinks. Nothing but the celebration of rank and dodgy waiters. Best to keep the rest of me down.

And the funny thing is, the whole delectable cosmos of ass, my demanding ass, chaotic-loving ass, my fear and deceiving ass; stench oozing through perfume – my sylph-rider alter-ego of this treasured white ass, my coming and final ode and death of this ass, I was taught was mute or dumb and had no fuck-worthy wisdom.

Nothing to tell me of the ages and rocks. No understanding and no mouth and yet it is one and it sings. No soul connective, and yet the soul is patently brought to life through this connection. No by-lines, and no jokes and no captured judgement or law.

 

 

VERONA

After being spied on around the city I made it to the airport, spies scurrying
around to the bus. I had for once in my week in Verona caught the spy on my
camera. It was like I had slapped his face. The police appeared in concert in a
row to view the spectre of myself as I wrote this in ode to Proust, waiting for
my flight, drinking wine with pleasure for myself. I did not want to leave Italy,
it was that beautiful. I cried after writing this, in the aeroplane, not wanting to
go back to London.
The psychological impact of not smoking in public places is that the face or activity of anxiety; the energy
of tension, the weight of minds vampirishly stealing not only the permission of oxygen in the vicinity to
inhale, but on conclusion, - according to one’s place in space, one’s physical architecture of one’s material
– the chemistry and affectual gravity of response, the primogeniture of cause, exported intact – as my
Duty Free bag informed me, that publica officiale mounts an offence.
Beyond the smoke, is sight. The vision clear for any ascent or descent of the infinitely particular. The
English cause, reduction to censure the work of offensive architecture. But not themselves.
As it presented to me as one fluid equation.
The Veronese team automatically constructing the defensive ‘V’ during the work of the book. There was
no trace of either vampire or volcano, so I took it well. Why go back to the U.nited K.atastrophe? A
question posed within before leaving. In many instances the fingers had become a message of belonging,
even in fantasie – to the Italian vivace of my spirit. La Vivace Viva.
For the first time I bought cigarettes and perfume in contradiction of planned use. What did weigh upon
me was the question of use. The use of meanings behind one’s immovable personal, the use of energy
within the unalterable laws of the universe – with man in it – with his unbearable contradictions, as if a
flower, stamped with the curse of a stupid boot, does not have it’s roots within the soil, that it may be
crushed by armies only to know the exact pressure of man.
I had been warned. Barred. Thwarted – tripped. Yet there is the moment when warriors challenge and
stand to their right stampa. Looking to the challenge; often defeats it. This is expected, wanted, sung in
the supermarket squash.
Too many thanks had become the First Phase, the force of gravity sensitively mine. If there had been
another way I would have taken it. The visual literacy becoming what was Spirito Sancti – invisible –
even, (and) thinking of death, we did not die (together). The lightening, we flew around.
I am back from Verona – Verona is back where it was, without my fumerica, Polizia Calma.
Trust is a non-renewable resource. It is the central quality of everyday social negotiation; apathetic trades.
You will do what you say, you do mean that, you are the you presented here. But everybody knows the
trade is a sham. When a critic of human consciousness deems to that their adjudication on the current
tragedy, the core of the message must contain the facts; nothing is certain between humankind; there is the
cross of inability to speak the plain as day truth, even close. The negotiating of this trust is in fact does not
exist, if you look closely enough, they are habits, cowardice, purple society but they are not the jewels of
trust. The human cannot afford to be so selfless. These are not even the words to do so. But trust is a
limited artifice. It is taught to be real by those who require it as their lawful manipulation or destruction of
what trust is used for: faith, belief, generally and specifically to themselves, to suppress always the true
mechanical dimensions of being separate beings.

For this reason, it has always seemed more sensible not to write – since I would be writing to persons who
were non-existent – as I am essentially to them. Since it seems that the human only requires vulnerability
in a life state, the perpetuation of a false struggle equals the level at which the falseness of negotiation of
trust is maintained. The last thing anybody wants is how I could represent this no-mans-land – it is less
trouble now to state this enforced misanthropy.
It is easier now to travel and to like knowing that no one is worth trusting. I realise what others are not
for: what they will refuse me without being in access of a constructed toleration of what will lack
eventually at my end. (I know this as sadism).
Trust is in fact non-negotiable, and it disappears like a huge crowd looks like to a drunk, which I am
becoming; it becomes a grotesque movement; purposes you could reliably tell them lacked this certainty.
The rush is perfidy counting straw, weighing sincerity from animals. And once the human in contained
within their animal structure in your mind’s eye – they seem to lose their chances, for where is the
selflessness in seeing a dumb animal, unable to speak either for themselves or others. How could the
claim as worthy needs than are no more than automatic? - be something they are conscious of and truly in
control of? When they are merely slaves to themselves they are unable to be masters even of the moment,
for animals look blindly to the trough, thy forget they were once able to find the lake, the place they fear
most and that is carried as the invisible enemy with voluble resentment.
The point about literature, history, philosophy and even science is that females do not have and may be
only pretended to have, full-time lives. He and check out law and order! I can only see states and cities
and families that without feminine suffering do not exist, and this existence more than caricature, identity
or even easy imposture, for we are all essentially male – it is he who has constructed this place and within
is the sound of this suffering, that given actual access to creativity the females loses. Look at the male
creator, lost in a silent desert without his brothers and sisters. He must still evoke what he is seeing in
suffering, either his own or the provocation of others. Women are the true bachelors, for the male exists in
one plane or latitude; fixed. Weak woman, neither one sex nor the other bid the stronger sides wishes – for
the privilege. Weak men do not condemn other men, they keep them in their insanity, to fuel the suffering
again. Hardly any man knows what the women is capable of knowing – to say and demand. Most
countries still prefer both sexes to retain the least of their capacities, since the world is only afraid of
growth, that demands stability and through actual spiritual contact. Most conceptions do not happen
because of faith not biology. (I kept the double negative).
How did this country (Italy) attain it’s dedication to beauty; the ironic, saluted, precious repulsion of lost
consciousnesses; back again to this argument – they are not into trees and it seems shoreline erosion must
have been a long term threat.
Il communisto was cleared yet the dictate of strolling, that there was, Domenica, in the atmosphere of
instead Godless ossification, and that the modern citizens of Italy had but two short presentations of their
elected perceptibility liked the acute attention to paid to one’s face, and outward presentation, the
necessary manners of clothing in the very best. A tramp I expected would be viewed in the same way as
bubonic plague – there was one in the chilly night who talked to the buzzing in his long beard – the
enemy. As usual clean shaven, almost hairless and in almost the deliberate insult predictably bumless man
stalked me. The city then, part shrine to beauty part feeling catwalk to outdoor parade park for the
citizen, in the best sense of the word, to intermingle in subdued wanderlust – since there was only rock
and ice valleys beyond the ebbing, (where were the parks of trees?) ebbing away of the ground beneath
them, the point beyond of the formally balanced designs of the old buildings waiting to reflect the sun;
that will come; that are tails of the people’s skin, and veins, of their minds connected in a vertical path
from the central magnetism of the earth. Even the humble path is the quality of smothered marble, not a
soft composite, that if it has shifted over time, is left. The edifice was limited, was surpassed in my
limited experience, for once, cast in stone, the rock this land’s ally, crumbling as the chapel did,
presumably from the exhaustion of the emotion it had absorbed, into the mist. Chunks of restoration,
words or and about stone; the central piazza of Verona a ceaseless fanning of what cannot be called
cobble, and the ever present feeling from the horizon, cut off from my vision by labyrinth, (that there is

only love when you need the love and there is love), since they are too carefully settled, although for
practical purposes they have bus lanes. The same can be said of human relations.
Written at home:
Meanwhile, separated from the dream that was Verona – escaping an even stranger set of followers – I
would say predators (one of which from the supermarket and through town hunted me so I ducked into a
shop door and took his picture) but for what reason were they following me? The book is no further into
being and the will to claw on and on, almost worse than any contrived image of a product of a set of
beliefs in contemporary artists or for art. To some art is irrelevant and denigrates as excessive spiritual
indulgence, or as an act to inculcating identity (surely the stupidest, mine, ever accumulated). Barely the
desire or joy of searching for this impulsive idea, publish a book of art, another (Hi) Karumba (Korumbus
GK meaning cluster) – ha, ha, ha, that to even pray in the chapel, observed as what? So a further example,
is that everyone else is in the normalcy of not judging and my retreat has become just that and confusion
as to how far the contrivance of society includes me, my will, (a numbed junk bond) for my incredible,
stupidity (just one more relationship) and have become the symbol of transparent concepts – heavy on the
con apparently, but I am convinced that all I ever wanted was to get into something and lose myself
somehow. I must have sent my ghost to Verona. It is, from the point of view of the follie of my fear (for it
can nothing less) of writing the attack against society that in it’s present state supports the known quantity,
most of that a cycle of superficial exclusions from each other, that never for a second of human history,
from the amoeba to now has been real or true, yet here I am, purposefully fucked out on my impotence,
unconnected to the passing of time as much as my physical manifestation is largely my enemy, and my
mind a circus for which the acts seem crummy and that there is no exit – a mind of little use to me. The on
going repulsion of my complaint, ungrateful at the beneficence of the potent, at their patience against the
vision of my suspicions (that as soon as I am aroused I am excluded) having consumed so many years in
slavering over want, without success, without the token possession of being exclusive (to one) and also
without knowing the spies purpose, or address or their agency.
As R D Laing says in The Facts of Life; ‘There’s nothing that affects our chemistry more immediately
than other people’ (1976).
The man that followed me did not appreciate the return of spectator to him. First he made himself known
to me in the supermarket appearing in aisles I was in, and in the queue, where in general public’s
requirement is to act as the general public it is not a custom, decorum or even consent in our behaviour as
it is the regard to our organised point of survival and have about us the same dedication to this process as
any animal. But being haunted by someone which is strange because my name (or so I thought then) does
not relate to power or money. As all scenes of attack, the less able crowds the table with their losing cards.
Our sights and mode are linear, despite the packaging, or prices, or layout of the shop, the mighty shop of
the world under which we have become subdued and to which we submit.
The vital acknowledgement of a stalker is, in a public place, with these elements at work, a place where it
is abnormal to include other strategies of the animal-mind-predator and to talk in a supermarket is an
excellent choice, since there is the final negotiation of exchange, the physical route and to gain access to
the target is of immense importance. The spy in the supermarket made the incident very clear, in a
physical sense and a mental sense, that his concentrated mental concept, a sort of venom was being
directed at me and an increase in a sort of subjective self protectionism was real. Alone in an Italian city,
being sought out, is quite unexpected, (apart from Artegrafica) I sought out no company, it was the
concrete concept toward myself, are you looking for something or am I in your way, equally fictitious
questions or links to such a predator, for it is instantly known, that their purpose is essentially destructive.
The human registers their intention clearly. We know what we do. Focus is uninhibited, crystallized. The
‘value’ is the point of all currency – even the fresh faced model is superficially the representation of
purity – even from food.
Thinking is the most dangerous of occupations it seems. I remember now and then Verona – not when I
say Calma Belissimmo, but the evening I spent getting lost on purpose.