Sunday, November 16, 2008

Autumn

come with us to fields that cry the winding blades to blister

Deciduous Man ~ Frank Picini

In the underpass Bob Dylan’s Spray-paint shadow mutters “Defy”
Beyond the autumn trees that press schizoid branches to the sky
Pregnant with the calling moon that lights the verdant grass to whisper
“come with us to fields that cry the winding blades to blister”

In the undercurrent Dylan Thomas’ stenciled silhouette whispers “Deny “
And the autumn trees use scaffold branches to support the sky
The give way signs with corroded edges give it all away
To scalene cars whose passing causes the hedges to decay

In the underground Thomas Pynchon’s portrait warns Oedipa to fly
the autumn trees whose branches hide the secrets of the sky
The agents cock their causes close and cross the dotted line
Cause wounded worlds to edify and clouds to concubine

And underlings in fabled frames do raise their eyes to borders
Send the autumn trees to catch this season’s personality disorders
The climbing thighs of wastrels walk the path to minds unstable
And contrails curse the crochet trim of afternoon sky table

Those loiterers at the rumored rim of cities in the sky
Inhale the smoke from cigarettes as they carefully deny
The spray-paint shadows and silhouettes that clock the rooms to rent
And send you home with ink to pen those letters never sent

So suck your cheeks and roll eyes there’s bigger fish to fry
And don’t allow your skittered thoughts to smear the autumn sky
With lurking clouds and stenciled birds heading for the sun
And don’t believe or self-deceive that you’re the chosen one



  • A stream of thoughts triggered by graffiti spotted on the wall of the underpass near Turnham Green: a stenciled Bob Dylan (black and white days) above the word ‘Defy’.
  • Oedipa Maas is the single-minded heroine of Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Nexus Fish

-- Nexus Fish --
-- Second-hand copy in a Petri dish --
-- Bones unclothed --
-- Divining signs for the side if the road --
-- Skin back peeled --
-- Chalk outline for the truth revealed --
-- Saw-tooth spine --
-- Hook and claw versus sacrificial tine --
-- Aquatic druid --
-- Ancient history laced in eyeball fluid --
-- Tidal turned --
-- The hook ignored is a lesson learned --
-- Legacy sown --
-- Wisdom is the barb that you cannot own --
-- Tooth and gill --
-- Angle the face by force of will --
-- Scale and fin --
-- Knife dissects the mess we’re in --
-- Cat-gut line --
-- Cold water sliced hum a wake-up sign --
-- A liquid moon --
-- Hope like hell I wake up soon –-
-- Constellation wish --
-- Astral roads to the nexus fish --



I went fishing with Salvador Dali. He was using a dotted line. He caught every other fish
~ Steven Wright

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Semiotic Colonial Rhetoric


Myrna Burner ~ Kyle Baker

Did I dream I dreamt this life, up in a tree with the ape-man’s wife?
Swinging that arm in an arc to the future
Slice with kitchen knife a memory to suture
This two dimensional platform soul, this piranha-infested goldfish bowl
Watching the world with enclave eyes
Warped with wonder and self-told lies

And in dreaming did I the ceiling rent, needle eyes the firmament
The folds of time and taste and smell
Return my heart in chest to swell
And rise again on wings of words, illiterate, delicate, double-cursed
To see the world through eagle eyes
And break with glee these ancient ties

This semiotic colony is in dreaming realised, sends out ancient rhetorical spies
To mine the strata of this highway’s lost souls
Leaving the surface littered with pornographic holes
That weaken the mind with futile lust, the reaper, the empty husk
To see the day through glacial eyes
The body’s rise, the spirit’s demise

I may have dreamt it, may have constructed a psychic fire-pit
For wayward hearts and wildered wishes
Drained the drowning pool of Piscean fishes
Blown the leaves to kingdom gone and burst the air with offbeat song
But to dream is not to see through cataract eyes
The world and all whose hope on truth relies

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Word on a Wing


Don't wake me up without a master plan ~ Delgados (The Light Before We Land)


God and demons and desperate souls – the theory’s littered with circuit holes, ungrounded thought through which the world may be diligently sucked, pummelled pissed and pounded leaving little less that hope and hapless luck.
What follows is not the result of a long-running scientific investigation; nor carried hence on bended knees the words of some great divination.
But you may come to see that we are neither inherently good nor inherently evil (an impossible dream devised by the simple minded lens of the silver screen) – nor are we a monochrome gradation of black to white (those shades of grey will drain your light away in desperate attempt to colour).
This complex organism whose reflexes are dictated not by rules and regulatory bodies, but by a body of evidentiary responses gathered through millennia of evasive action:
-DNA switches and synaptic triggers; dopamine dancers and serotonin trances; childhood beatings and elementary teachings; alcohol lasers and ripped school blazers at the hands of the smokers and engine room stokers - Myriad fluctuations in the moons gravitation, water distilling in my imagination; teeth baring grimace at the world’s baptism; cerebral fracture at the terrible schism that lies at your feet, at your toe tip division between promises made and actions taken, between wishes coined and wells dug, between hope and hype, hell and high water.
Stranded here on the outskirts of town; where they still do things in a joined-up way; where the old men of method tried-and true still bedevilled hold sway; where the tombstones are inscribed with lessons learned and the flowers grow between the blades of municipal mowers; where traffic jams at pedestrian crossing and children glaze at pancake tossing.
Between the rows of hedges hewn that demarcate the limits of suburban imagination and the engines that steam from crucifix scorn to genuflect stations
When they say “Jump!” I say “Why?”

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Meteors


Orion now you join the dots on your studded stellar belt
Smile the smile with teeth bared grim for those injuries never felt
Wade across the nebulous pond of velvet ripples not
Seeking yet the answers that Darwin forced forgot

Lenses pointed at the gaping inscrutable firmament
Searching deeper desperate for love letters never sent
For broken hearts caked in slumber do once more return
To questions crumbed upon the chest fast asleep to yearn

The future’s tense the cold war cancer diligent deploys
Penis pointing schoolyard full of idiotic boys
Semites align with the bully boy the better equipped to beat
Those bogeymen waiting there to batter their brethren back to meat

This macho machine a ferrous arc does happily rotate
Lubricating inebriating the tributaries of your fate
Lightning crackles veins across the blue bright brittle sky
A teardrop crystal crackling clear in the corner of your eye

A tear a tear in fabric smeared with the blood of innocence
Bullets fired from vaults of greed that raise your moral rents
In a world made square by all that seeks the circle yet to rule
And teaches ignorance in childlike chunks of fish to school

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Hex Enduction Hour

The Fall ~ Hackney Empire 31.10.08

Watching (and hearing) The Fall isn’t necessarily a comfortable experience - its not as if they are a collective of equal sharing democrats; neither do they subscribe to any capitalist ethos where profits dictate success ~ It's not by accident that the event was billed as Mark E. Smith presents The Fall.
Mark E. Smith wandered onto the stage to join the latest, already grooving, incarnation of his band at The Hackney Empire last night to a boozy crowd, good-naturedly rowdy after being subjected to some experimental video torture which constituted the last of three support acts which included Bobbie Peru and John Cooper Clark.
Smith, all elbows and gurning, incongruously old amongst a relatively young band gave us a smouldering hour of The Fall: brilliance teetering on the lip of disaster.


The first thing that becomes evident is that Smith (although appearing three sheets to the wind) is in absolute control of the proceedings – or rather, he is the random element that is threatening to bring the whole thing crashing down into chaos. He scatters his lyric sheets untidily next to the drum kit, twiddles knobs on the Bass and Lead guitarists’ amps; drags his two (who needs two?) microphones around the stage in a tangle of wires, leaving one of them nestled inside the bass drum thereby subjecting the audience to screeching feedback; takes a random 5 second turn at the keyboard, wanders off stage on more than one occasion for purposes only to be guessed at, and on order to bring about the end of one particular song, signals to the drummer with a thumb-slit-across-the-throat.


The band themselves are superb: stolid, solid and focussed as if their lives depended on it – which in fact is probably the case, since that the only constant member of the Fall is the little dictator himself, Smith, notorious for treating his band like a football team, changes of personnel being a constant feature of The Fall’s 32 year journey along the edge.


I don’t claim to be a big-time Fall fan, the three albums spanning 1984 to 1986* where as long as I stuck with them, but it was at the request of my 14 year old son that I went last night, and I am very happy that I did.
I found myself watching in awe at the dynamic created between, on one hand, Smith’s carte blanch treatment of the band and the subsequent tension created, and on the other hand, the audience’s absolute sense of euphoria at being in the presence of a musical experience which, even after 32 years and (perhaps because of) numerous personnel changes, remains sharp, fresh and on edge – no dialogue between songs, no “you’ve been a wonderful audience”, just pure buzz.
Watching (and hearing) The Fall isn’t always a comfortable experience, but it’s an experience worth having.



*The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall; This Nation’s Saving Grace & Bend Sinister

Photographs by DanMud

Friday, October 31, 2008

A Shooting Star


Explosions in a vacuum – sounds for ears and sights for eyes sore enough to notice.
Pinpricks in the firmament, blood upon the moon; light polluted petulant
for words wont wax and legs wont walk the tightrope sent too soon
The slightest frame of mind defamed by strands of discontent
Into the loom where fabric feathers fatal futile trap
The unsuspecting with studded piston slap
And rocket reels to stratospheric high
Slams into the steely all-seeing eye
Disrupting TV signals teeming
Sideshow horseshit steaming
For hammed-up slips
Or slapstick trips
Down paths
of leaves
unturned
reveal
True
Meaning.
Insects scribe
While minds imbibe
The raw face of tomorrow
Not for want or need indeed
But for scattered seeds of sorrow
tears that gather yet the precious fading light
myriad mercurial tracks upon this edifice up-gazing
To hold the moment focussed now and forever fierce unfading
And wounded wished I were yet more than just a meteorite

Saturday, October 25, 2008

A Parallax View

Horst ~ The Nude

The Parallax View:
That which gives us depth, or at least the illusion of depth.
While predators stalk with similar focus, and prey depends and defends on the ability to see from both sides of the head, we wait in silence at the traps we have created for those who have not the awareness that death lurks inevitable, wait in the knowledge that our perception of depth is greater than the gift of a parallax view.

Sunday, October 05, 2008

Heartland

20 years on... what's changed?



The The ~ Heartland

Friday, October 03, 2008

Bankers


"So don't tell me about your success
Nor your recipes for my happiness
Smoke in bed
I never could digest
Those illusions you claim to have going"

~ Rodriguez (Rich Folks Hoax)