"A Night on the Tiles in the Metafuture" (a nod and a wink to JN)

And the pound of the boomdrum, the swagger of the bass (oh that bass that bass) whilst the treble creaks and etches pizzicato stutter with crazytime pattern. The colours and the music eyeing one another, flirting, teasing and falling in a cascade of love. And we, we are there. Really there. We are sauntering in the dubbed heaven.

The projected patterns surround, laser-licked and fast. Patterns emerging, responding to the soundwall that crashes around us. The projections anticipating the beat. And now the patterns merging, forming, the iterations resolving. Now I can see it. The wings frenzied. Colours blushing and morphing, swarming. The butterflies everywhere, dancing the airborne wild seven-step. Arrived.

The hands of the controller, funked to the eyes, blurring, flickering as they slip over the vinyl. Real old style. The fuzz, the crackle, feeding the speakers, harmonising with each new surge of soundpattern. The place where we are is fusing. Blowing fuses. Electricity flooding every corner.

Snapping now to the 4/4 bridge of pure digitasnare and thudthudthud of lower bass frequency (response response). Four to the floor. Snap snap snap snap.

The hands going wild over the decks. They swim with the grooveneedle. Searching the details of the plastic. Pulling new life from each frictiontone. The records dripping with movement, lubricated, slipping delightfully. Each tweak of the fingers, a new slide, a new waterfall of sound.

Beatscapes framed by the electro subrange pounding, and spliced to the heavens by the stuttering vinyl pulls with bleeps and whistles and calls to the young. “The night is ours, the night is ours.”

wished unhappy birthday

They came to wish me an unhappy birthday

They came with yellowed teeth,

And hair entwined and splashed with the shades of an albino moon.

Fingers inter-weave and limbs are lost in each other.

Glaring endlessly into the shallowness of one to another’s

Eye sockets.

They exchange bitter spittle;

Slurping.

A love you were, now lost

A former love of mine.

The way in which I see you now

The truth,

Could not,

Be more,

Refined.

modernity lover

tonight she washed the future from her skin
(never again to be sold on such cheap tricks).
"rid of me rid of me.
wrong of me,"
Sayeth she,
"lest i remember,
may i ever forget".

"anti emotion", or "the further maddening of royal george, overseer, monitor and informant (salubriety and sobriety division, north-east sector)"

to set the swelling scene
the heart rises and chokes
in the throat;
black night fast approaches
and it is raining
(mais bien-sur...
...this is poetry, darling, and that is poetic licence)
and each night is now the same.
down swelling heart!
down you
(and damn you!)

more on the wooden bowl (images for ezra)

Saphired horizon -
Dance with
Saffron delight;
Cinamon swirls
Heaven-wards
Take flight.

...And yet earthly
Still,
My plain wooden bowl;
Looks longingly to the skies,
Knotted and brittle,
And with death in the eyes.

lost london (unfinished)

the quiffed bygone ex-hipster;
a greenish swallow etched on bristly neck
(he has his own seat in Mulligans and a taste for the bitter black)?

the sullen cheeked
rock'n'rollers parading
round and round and round?

Beat-boys, reebok revellers
circling the poodles, perms and high heels
late on saturday, forever saturday?

pashmina-wrapped and polythene-pout pretend
socialites,
thirty and still so alone (you reap what you sow, darling)?

class-hopping liverpool street boys done good
hitting the equities, hitting the bars, hitting the coke,
hitting the missus?

london, we can not wait.
confess, london!
hold up your hands;
admit your contempt,
give in to your hate.

unmodern love

Heavenly Cloth

Had I the courage of the heavens,
Verily,
I would lay these at your feet in gentle solliloquy.
And had I more than middlenight tears
To weave,
I would spin the stars into a cloth for you,
Sweet, my love; precious, my dear.

the free indirect

And in the beginning there was the Word. And the Word was with God. And the Word was God.

Knowing fully, understanding that the new beginnings have assailed the Word of old and now Our Lady of Lore, Protector of our minds, is lost, as to the wind. And we cry and pray and pine for a return of meaning, of something to bind us.

there is a new word on the street baby and it is ripe with the modern and blushing with themodernity viva viva viva for the metasubrevolution and the new life it imparts and the dreams that it turns to spangly gold warm and touchyfeely with regnerationism and under the influence of the wordemanicipator roll up roll up freedom freedom

the lost voice

I know nothing of this talk. Nothing of these feelings. I am what I am…. and that is … and that is … and that is … lost.

But perhaps lost is a bad term because I am not looking, or moving. Since The Changes I stopped my life, as everything was sucked to pallid grey and the breeze felt more a recycler, than the potent refresher of old.

Old is a term of some relevance, given my age. This I can remember. Not much that I can remember (in all truthfulness) from life, but the snatched images are fully diverse enough and pitted with black holes of sufficient weight as to warrant conclusions that

1 – a past there is (was)

2 – aforementioned past is relatively vast.

3 – Thusly, I am old

Of course another indicator of advanced years might be the cracked loosely wound skin sucked around my boneframe; pliable and playful in desperately bored hands…in all truthfulness, in all honesty, in all frankness, the desperation and boredom suggesting age as much as the skin.

But I still hold some things in this head. This fragile memory holds out still.

And I can almost breathe the air of the saffron-deep sunsets that washed the sky. The melding clouds that whisped far above, framing pockets of colour. And there we held hands and fell in love, and drunk in each other and lived for a meaning that stands alone.

The memories edge back into a sharper focus.

I am remembering you now. Your hair and hands and …and the way that … and when we used to … and we cried and laughed at the same time it seemed … And the tragedy of it all. The dreadfulness. The rouge and the scarlets. How you were taken, lost to me. And gone you were. And then the hurtypain came (comes) and seeps through the skin and to the bone and to the heart and head. The unstopping loss that thuds dully and with maddening rhythm in a mess of thought, in a confusion, unending, building in a crescendo of such subtlety that its peak is unthinkable in pitch and distance and yet it continues…

No I will not continue here. I will not reminisce and reconjure. You are gone and I was never here … or there. It was not me, these visions are not mine. Mine is the grey. Mine is the lacking. Mine is the recycling breeze into which all life slowly empties meaning and colour.

To this end I draw your attention to the following observations

1 – I am speaking and you are listening

2 – I will not be speaking of my life, even if occasionally I slip into the autobiog Mode. Most certainly NOT me.

3 – Thusly, I am a liar and not to be afforded attention or gravitas.

post-modern

>the beauty and the screen and the discord and the deconstruction>all on screen on screen >things will not should not hang in balance by some overarcher>some preacher>some supposer>just the medium and then>nothing>stop>we have the technoholistics>all is curable, mendable, must be fixed>stop>VIVA STERILITY>stop>celluloid does poor justice to a binary universe>drowning in the gates>the not the nor the nand>drowning in the numbers>beautiful changes> stop>the suffocation of these> the stifling that they conjure>yes, not yes>positive, neutral>light, lack>one, zero>please, begging, no more neutrals, no more not yesses, no more lacking, no more filling-cups>Give us a NO, the dark>stop>(poetric subroutine begins)/please satisfy our thirsty minds that clutch for opposites as lungs for air>(subroutine ends)/stop>FREE THE META FROM THE NEUTRALITY>stop>end>//

pre-modern : for lost child

From the depth of night
I plucked a thread of starlight,
And spun
A cloth for you, my love
My cherished one

Yet the starlight was plain;
the cloth unfit for a name;
So I undid what I had done

And turning to the earth
In the hope of finding you there
I carved a wooden bowl
Into which I poured my despair