T.E. Lawrence owned a Brough Superior SS100 - one of the first of its kind twin-cam KTOP JAP engine tailor made by George himself It is the silkiest thing I have ever ridden… He died while riding it along the German border sequoias and pines turned argentine flesh into asphalt and young bones, broken, began to germinate the skull collapses into a yellow floating flower and I! nailing honey - dry roses and lilacs Lily was born in Palestine holy water touched upon her Jew ankles and folded cortical waves of white into rigid organs not unlike Damascus steel She would not be like the hero of Troy whose Royal Air Force badge was left in a jewelry box containing one Patek Caliber an ocean of noise and 63 thousand dollars in Afghan currency Ives lived in the tropics, however and saw gravity flares fall upon native burial sites - the Māori plight Jannat, Medina. Thomas once peeled an orange that bled black earth tar and clear white gold pellucid into his veins All the young children have heroin eyes S.A. was an Indian boy who played the pan piper’s fiddle in Tamil Eelam Do you know the path that shines crimson flags and silk lines of flight tried by clipped sparrows with split lives from the high rock and solemn cry of capitulating water Envy he outran me And took you apart Cahya was a junk mariner a fish merchant a street fighting champion whose authenticating fists could make the pinball block stop slot breaker seem like a viable reality. I loved you, so I drew these tides of Men into my hands And wrote my will across the Unshattering sky, but all the demi-breakers have gone on to live unfulfilling lives – a basement cubicle den complete with a vintage pioneer stereo cassette tape deck and full size working refrigerator. The problem’s name is God My father was a woodcutter a sylvan soul singer who played calm declarations to young, Australian rules Hibernian footballers banging round leather objects off of the peace lines. The problem’s name is God My mother was an Austrian and spoke Hebrew Her older brother took part in the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand Her cousin came through Ellis Isle and wrote for the Subversive Chronicle She visited him there once, and made love to John Reed She had psychic insight - and was able to undue the German Reich with a sprocketed nitrocellulose plane that she attached to a beach off of the coast of France She now edits my history for me and keeps calm dreaming figures of porcelain and glass safe inside my (Victorian) Sapporo palace The problem’s name is God I am the orb of Glory A circular wave extends outwards from me and towards your poor soon to be burned body Death seemed my servant on the road, ‘til we were near and saw you waiting: Anna was our getaway driver she took her alias from a Russian courtesan in furs and smoking from the slender bakelite holder - On the streets of St. Petersburg at night the dead of winter. Men prayed me that I set our work, The inviolate house, As a memory of you But for fir monument I shattered it, Unfinished: and now The little things creep out to patch Themselves hovels In the marred shadow of your gift. I was born in Stockholm to a Salafi cleric and an Indo-European Marxist-Leninist ceremonial chorister Her chest beat black and resonant when the towers fell down three-thousand Portuguese recusants were executed by firing squad. Their bodies were thrown from the cliffs of St. Vincent and into the Atlantic Ocean.

I used to sing sad songs would let my voice draw upon the resonance of the Earth so as to find the hallowed drone that tolls in silence Now I just have it out with the rain

The lives of suicidal men are writ as pedagogy and popular fiction What we, in the West, have to deign from the entire history of an accursed patrimony are the few lines drawn across a page there as a lament for that God has died and that all there is now left of that which is good in the world gets expressed by that the ink has been left to have had bled upon the page When Robert Ford Kennedy died an Irish Anarchist played the harp atop the Cliffs of Moher and sang to me a restless farewell In Palestine I remember a shrine to that which is called the “Archangel” Gabriel there in the ruins of Rafah All of us flee death My life has been spent on the run from Rudolf Geidl, Corneliu Zelinski, and Željko Ražnatović I would write you a song on the violin had I only an urban precipice to play it from What men whom I am still too timid and ashamed to say are like me lack is history All that anyone ever finds out is what the best of journalists just don’t quite have the heart to print in the press You can read an entire apocrypha into the pages of Wikipedia None of us are quite sure when this war began All that I know is that a young poet had taken two capsules of cyanide after having burned down a museum Because I am unwilling to be systematically eliminated I am marked for systematic elimination That’s Madness and Civilization for you I had once thought that it would be better to mark the outset of Postmodernity as having begun on the Tenth of December in 1948, when the Universal Declaration of Human Rights was ratified Crestfallen, as I am now, I, without the conviction to refer to what can only be described as “nihilism” as being characterized as “resolve”, can only cite it as having begun on the Nineteenth of April in 1883, a year to the day after the death of Charles Darwin, when Sir Francis Galton coined the term, “Eugenics”. I await the next era and hope that the acceleration of technological progress will not have made J.G. Ballard’s Crash more ad rem than it is now I can still survive in this world and demand poetry I can still survive

every midwestern Kriegspeil playing Coven records with the haunted house & slight interest in wicca the living eschatology from the broken mouthpiece of my car stereo a forsaken calm in the dead of winter driving through the snowstorm and peeling the shell off of an egg as the churchbells ring out at 1 a.m. in a town not far from where I used to live a dead end belief a burnt My Bloody Valentine CD from a dishwasher your ULTRAVIOLET waves & unorthodox femicide issuing speeches on post-war Germany from the post of a University out of Iowa. controlling – TRAGIC – controlling ISRAELI motorcop & zombie film an underground circuit… breathing CANYON WATER breathing 5 o’clock with the English suicide.

sew linens and leaves

1 cheap plastic tape player Bowie – Live in ‘74 and all the elfin [Marquee] speed-driven Bantu boys bust up lost coast-ridden celluloid picture frames and found objects Jeff’s cibachrome piece sativa spliff and Sweet Thing high -schizotype- and an empty porcelain bathroom that I swear came straight out of Songs From a Room Jesse’s epileptic fits my [unknowing] navitae and her terror [control] now absent gate and fully operational hexapod smiling Chrysanthemum tear apart my flesh Love, day divides the absent horizon turns all beforedawn into two unyielding halves atom split and never whole leaves only the rapt seizure driven - unholy spectres to come singing ]through the surface Your possession was a fever dream that I had about a girl who shot a journalist through a plate glass window

These days I just sit in my basement. Drink black coffee. pace fucking circles – get pissed – wait for the ship to come in. Today? Tomorrow? Maybe the next. Waiting, always waiting. There is nothing left in me.

the white sheet for the projector screen – the soft blacklight-purple glow and psychic combustion – the internal breathing of the black & ultraviolet. the slow light wavering snowfall and the minutemen set – 15 seconds. the crashing waves of an oversized amp and my head beating against the post in our basement. the strawberries – the cut strawberries. the eight odd hours go by in seconds – a blur from here to there – from here to there. People stop in for frozen yogurt and they only ever see my back – speed. malice & speed. An age that never fully realizes itself – My youth – all left down in waves of light. your new barricading Belfast – photographs from the countryside – old film reels of John F. Kennedy – baby’sbreath – the flowing waves of grass and the Ivory Coast – another TV docudrama about heroin. A motorcade & A motorcycle. A teenager in his late-twenties – The children of the American New Left in North Hampton. A song by David Tibet – YOUNG SOUL REBELS – A track off of The Temporal Continuum – ‘For god sakes man . . . a photograph of a death mask – your slow ecstatic high – the woe waning. A widower who reminded me of Adele H. France – absent. listening to THE WHITE MAN IN HAMMERSMITH PALAIS in a hotel in Chicago at an event put together by the ISO and getting blown for the first time in the grass by an overpass outside of the airport. listening to CRYSTAL CASTLES in the backyard of friend’s house – smoking cigarettes – the computer speakers and the subwoofer. Last year I waged a war against the Intelligence Services in order to leave the Information Trade. SOMEWHERE the story is written on the back of a wine bottle. Somewhere a ROGUE intelligence officer plays a game of chess over his radio – a closed information system. SOMEONE discovers a film canister in the Andes – everything is white & gold and adorned with a light green hue.