1. |
Ocean of Noise
05:39
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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.
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2. |
The Song of the Earth
00:32
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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
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3. |
"At the Wolves!"
03:31
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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
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4. |
CREAM
01:29
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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.
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5. |
Leaves
00:06
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sew linens and leaves
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6. |
Live in '74
01:26
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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
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7. |
Isolation
00:37
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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.
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8. |
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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.
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