I inhale

September 12, 2013 at 11:34 am (Bodies, Halves, misogyny, poem, The Real) (, , , , , , , , )

I found Cissy wrapped up in a grubby paisley throw upon the riverside where I knew it was her before unrolling from all that matted red hair out the top it was luminous and partdreaded but perhaps would coil if brushed it lay on the dusty sunroasted asphalt clean somehow protruding bodiless from the O opening of greenblue weave I knew it was her before I rolled her and the face was when it came pale and unfamiliar though fitting  and the sight of my own sore hands on and rolling out the bluegreen cloth awoke me in some sense of myself as the centre of a tableau I was my own audience to and so she was unwound at the riverside which suggested drowning but her lips pink and dry and asking for I’m sure everything she eventually got as I thought cruelly my becoming aware of her discovery at all before here in venom though lucid I am paralysed I am  always paralysed for a moment upon revelation just as on waking the exception being so distinct from the rule I leap out of bed sometimes my chest throbbing onto the river bed perhaps lay her to rest either in before or since the rescue which itself was staged by someone else her counterpart my carer though a creation as much as any old thing I can think before I see but her is and that unrolling body tumbles about the bleengrue teardrops the wrists leaping over each other and clatter on her thin bones her body unfolded itself to me as she unfolded herself at my push a mile or two from gruebleen sea where she could have gone to drown it was not me for though I have the face in mind and the face was hers I had never seen it once before for as they say the brain will not conjure faces of its own accord but can so make ex nihilo the sensation of  familiarity that old measure of being what well we miss when pointedly in our present when déjà vu strikes stronger than any fixed memory the brush creaking through her knotted hair musksmell of synthetic bristles head bobbing back as though on a spring the wrists again now the wrists clattering over a broken neck almost bruiseless and quite peaceful my own hands in my peripheral growing numbish as I take the formality of her pulse two hunks of meat pressing into each other as the breeze dies down to tepid stillness like any sealed room the mouth lolling open in the dead air as my own breath tugs at diaphragm spasmodic I reverse the riverflow and drift backwards into my own blackness to see first the beginning.


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90° of Square

January 21, 2011 at 3:36 pm (Art, Bodies, The Real) (, , )

Like anyone, I feel miserable. But even at my most melancholy I dread death. The rational tells me that there is quite literally nothing to fear, but my imagination wont leave the idea of some kind of post-existence alone. Maybe hell, or more likely my last moment of pain ringing out the the eternity of my perceived ‘forever’. Idiotic. Post-existence, by its very definition, can’t exist. The feeling I have when occasionally taken over by inexplicable misery reminds me of Lacan’s version of the Death Drive – a desire to return to an inorganic state. I take this literally.

For some reason I always wish I were a little square of wood. Six inches each side (this is important), and three inches in depth. Probably oak, although it really does not matter much, I could be beech, pine or mahogany. Not that I would notice. I’d have a mother, a tree of some kind, and a father, a craftsman, builder or artisan, whom I would never know. Of course, I wouldn’t know much at all, though at this moment I feel compelled to tart the square up with personification. I’m sure you’ve noticed that the whole point is that this little square of wood would be concious of nothing. Though for my own comfort presently, as a thinking thing, I picture the wood as being something perfect and beautiful in its simplicity, rather like the stone crafted hunting weapons of pre-historic homosapiens. Many of these tools are said to be either too big, small or heavy for practical use. It follows that, perhaps, they were the first art; thoroughly pointless objects worshipped for their skill, precision and aesthetic curiosities.

But why, even now, do I crave the notion that my inorganic state would be in some way adored, and yet I feel the realities of that love? A matter if responsibility, perhaps? How cowardly. Or worse, perhaps I am simply idle. Maybe that too is noble in some way. After all, isn’t all true art useless?

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October 3, 2010 at 9:29 pm (Bodies, Sea, The Real) (, , )

His skin clung to his skull
like wax, clutching the earth,
as the ink curled into whispers
and grand paper ideas.
The electric light lay dormant,
for drama’s sake, and his eyelids
guttered with the candle.

Dancers flicker behind his eyes.
the women wear snakeskin slippers,
and the men nothing.
They drink with hot, red mouths
from an unnameable, monstrous tankard,
but his lips forget how to sip.

He awoke, as always,
with his back to the cold,
Rough rock,
With sea salt in his eyes.

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I, Lucifer

July 24, 2010 at 10:41 pm (Observations, The Real) (, , , , , , , )

“If I really am going to say everything just as it occurs to me and be honest about it, then I must start here”
– David Mapp, Алёна VI

So, here we have the fourth wall. The little ambiguity I had surrounding The Electric Angels is going to be gone. As unnoticed and unimportant  as that obscurity may have been, I’ll miss it. Now it’s me talking, and I mean really talking – in that retained manner you’re forced into when there is no longer an allegorical hidey-hole to peek from.

This is not the project that I had in mind. I don’t know who knew, or if it was ever even apparent, but I started this blog off with the intention of writing the diaries of people who never happened. That is all prose really amounts to, I suppose, and that has been the main staple of this project, but it was intended to be more succinct, thicker, stranger. One world full of however many people it grew. Of course, I know that isn’t what a blog is for.

It’s time to reorganise this mess. From the start I’ve been using song titles or lyrics to title my work. This is silly. There are a few cases where this has worked, but mostly it seems awkward and forced. Yes, some of you may recognise the title of this post as an album by The Real Tuesday Weld (spotify, go on), but as I said, sometimes it works. I’m also going to go through everything and actually tag it properly, as if this were a normal blog that I’d expect people to read. I may retitle work or add introductions, I may not.

Lately writing has become harder. Most submissions here have taken me some time between half an hour to a couple of months to complete. But now, all I have is this solitary fragment of an idea which has been slowly chipped at for over three months. And here’s what is unusual: in that time, nothing else has been able to keep in my head. But more on that later. My problem is, as far as I can make out, that I am losing the world.
It started off with music. If you’ve ever tried to read while desperately tired or intoxicated, and for a moment found letters to just be scribbles and wiggly shapes; that is how music sounds now. Strands of noise. Of course, I can still hear. If I want to dance with someone, it is easy enough to analyse the pace, key and tone of the music and deduce an appropriate response, but it is as though a vital step is missing. And now:

Hans Bellmer Doll

Shapes are slowly fading too. My little Hans Bellmer, one of my favourite artists. I could prattle on for ages about this picture (and I do strongly recommend giving his series of dolls “La Poupee” a thorough look), but really that is a memory. Looking at the picture now I could never say why I liked it. There was a girl there, once. And she had a sense of distorted, carnal luxury about her, I remember.  Now it’s just black and white shapes and I’m hoping to Deity that someone can convince me otherwise. Without sound or pictures it becomes difficult to remember why we read or write in the first place. This condition isn’t permanent, I remember being here before, but the stay has never been so long or extreme. Enough bleakness, I have an idea, remember?

Somehow I still have my slowly evolving, continually half forgotten idea, written down safe in more places than I’d normally care to hide it. I can no longer remember what image meant, if it ever had a meaning. It started with Jacques Lacan:

“What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?”

and from there, who knows. Funny how a thing evolves. From the beginning I’ve seen this as a short film, which is awful because I’ve never made one. Either I was to wait until someone stopped by and explained how, or I could do this properly and sit down and have a stab at learning myself. I chose the latter, in one of my sporadic bouts of practicality, and I’ve been doing my homework. It turns out that you can easily access scripts for well known feature films online. This is impressive, I was expecting some half-hearted copyright laws to make them harder to chase down. It has turned out to be a lot of fun (The biggest learning curve being the tragedy that was the screenplay for Silent Hill. I managed to get my hands on an earlier write of the script and, by Samael, there was promise). Like dissecting anything else, it’s a gutsy endeavour and gruesomely educational. I have this eerie, tingly feeling that this will be the easy part.

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