My Books

  • Click Away Close Door Say - http://www.contrabandbooks.co.uk/verity-spott/
  • Gideon - http://www.barquepress.com/publications.php?i=97
  • Trans* Manifestos - http://shitvalley.tumblr.com/
  • Balconette - http://www.veerbooks.com/Verity-Spott-Balconette

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

THE LENGTH OF A CONFESSION


Two or maybe three summers  ago
we left our house and walked
to the other side of the square
into another house. Into a party. Thousands
felt like it had gone into the colourful
projections which seemed to say nothing
but “I am here” - a wall of jostling voids,
the music an extension wherein my thoughts
gathered to die. I was afraid. We tried to find
our place, being introduced as “those ones”,
elevated into their society by merit of what
they said that we had done and what it was
it was assumed we now went through. Oh
but how toughly the concepts of individuals
clog up the pipe. These were exactly
the kind of souls my prejudices had shored
me up against:
                          Maybe the worst but also
the most honest was a man who sat in the garden
sprawling his legs wide over two chairs
his bleached hair framing an embarrassing bandana;
he spoke incessantly about money
and his virtuosic guitar playing, he could
hit the body whilst also nailing down
a tune in complex time. His disposition
towards music and tortured wood
perished back in his sportsmanlike boasts.
He had fifteen bikes, on and off road
and whatever else there was to be said
by any single mouth he had jumped
into it first. You could say there's very little
wrong with this. Judgement is afterall the problem.
In that sense it seems true I have settled
in the wrong city. How it holds my stupid head up.
Hard to be completely unscrupulous are incorrect
refer to the help section.
                Then there’s another man
of a similar yet entirely unique masonry. He’s got
a coat we felt some love for like destitution. It was covered
like the night above the roaring projectors was: In stars.
Stars and moons in an ocean of blue fabric oh what a mouth.
From this side of the room the drawl ran in,
the Dandelion dancing near the French window kicked
some records down onto the floor but if they were anything
like those swaying in our ears I hoped his clipped steel toes
would grind them into the 40% introductory discount. Or
anyway his voice and all the things he said or (Jersey) Law
1991 and investment and general insurance mediation, that’s
not it. These were all the kind of Bohemians we knew
from the worst stories; all in their expensive robes playing out
pretences of excess. Another, who showed a dot of kindness
omnidirectional or slit right down from the bottom of my throat
to the top in his long coat the artery began to heave out or
facing the cheque for the sum of £365.20 is attached below
his coats, for there seemed to be a few, were like dressing gowns
and he took us under the stars with a proud pair of binoculars
which he just had to explain first, then gifting our eyes to the sea
of tranquility.
         I felt like a joke. The moon was burning
my eyes because silver water etc. The cold air was hot
the acrid smell replaced with beautiful perfumes
even the way they stood and as I think now of the silent discos
or the early morning yuppie raves I’d railed against
where sobriety and appropriation
are the cherished excesses are you likely to move on or
the remains of wasps in a tin or the shredded
tarpaulin. Used to be a hotel. And again
spreading bad energy comes to eat my legs as I’m sitting
alone on a train with a false ticket enjoying the silence
when those same yuppies, reader, they come and sit
all around me and as I listen it transpires that one of them
is an organiser of such an event. A 6am rave
for London’s anti-workshy-development-ombudsmen
to go along sometimes before work
and kickstart the week. He talked about their USP;
spiritual shit like Reiki. He said it was a load of bollocks
but people loved it. A little like his life. Bohemia
is a country without land or borders. Wanderers!
Adventurers! Vagabonds! How the muscular
nature of their pursuits has haunted me,
coming to think that the placement is wrong.
His name, the man in the starry coat, I think it was Indy.
I met him a couple of times in places
I like to go.
                   One of these times or the first time
he patiently enlightened me of his philosophy:
“The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love and be loved in return.”
I’d never seen that film and assumed he was just
some kind of dick, but that in him here
was at least what maybe seemed like an original
thought. But later when you told me where it came from
and we laughed I saw back into his eyes
the desperation for a signifier bigger than us both
and pissed all over myself in the realisation
of our sameness: Shame! Just identical to how Aaron
told me that “we keep our confessions long
and when we pray we keep it short”, circulated back
into this slippery diet of how fucking undelightful
actually is it or James paints a colourful yet gritty
picture of seaside life. Pick, pick, pick.
In fact there is something specifically disgusting
in this place called Bohemia. The constant
battles for approval and the isistance
on caricature - those are two miniatures. Overlapping
that is the pretence that anyone's there
beyond a libidinal desire to remain
in spite of everyone. A banker has a keen sense
of honesty in comparison. Executioners
covered in real blood. Of course hatred
for them as well.
                            No absolute wonder the estrangement
seems to gas up. Bitterness in rapture at its arrangement parallels.
Sugar. Oh, how I wish to forgive you, matterless
bandana and chains circling the moon. O gather
now in wonder. It for the sake of it or it even
when it stands there dead in the street. Next
to it a dormant shovel. It is not good for the world
to simply do things. We all somehow knew that.

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

With the Right Teeth

cw, mental health, BBC satire etc...


Have you been thinking about your mental health condition? I bet you have, you fucking diabolical miasma. You've been thinking "why am I considered mentally ill for wishing to afford my body the most universal basic liberties whilst there are people who play golf. Whilst there are people who want to uphold fox hunting. Whilst there are people who want their children to become, well, anything at all. There are prisons..." A night thought. Work and play. Gather up the paws. Gather up the hagstones. Gather up the pylons. Put your toys away. That's why you're beautiful.

Thursday, 29 June 2017

We Will Bury You

*Note - This text contains the names of all of the MPs who voted against the proposed end of the cap on public sector pay. This is a spell against the character of the idea that seems to have populated the lives of these individuals. It is also a feeling of nausea at seeing the same names cropping up over & over again. The text was composed between 11:35 and 13:03 on the 29th June 2017. The title is borrowed from a protest slogan once yelled by William Rowe.*




 We Will Bury You



Tonight, whilst you sleep you will begin to convulse. You will need to be saved. Nigel Adams.

Tonight, whilst you are dying the world will sleep assured that you will disappear. Adam Afriyie.

Tonight, whilst you are dreaming of your world cells will latch their teeth into your bone marrow. Peter Aldous.

Tonight, whilst you lie dutifully on the ground your gut will wrench & prickle. You will shit in your bed. You will lie there, you will come out of your dreams asking for help. Lucy Allan.

Tonight, whilst your body rocks backward & forward in consternation, in doubt you will feel your heart murmur. There is a hole in your heart. Heidi Allen.

Tonight, whilst you sleep your fears will pour back into your head. The ladders will not come to your burning windows. Stuart Andrew.

Tonight, whilst you are alive there will be coughs & blood in your piss. Edward Argar.

Tonight, whist the wind is turning gently on its course you will catch the wind in your throat & your throat shall stop your arms & feet will ache you will wretch & know that you need to be saved & helped & cured. Victoria Atkins.

Tonight, whilst you low in your stall your public will renounce the use of violence. They will discover the hammer and renounce its violence into your brains. Into your weddings. Into your right to bare arms. Into your fields. Mr Richard Bacon.

Tonight, over the tops of the ceilings a siren, a spider, a light sweeping. In your room the faint murmur of gaslight & paralysis. Tonight, the dialysis machine in your neck. Sorrow. Always sorrow. Mrs Kemi Badenoch.

Tonight, whilst you are gone. You are gone forever & forever. Mr Steve Baker.

Tonight the dead will. The dead will. & "we will bury you!". Harriett Baldwin.

Tonight is fuel is your body. Kindling. In your ribs a sudden volt of traction. A nebulous subsonic itch crashing into your salary. A careless spell catches your stars. The edge of a rib cuts into your lung. Stephen Barclay.

Tonight, whilst in your need you cry out. You cry out for someone to come to help you. All your private establishments have gone to their beds. There must be an ambulance somewhere in this long night of blades. "Come to me! Come to me!". Silence. "Help me!". Mr John Baron.

Tonight, it is because your voices have acquiesced to unthinking forever & forever. This occasion is a public birthday. One decision amongst a planet. It is your whole thought has been destroyed. Nothing of you left. Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Guto Bebb.

Tonight, as if in love you turn in your naked bed. You turn & are ripped out & aborted. Forced to swallow yourself. Sir Henry Bellingham.

Tonight, is goodnight to a lifetime. Richard Benyon.

Tonight, whilst you pace in your prison cell packed in with the men you made your life to desocate there are no guards. There is a stone coffin. Sir Paul Beresford.

Tonight, oh the pausing death of astriction & 29 other galaxies close in the love is just there behind your eye your eye refuses to turn there is no one can help you. Capped to death. Over the fields the stars pop & speak in quiet reluctant approvals. Jake Berry.

Tonight, just a hundred more. Bob Blackman.

Tonight, there are only your names. They are harmless stockades & get drunk. Crispin Blunt.

Tonight, you scratch, I'll fucking waste you, dear come back to bed. A week is a long time. A bubo. Nick Boles.

Tonight, what will come to your bed? Lavender. Buddleia.

Tonight, for the carers who took to save you. For the taken chop. For these titles, do you become allergic to yourself? Sir Peter Bottomley.

Tonight, whilst the reaction. Andrew C Bowie.

Tonight, banging out in the principalities. Listening to orchids thrash about. You were so patient. You died laughably still, but the agony there behind the mouth that could not plead. That had sewn itself shut like the insult of a cap. Ben Bradley.

Tonight, bargaining. Oh God, what are all these scratches in the loft beams? Karen Bradley.

Tonight, whilst the flame muttered whilst the fibre optic manhole cover threw its laughing throat to the sky the miasma, God it makes his belly gurgle. Mr Graham Brady.

Tonight, the winch is understated. Jack Brereton.

Tonight, in the pillory the bricks rained like mouths. Andrew Bridgen.

Tonight, racking up the lives. Your namesake, even that is gone. Steve Brine.

Tonight, I self attacked in KY & the incidents of your life. Whilst you lay in your bed your life touched the sky. James Brokenshire. Fiona Bruce.

Tonight, lie there sporting a cut. Robert Buckland.

Tonight, Jokes fall on the limbs of volunteer sectors. Everything in your arms is vanishing scissors Must combust. Must animate. Alex Burghart.

Tonight, the rodents play on your sore feet for hours & hours like the hope made us better people? Conor Burns.

Tonight, dust is flowering the heart. The monitor is so flat the greetings of birds don't come back in the morning. Everyone is sad. Everyone agrees on the sanctity of life. Alistair Burt.

Tonight, penitence the circumstance. Guilt will clutch your sleeping heads. Alun Cairns.

Tonight, pleasuring yourself till it gives out. Riots again, best to stay in bed. James Cartlidge.

Tonight, gasping. Gas. Lights off. Have you realised yourself? Sir William Cash.

Tonight, a thin tube connecting the bladder to the will. Maria Caulfield.

Tonight, shock of electronic heating is gone windows are taxed again women throw themselves under Stonewall massacres whilst the organisations of sanctioned poetry cannot help us to live. Cut the line your throat reads out loud. Alex Chalk.

Tonight, stabbing pains in all directions. What? Sorry? Rehman Chishti Paul Maynard Sir Patrick McLoughlin Stephen McPartland Esther McVey Mark Menzies Johnny Mercer Huw Merriman Stephen Metcalfe Mrs Maria Miller Amanda Milling Nigel Mills Anne Milton Mr Andrew Mitchell Damien Moore Penny Mordaunt Nicky Morgan Anne Marie Morris David Morris James Morris Wendy Morton David Mundell Mrs Sheryll Murray Dr Andrew Murrison Robert Neill Sarah Newton Caroline Nokes Jesse Norman Neil O'Brien Dr Matthew Offord Guy Opperman Neil Parish Priti Patel  Mr Owen Paterson Mark Pawsey Mike Penning John Penrose Andrew Percy Claire Perry Chris Philp Christopher Pincher Dr Dan Poulter Rebecca Pow Victoria Prentis Mr Mark Prisk Mark Pritchard Tom Pursglove Jeremy Quin Will Quince Dominic Raab John Redwood Mr Jacob Rees-Mogg

Tonight, cladding is a bailiff being taken down for a good hard fuck in the face. This is the custody of your public. You see it for the first time. Starts this evening. Done by dawn. Mr Christopher Chope.

Tonight, clusters of maggots born inside you. You are not a life. It is not wrong to want you removed. You said. Jo Churchil.

Tonight, there are a thousand more burning windows waiting to shriek out so what, employ some dead vehicle of malign racism. Justice is done for your name only, yours. & the branks is you. The branks is you. The scold. Colin Clark.

Tonight, you hit at the keys making some kind of horrible sense like there's cork bark in every spot. Greg Clark.

Tonight, the hatred you turn into your spouse, your children, the whole - it goes back into you like a moan of satisfaction. Mr Kenneth Clarke.

Tonight, not the bees. Oh God not the bees. Mr Simon Clarke.

Tonight, your skin is mildew the only hope is the cops. They are all alive & scoffing on. James Cleverly.

Tonight, Help. Help is the missing digit the scars of cockroach signatures melt in the environmental hazard switch. Geoffrey Clifton-Brown.

Tonight, whilst you go in & out of your horrible little dream, then this then that, blah. Never stop dreaming. Dr Thérèse Coffey.

Tonight, the hazard warning lights keep you rolling your eyes penitence never never will come there is a voice banging on the door whilst the fires wrap you up but you hate that voice & will not get it to come to you & to help you it will soar off in the wind like a whinging kid & you will yawn in satisfaction because now that it is gone there is little left for you to do but boil and steam to death, a cooked confession of the policies of social eradication. What a starched emblem of conservative truths you are. No we do not need poetics of hope. No we do not fetishise despair either. The point is you are not coming back. That is the entire life of your impact on the world: That you leave it in flames & that those that you have killed are no longer there. It is simple. It figures. Damian Collins. James Duddridge David Duguid Mr Iain Duncan Smith Sir Alan Duncan Mr Philip Dunne Michael Ellis Mr Tobias Ellwood Charlie Elphicke George Eustice Mr Nigel Evans David Evennett Michael Fabricant  Sir Michael Fallon  Suella Fernandes Mark Field Vicky Ford Kevin Foster Dr Liam Fox Mr Mark Francois Lucy Frazer George Freeman Mike Freer Mr Marcus Fysh Sir Roger Gale Mark Garnier Mr David Gauke Ms Nusrat Ghani Nick Gibb Mrs Cheryl Gillan John Glen Zac Goldsmith Mr Robert Goodwill Michael Gove Luke Graham Richard Graham Bill Grant Mrs Helen Grant James Gray Chris Grayling  Chris Green Damian Green Justine Greening Mr Dominic Grieve
Mr Sam Gyimah Kirstene Hair Robert Halfon Luke Hall.

Tonight, whilst you were murdering an animal you were naked & dressed up in Piggy's glasses & the mountains you'd seen in your youth were all that was. All that was, the mountains all over the world are so absolutely perfect. They are also terrifying. You wouldn't understand. Alberto Costa.

Tonight, there is a frightened bee in the ignition but who cares? As you turn the key & gaze round at the closed garage door. You look sad at having made some very poor decisions. Robert Courts.

Tonight, whilst you stood up to get the sex toy out of your cupboard there was a stampede of ants on your stairs & you thought domestically like a real stalwart of the house. Like a pip. Ruptured lives tore through the opened horizon. The bee gently stamped its head. Mr Geoffrey Cox.

Tonight, whilst you were saying "I love you", a very sudden death. I know boys who've been with you. You're ready for dispatch. Stephen Crabb.

Tonight, whilst you are just a person like I am a person too you felt you had come to an understanding. What are you doing? Pincers on the shoulders. Tracey Crouch.

Tonight, whilst jackets held you warm you watched. You had a bullet waiting. Chris Davies.

Tonight, the first time you had a fit. It took your teeth into your tongue. How ironic, you thought, that you were seized & stopped from speaking. David T. C. Davies Mr Laurence Robertson Mary Robinson Andrew Rosindell Douglas Ross Lee Rowley Amber Rudd David Rutley Antoinette Sandbach Paul Scully Mr Bob Seely Andrew Selous Grant Shapps Alok Sharma Alec Shelbrooke Mr Keith Simpson Chris Skidmore Chloe Smith Henry Smith Julian Smith Royston Smith Sir Nicholas Soames Anna Soubry Dame Caroline Spelman Mark Spencer Andrew Stephenson John Stevenson Bob Stewart Iain Stewart Rory Stewart Mr Gary Streeter Mel Stride Graham Stuart Julian Sturdy Rishi Sunak Sir Desmond Swayne Sir Hugo Swire  Mr Robert Syms Derek Thomas Ross Thomson Maggie Throup.

Tonight, famous people are dropping like stones. You climb into your helicopter. You are forced in. Glyn Davies.

Tonight, scabies. Nothing less. Mims Davies

Tonight, whilst you were sleeping there are many ways into the cookbook, ways you can assassinate your own time. Philip Davies.

Tonight, it must be nearly three thousand, 3,000 vaults it takes to you like a daddy. Mr David Davis.

Tonight, just in must the animal throttles your vespers. You said it Tridentine & totally illegal. Caroline Dinenage.

Tonight, as you came back to your club it was all gone. All of you were suddenly gone. The thinking around a law around a tummy & daddy said to hush & the masters & mistresses panicked in jolts of specific instruction. One moment you were here the next moment you were gone & it was so bloody well sad I don't think we'll ever bloody well forget it. Mr Jonathan Djanogly.

Tonight, whilst you had one of your so called "dreams" the scaphism happened. That you woke up to. Leo Docherty.

Tonight, assaults on the public sector will come back to haunt you but they won't so I made this pointless spell. That's the message. Julia Dockerill.

Tonight, as I massacre the dart board. No. As you were just about to pop your beautiful little eyes open you decided instead to have a cocaine induced heart attack all over the public image. Michelle Donelan.

Tonight, the surgeons went up 1% you did it good as they took your wrist arteries & sewed them into your eyes. You got a better look at every 1% you liked. Ms Nadine Dorries.

Tonight, whilst you screamed out for a nurse instead an angry band of primary school teachers wrote the word Blake & the word Crayon & the word & Wet all over your back with knives but it was you not them. You were dreaming & cutting into your back in your sleep because that's what you are - a wasted form of resistance to that which has already overcome. Steve Double.

Tonight, whilst you were getting tired out of the keys. Stomach ulcers. Oliver Dowden.

Tonight, Democratic Ulcers plagued your mouth & you spluttered for some poor sod to clean you. Jackie Doyle-Price.

Tonight, dreamy holder of the slop puts it down upside on your tongue for Christ sake let her do her job she hates. Richard Drax.

Tonight, there will be a heap of you. All piled up like puppies at bedtime. I wonder which ailments? I wonder when you have no food who will be the first to be torn up. That will never happen. You have so much. But tonight there will be some kind of forensic end. Teeth will be left of you tomorrow morning. That's all of you. Mr Philip Hammond Stephen Hammond Matt Hancock Greg Hands Mr Mark Harper Richard Harrington Rebecca Harris Trudy Harrison Simon Hart Mr John Hayes Sir Oliver Heald James Heappey Chris Heaton-Harris Peter Heaton-Jones Gordon Henderson Nick Herbert Damian Hinds Simon Hoare George Hollingbery Kevin Hollinrake Mr Philip Hollobone Adam Holloway John Howell Nigel Huddleston Eddie Hughes Mr Jeremy Hunt Mr Alister Jack Margot James Sajid Javid Mr Ranil Jayawardena Mr Bernard Jenkin Andrea Jenkyns Robert Jenrick Boris Johnson Dr Caroline Johnson Gareth Johnson Joseph Johnson Andrew Jones Mr David Jones Mr Marcus Jones Daniel Kawczynski Gillian Keegan Seema Kennedy Stephen Kerr Julian Knight Sir Greg Knight Kwasi Kwarteng John Lamont Mark Lancaster Mrs Pauline Latham Andrea Leadsom Dr Phillip Lee Jeremy Lefroy Sir Edward Leigh Sir Oliver Letwin Andrew Lewer Brandon Lewis Dr Julian Lewis Mr Ian Liddell-Grainger Mr David Lidington Jack Lopresti Mr Jonathan Lord Tim Loughton Craig Mackinlay Rachel Maclean Mrs Anne Main Alan Mak Kit Malthouse Scott Mann Paul Masterton Mrs Theresa May

Tonight, as you were the biting wind & set up yous stuck points into the corners of your eyes & howled out for love & revenge. You knew those to be the same but nothing for. Kelly Tollhurst.

Tonight, Oh, whilst The Must Of The Rich Depth the will is cancelled you have a good grave awaiting tonight whilst you must still be sure to sleep & not slip out into the road where the traffic is a force of appearance there is a little ghost crying for you there. Jeremy Wright.

Tonight, or if it must be called upon what opens you closes you in hallucinatory violence. Nadhim Zahawi.

Tonight, the cacophony of effective rule is standardised & so you take your body out of a fifteenth floor window for. Mr Gregory Campbell.

Tonight, whilst you are resting there morbid thoughts plague you. Realising what it is inhabits the circuits. Nigel Dodds.

Tonight, & well you must. In a sea of comforts there are these floating things. Eyes would never have lasted more than a week even metal down here is slowly irked & tested into the sandy beds. You out you come. Sir Jeffrey M. Donaldson.

Tonight, in the well the water turns to ice you are made to go to it smash it fall under you made yourself after the workforce. What then? Paul Girvan

Tonight, if this is if we can pull it off the whole. What were your names? They were. Justin Tomlinson Michael Tomlinson Craig Tracey David Tredinnick Mrs Anne-Marie Trevelyan Elizabeth Truss Tom Tugendhat Mr Edward Vaizey Mr Shailesh Vara Martin Vickers Theresa Villiers Mr Charles Walker Mr Robin Walker Mr Ben  Wallace David Warburton Matt Warman Giles Watling Helen Whately Craig Whittaker Mr John Whittingdale Bill Wiggin Gavin Williamson Dr Sarah Wollaston Mike Wood Mr William Wragg.

Tonight, just past ten, then will it. But as the creeping thistles in the night. Tonight's sphere of circumstance where the moon crosses itself out the order of of living supposes these well wishing people who are incapacitated of expressives - who are openly non subjects. You have the law for that. The floating vector. The beast. The pathetic excuse. Ian Paisley.

Tonight, wishes pop out from you hurt them. You crown. In the vacant early hours punching the throat. Emma Little Pengelly.

Tonight, as you were asphyxiated in your sleep you cried out. Gavin Robinson.

Tonight, as heaven is no longer surpassed as it is as the troubles had shouted down in the incandescent silent morbid sanctioned demolition the cladding was removed the cap was just like it everything you do the same thing again & again until it burns a hole the whole of the tongue wraps its arms around the tooth of your stock. Never did you listen as the words, tides pulled out. What a mouth you have. All the better for non less over stimulate & pop back in. Ring pull. Death. Jim Shannon.

Tonight, as I wrapped up the head. As your head came off you wrapped it in foil & stuck it in the oven at two hundred degrees on or off? David Simpson.

Tonight, as you slept in your beautiful dreams many screams railed up into the air. They were yours. They had no volta & were a testament to the nearly alive. "We will bury you!". Sammy Wilson.



Tuesday, 20 June 2017

SONG - for DollyTuring




      & if      're cut out
of the sun's
                       each moment
us
      up to      the waist the joy
      stumped   in the throat can't
wishly

   free associates
                              at dawn
 crossed in the light your
                                          completely
joyous world
            where troubled or where not
   is always
                    am always yours, greening
  & tilts in our bliss of horizons, now.

Thursday, 15 June 2017

Thoughts on Come and See

ft/1

Right wing thought does not engender order. The Wehrmacht stormed through Europe crazed on methamphetamine and cocaine. The invasion of Poland caused one of the greatest traffic jams on record, the cavalry at the front.

ft/2

Right wing thoughts - thoughts of the self that betray the self. Thoughts that populate their worlds with morals; those morals tempted by the ambition and will of the self. Strength. Satisfaction.

ft/3

In the Soviet war drama Come and See (Elem Klimov - 1985) there is a scene that absolutely embodies the taught contradiction between the ideology of fascist moralism and individual will. The scene opens with a kind of rampage in a village. Nazi soldiers on motorbikes and crowded on trucks, some running alongside. They are herding civilians who are led to believe they are being relocated. The narrator, Florya, stares aghast and shouts to the people, warning them that they are being sent to their deaths. This becomes very obvious. One of the German soldiers grabs Florya screaming and laughing "I'll teach him!" The drunken drug crazed soldiers insist on taking papers in spite of the fact they are blowing away left right and centre. A corpse tied to a door balanced on top of a motorcycle sidecar. A German officer lecturing an imagined audience. A private holding up a portrait of Hitler. A soldier climbing merrily into the church, batting away the doves nesting in the tower.

An announcement comes from a speaker: "Germany is a civilised country". The announcement continues stating that those entering Germany will need toiletries. After the people have heard this they are forced to go inside a wooden church. The soldiers begin to celebrate around the church - it becomes the centre of their spectacle. They sing and dance and eventually start throwing grenades into it. Soon there is a frenzy of cruelty. A young girl dragged by her hair, the soldier dragging her stops to light a cigarette before continuing her torture. Florya is dragged into the middle of a photoshoot, an officer holding a gun to his head. When the photo is taken they leave him on the ground.

At one point one of the most libidinal and crazed Nazis is mistakenly locked in the church. He shouts (at the people he is about to incinerate) "Let me go you shunks! I'm the police!". A moral treaty to the dead. Next an officer in the spire of the church shouts in Russian "Quiet! The meeting is open. Who wants the floor?" Then a face at the window. "Those without kids can leave through the window. Leave the children here". Florya climbs through the window. The cost of his life is to watch the slaughter.

The church is burned to the ground and Florya falls on his face in the smoke outside, having survived by becoming somehow invisible. The procession - the carnival marches on, having sacked, raped and pillaged. Civilisation restored.

The moral is insisted into a reckoning of terror. The relationship between moralism, its will and the outcome. The most obvious contradiction.

ft/4

Right wing thought is a cold body inside the brain. Fascist thought is that corpses' inevitable decomposition.





Wednesday, 14 June 2017

Poetics of Protest





Fit 1)

There are some things people will turn against you for saying. Things like:

"This form of protest isn't working."
"I find your witty attention grabbing physically and mentally distressing and alienating."
"Theresa May will die today."
"Reading, engaging, joining in etc. are not naturally and fundamentally good things."
"We are at war."

People who stood next to you protesting against the same enemies will suddenly say "wait, no, I didn't mean that" or they will tell you that you are putting across the wrong message, that you give the movement a bad name. Good. Any anticapitalist movement should have a bad name. It should be the enemy of established thought.



Fit 2)

Earlier I wrote an ill advised post and put it on social media where it will be fought over, ridiculed, agreed with and then vanish. People will get fired up and then it will go. People might start to fight with one another. Below is my post as it was when I wrote it very early this morning - a couple of minor edits.

I always have this painful feeling on protests when it comes to slogans. I've barely ever heard a good one. The other day there was an impromptu March against May and the DUP and here we are again: "I said hey! Ho! Theresa May has got to go!". I mean, it's really fucking embarrassing. I feel like a scab for saying it, but really, what the fuck are we doing? I've spent the last however many years engaging with genuinely radical poetry yet at every protest I attend I end up with a mouth full of shit. Seems like a very British accident of a tradition. People still turning up with "witty" banners etc. The whole thing turned into some quaint little routine. Actually, I say always... when theysmashed up Millbank there was some weird chant at one point, something like "smash, break, dismantle; our chains are not forever." That one stayed with me. Meanwhile on the mainstream right there are some truly horrific slogans going around. One in particular has shaken me and keeps me up sometimes: "You can't run, you can't hide, you get helicopter ride". That slogan refers to Pinochet's "Death Flights", where political opponents were dropped from aircraft into the sea and volcanoes (most recovered bodies had their eyes gouged out) to their deaths. This disjunction (between poetics) is terrifying to me - how the right suddenly have these sophisticated and horrific slogans about literally murdering us whereas we have these hashed together nothings - slogans that have proven time and time again to have zero traction. And what to do? We are badly in need of a new poetics of protest. But it's really hard to convince anyone to break away from certain rhythmical patterns. Ones I can't help but feel are incredibly white (in their poetics of English self deprivation - that fucking tone) and unlovably certain - liberal. The last couple of times I've tried to get people shouting "Theresa May will die today" because at least that is some kind of fucking spell even though it is obviously shit. You get these weird looks from people like you have the wrong kind of shit in your mouth, and then it goes back to the same old dum dee dum nothingness. I've no idea what to do about this but I feel that a political slogan is about manifesting part of the reality that is being made and that the slogans commonly used right now are actively blocking that. Meanwhile the far right are openly hexing us and calling for genocide. Somehow we need to fill our protests with magical fire and resist their horror. It's hard to think with a mouth full of shit. No more irony. No more witticisms. No more dead metre. No fucking clue.

Please do hold onto the fact that the above does not have any claim on a solution. If anything the slogan "Theresa May will die today" is worse than the slogan "Theresa May has got to go". It isn't worse because of the fact it is invoking death. I mean, it isn't actually invoking death is it? I mean, it's not like anything can get to her. That waste-cluster of damaged human senses is surrounded by every kind of protection imaginable - from the military to the forces of extreme magic. You could get 10,000 people together and hex her, pray for her suicide - you could even bore those thoughts into her head and nothing would happen. Anything we are saying dies on their ears. Meanwhile the things they say - "we are cutting the benefits of disabled people" are literally murder. They are speaking people's murder into the air and then those people are being murdered. This is a fact. It's with that fact in mind that this slogan becomes stupid. It has no traction, no danger and it is a deadened opposite of the type of slogan it is trying really hard to escape from. As it stands just now there is a glimmer of a chance that Theresa May and the Conservative party at large might be feeling a little afraid - no, troubled. They have just had something turn against them, and that is, for once, their lies. But when they see a bunch of (what they call) liberals (some of them really are liberals too) marching through Brighton changing "Theresa May has got to go" I'm pretty sure they just go "oh well, nothing to worry about then". On the other hand when the Greek anarchists come out in Athens, sure, there are plenty of problems but on the other hand they are in occupation of an actual section of city. They say things like "We are smashing up the present because we come from the future" and "A day of normality is more violent than a month of insurrection." and "All that continues to live, lives against this society." I mean, those are really powerful. They are full. Especially that last one. It actually positions the enemy (of society) as life. That which continues, that moves against the realisation of death.



Fit 3)

And surely
the realisation of death / is life
itself

a means
against suffering. All that continues
to live, lives
against this society. All

that is alive is the force
that lives against
the already dead.

I mean, that is a message of hope. Whenever I start to have this discussion I feel I am shouted down. People actually start invoking the word "hate speech". I'll come to that shortly. But people actually destroy hope with attacks on what they consider violence to be. This is what I mean by a change of poetics. It doesn't mean just changing the words, it means poetic thinking. Poetic thinking has been ritually beaten out of us - deprogrammed. At the top of this post I made a point about reading. People often say when someone is reading shit "at least they are reading". Invoking reading as a fundamentally good thing. That's horse shit. I would rather march alongside the illiterate than swallow some of the filth that is publicly called literature - made entirely cynically as a professional venture. Poetic thinking requires a lot, but so does the kind of thinking that the professional publishers put out. I mean, you really have to suspend your disbelief in the actual lived experience of poetics when you find out that the poets you're reading have fucking agents! In so many insurrections poetics has been in the mouths and hearts of everyone. We are really wantonly devoid of that right now. What that leads to is this kind of weird situation where screaming isn't enough, where the same noises are made in the same established patterns again and again and when you say "death to the oppressor" people start jumping down your throat and saying "oh no! We mustn't go down that route! No violence!". No violence is not an option,. Violence is what is happening now. What we need to stop. Saying "Death to the oppressor" is in part an invocation of a hope to end the order of oppression. But do we actually need to say that? Explain it all vowel by vowel.



Fit 4)

Protest does work. But what "protest" is isn't the same as "a protest", and some protests work better than others. If you don't think protests work you are cheering for the security guards at Yarl's Wood Detention Centre who want to blog the eyes and ears of the detainees who see the regular protests outside the windows and feel some actual human compassion whilst living in a very real hell. This kind of protest is vital and unstoppable.

Acts of protest can be carried out all the time. Mere passing on of messages, acts of insurrection etc.

Disabled people are among those experiencing the most violent impacts of austerity. Many disabled people find protests ablest (often literally impossible) and non inclusive. We have to think about these things - I'm not only talking about physical difficulties, obviously. Again, these are things we shouldn't have to repeat.

Making a protest into a good natured joke is an act of imposition - a limit.

Protests are carnivalesque. In many ways they can come to uphold the social order rather than changing it. That is why they are sanctioned. In order to change this protests need to go underground in their organisation but be publicly visible in their actions. More media coverage, cameras and professional speakers are not always good things. Protests should fit their situations, and they should scare those they are moving against. The media organs will never truly be on our side. We should fill them with noise not with our faces.

Professional affirmation is the voice of the enemy.

There is a wellspring of social poetics waiting to be tapped.

We are in a good position. It will get better. All

that is alive is the force
that lives against
the already dead.


Sunday, 14 May 2017

Note - against these divisions

&   ‘m so afraid of the perpetrators
they live in us, our hair, sleep paralysis
nd what      ‘ve done, come amongst us
into our       ,language, our rift is made


              in his skin in his eyes shocked
into our hair, our tongues, turning us out
& against,, clogging us with dis-unity,
 hatred is in my / our hearts, for one another


there must be no patina, no caught yellow
   rneath the eye. In this picture, you told
me I looked beautiful, leant me money, turned
my heart in gold there would be little


return; these private ruinous thoughts, the loud
gauze, this fucking mind. Stinking perpetrator
(let this line gaze back, up then down, let
out your blood, starter, charger, full destroyer
what, will you tell me, is the antidote to such & such).