Tuesday, 20 June 2017

SONG - for DollyTuring

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

   free associates
                              at dawn
 crossed in the light your
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


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.


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.


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.


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

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).

Saturday, 29 April 2017


It was only just
   the other night things
felt  our skins collapsing together before
eternal dividers
   settled back their course
the air was impossible collapsed gestures
backed up tears
   at the soft wet bodies
of frogs.

The only thing 
    keeps me from you, this
so called choice, the sudden switch of 
trajectory into
   the road so people say
avoid the collapsing traffic we say: Silence,
for the crush
  of a vehicle keep me from 
your fists or even
  words are terse enough

symbols to make
  my only body position
cross into the mouth of no-christ. The things
  we do for you,
somehow the sight of this body tense you up
to murder
  knowing not the rendition, 
its schema but for the sake of your life
ducking from light
  we go side by side along

the concourse walls & arches tracing
  your brave steps dropping
back the image could put you in a cage away
  from the family uni-
fication through the courts; even a word or a stone
phlegm could detach you...
   ...so we duck & split

into pipes, behind fabrics hating visibility’s action
  altering to the greater quicker
risk over retinal contracts waiting for the light
  to clear this aching pale straight lag
coerced in the map to never break that false
harmony, relations. Never 
  to be broken the dissonance
my life has made; you are still
  so beautiful; soft

in the violence 
  I held back in you. 

You Must Keep on Hoping!

Hope is manifest in these dialogues and it is hope we distrust. Hope is against this mind, it doesn't cross it but invades; is shovelled in from the order. Is going to be beaten the shit out of it. You do realise that the violence of a nationalist will destroy you? Just wanted to check you're aware of that before you go and, say, smash one over the head with a chain or something. Because they will come back for you. Because hope has told you that standing up and that marching is just the same as it was when, say, people marched for civil rights or at Stonewall... But did anyone tell you what happened? Did anyone think of mentioning (for our current situation) the idea of the carnivalesque - and you notice now you're surrounded by cameras, you and your enemies kettled into the same physical space by police and by cameras and that intention is what's at stake. These cries for "free speech" are based on the notion that there isn't such a thing. But this is where our language fails our intention. Think about it literally. Let's think of "free" in economic terms, and let's think about how many times the market lies to us. This object is free. The conditions of exchange come later. That's how intention and speaking work. They co-relate. So this boy comes up to the mic and says something obscene in order that 1) he has exercised that freedom 2) he didn't really mean it 3) he might be arrested, hit, spat at (inside his knit zone of protection) that later his example, his bravery might fill others with hope. Hope... (fuck hope). Under the market conditions freedom in exchange can be offered then redacted. Just like intention in language. The hip modern nationalist often actually believes that he doesn't mean what he thinks he really means. That's because he's never had to think about meaning. For, say, Caolan Robertson there has never been very much at stake in it. And so young Caolan becomes tired and bored and fighty and he sits staring at YouTube all day and sees poor Tommy Robinson who says he didn't mean for the streets to be filled with men who will smash someone in the face for wearing a Hijab. That wasn't the point, says poor Tommy, and poor Caolan dribbles around him like a ghost mackerel going "but don't I deserve to be happy?" - sorry. This slipped away a bit, but it's hard to find words to describe how far someone can be split from an understanding of the function of language whilst still vehemently defending its use. The logical end point of the kind of free speech they want is for each participant to stand alone screaming into the void with no response whatsoever, not even friction in the air. No air. A vacuum of silence forever and forever. This is why I've started to believe that they are trying to immantise the eschaton, whether they think they are or not. And then, when someone is screaming the soundless block of that void into your face some self-styled middle person comes along and starts telling you to be hopeful. Everyday I wake up and I hate my body. It often takes hours for me to be able to move it into the functions it needs to express its daily life. Forgetting this happens on a minute or hour or day or week or month by month basis. Time is one of the enemies. Hope isn't so much an enemy, just another self sustaining neologism. It reinvents itself unthinkingly into every dialogue that starts to become immobile. And I'm not saying we should live in total despair (though really, that is a lot less depressing than living in hope) - I am saying that an expression of the world we want to create comes directly from that world and is probably impossible to do in language. I've no idea how. Someone please tell me never to stop hoping...

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

On Kek, Eris, Mindfuck and the Eschaton (Charlston).

Today I went to the file sharing sire 'wetransferdotcom' and found this image on their background:

I was instantly unsettled. I thought the alt right had hacked the page. I was about to download a huge file and was terrified that next thing there'd be a load of mum's basement fascists filling my computer with normie puerile shite, that there'd be actual Nazis at my door... I don't know what I was afraid of really. I saw this masked figure (a cross between Cthulhu and the "Red Guy" from 'Don't Hug me I'm Scared'?!) as some kind of manifestation of the Cult of Kek. I'd seen people in these costumes at protests and rallies. I'm in a rush and just trying to get these thoughts down before I lose them, but here is one example - skip to 1:31. A figure in a red mask appears in the background and displays a Kek banner:

Anyway, I started to actually read about the Cult of Kek - the mythology of Kek in ancient Egypt the deity of primordial darkness. Also, surprise surprise, a deity of chaos and disorder - an androgyness frog / serpent headed God often crowned with a beetle and also present in Greek and Roman mythologies, though in obscurity. I then started to think about the opening of the Illuminatus trilogy - 'it was the year they finally immanentized the eschaton' and I started to wonder who that 'they' actually were. I also began to think about how carelessly human the nomination 'eschaton' actually is: 'The final event in the grand plan' or 'the end of the world' - ἔσχατος. And then this, in its etymology - *eǵʰs-katos, from ἐξ (ex, “out”). Compare with ἔγκατα (énkata, “intestines”) and the same difficulty in ἐχθός (ekhthós) = ἐκτός (ektós). Funnily enough my spellcheck keeps trying to replace 'eschaton' with Charlston. But think about it. Imminantize the "out" "intestines". I think there's a lot more at stake for consciousness and the soul than a nuclear war, though that is the most obvious and immediate horror. Remember, in Biblical mythology the Eschaton takes a fucking long time. There is a lot left after "the event" to be resolved. All kinds of beasts.

Back to the picture. I looked up the attribution and here is an explanation:

"Antonio Gibotta Enfarinat: People, second prize stories December 28, 2016

Each year on 28 December, residents of Ibi in Spain stage a mock military coup, pelting each other with flour and eggs and letting off firecrackers. A group of men, ‘Els Enfarinats’ (The Floured Ones) take control of the town, pronouncing ridiculous laws and fining citizens who infringe them. Another group, ‘La Oposicio’ (The Opposition) tries to restore order. At the end of the day, the fines are donated to charity.

Reputedly 200 years old, the festival was revived in 1981 after long lying dormant.

Commissioned by
Agenzia Controluce"

Obviously there's a lot to be said here. A clash of mythologies ancient and contemporary. But hear this, snowflakes of Kek - our parties go on for longer, we aren't killing one another and we are coming for you. We're not your friends either. Contrary to what's been said of late we are more desperately in need of Operation Mindfuck than we perhaps ever have been.

Hail Eris etc. More on this later.