LET THE JEWS WIN
BY JOHN TUCKER
POETRY COLLECTIONS FROM CHIPMUNKA BY JOHN TUCKER
Soundcloud Raid
The Sunset Child
Breath Trapped In Heaven
Brave New Tense
Yes You May
“These thoughts allow for nothing sordid, mean
or cruel to trap the mind…”
- Simon Pomery, The Stream
PREFACE
This text is painstakingly transcribed from defaced bank notes. Some of the bank notes are damaged, illegible, others ‘missing.’ Efforts have been made to order the bank notes but were not always successful. No efforts were made to authorial-fingerprint the voice or psychoanalyse the handwriting. The text is not necessarily a critical indictment of embedded liberal capitalism of whom we are liberal, human subjects and where money, formerly neutral means of exchange, is becoming a flying, white, electrical spark passing through borders of osmotic porosity in the dark. Nor is the text necessarily about an imaginary designer drug called Strictly Free that does exactly what it says on the tin, is and makes you “strictly free” to consume. It is but an open-air piece, comprised of torn and bleeding snapshot-fragments that are given artificial insemination. Inherent in it is a notion that money is an Ode to Death, that a fiver is cheese and onion flavour, that work sets you free.
NOTEBOOK
Il faut que je m’en aille.
Sometimes you’ve just got to hit the road and.
Start learning the basics of a strange, unseen vernacular arrowed down from some lost, mad Godhead within. Pass the fallen road sign saying THINK! in the nettles and the mystery of the single shoe beside the road, in a fast Subaru Impreza with Paul and the gang, the Beatles’ back catalogue tumbling from the speaker, the open window a roaring lion, late birds singing in trees, birds that are intelligent, trees that are our friends, on a smouldering evening in Cambridgeshire, when nothing really matters.
The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob. L to the pregnant snorkel + Ossie the dog, he should be sleeping like a log, goes round and round chasing his own tail, only goes upstairs for a trail of Maltesers, nice, round and pale, we’re on the road to Heaven, happiness awaits us there, flutter in the sideways, flutter in the sideways, bring your brief fling with the politics of flight…
Seeing as we can travel backward in time, seeing as we have equalled the speed of light, I thought we could revisit some choice excerpts from my boyhood and beyond.
Teacher rite elephant nite
everything lite lesson love
learn tell everyone Esso orange.
2 MC = E = MC [someone] 1
In the picture of the airport
I can see… a runway,
a cloud, two planes,
a control tower
and the ire ii net.
In our new pogrom there is a Vetacore.
A bomp explodes.
I faded my work.
I have a scar+ that is red and black.
I found a piece of string with a stone on it. I put it round my neck. I saw that the stone could fit into the hole in the wall. It was full of dead skeletons.
He has spines all over him.
Colour circles red. How many circles?
Colour triangles blue. How many squares?
Colour oblongs orange. How many triangles?
Hot July brings cooling showers,
straw berries and gilly flowers.
It was 6. 58 and 37 seconds so we all ran as fast as we could towards the sofa.
MY DOG HAS GOT NO BRAIN,
MY DOG IS A TOTAL PAIN,
HE'S GOT THREE EYES
AND A BIG FAT NOSE
AND GETS HIMSELF TANGLED
WITH THE GARDEN HOSE,
HE ONCE TOOK A PILL
THAT MADE HIM ILL
AND EVER SINCE THEN
HE'S BEEN STANDING VERY STILL.
Squawk squawk gaggle gaggle, bongles has still got the stones.
Sullen, silken sulks,
we drink the same rain,
spit is clean
and so is dirt.
Folder graffiti. Normal is boring. Do it later. God made speed to save us, God made hash to help us. The system works quite well. The grass is always long on the Other Side.
The fire-dance dwelled in electric drums
where ecstasy fell soft fathoms to clap
and bells let peace form in blue notes
and peered at deer in the wood and ate of it
and wet let excellence sound out its criticism
and dawn let sting its unsheathed sting
and chloroform in the heart let see
if only Game Over was seen in nights.
The
sun
hanged
himself
from
a
length
of
daisy
chain.
Clocktick clock being clocked off by clocktick.
Clocktick clock not being clocked off by Time.
The Universal Mind’s moon meat man might.
The Universal Mind’s moon meat man meant.
The Universal Mind’s moon meat man met.
Break, bird with the skin of snake.
God rushed into the cold cod quick.
Behold! An evil vision hath flashed before mine eyes!
Barnes has scored a chicken
and wingers are allowed bikes!
Maybe a tabular arrangement of signs in boxes, like The Periodic Table except a swear word in every box, to go at the end?
Even A Duck Gets Big Erections: my mnemonic for the strings of the electric guitar took the same amount of time to conjure as it takes to say, but my mother has changed it now.
Hey, my name is David Bonky,
I’m a knock-kneed hummingbird,
there’s a tear up my jacket.
Over and out, testing testing 123, welcome to my presence and its intensity...
I watch her walk along on the other side of the street.
She parades the black panther’s nonchalant strut.
She wears blue jeans and black leather boots.
She takes some chewing gum out of her bag.
She slides the stick of it out of the pack.
She puts the stick of it into her mouth.
She loves to chew and suck the taste.
She loves to chew and suck the taste.
She puts the packet back in her bag.
She swings the bag about a little bit.
She walks past a little pub long shut.
She might go check out a flower shop.
She loves to chew and to suck the taste.
She enjoys it, chewing and sucking the taste.
I read that Maya means “Goddess of Illusion” in Sanskrit, where Mara, by stunning contrast, is the Buddhist God of Temptation.
A glance
A blink
A fault in the stars
Her mascara slips into pools of black
A chance
A second
of Infinity
She flutters her eyelids
like spring’s first butterfly
The stars awake to notice love
she waits with open arms.
But all is well if I only think
& sigh of the dreams of dusk
Images before I sleep
Dancing, escaping memory
They seem to have no cares at all
They seem to know the name of love
They seem to be my sacred friends
Ancient messengers, waking at night
But I will forget them & never care
About what I saw in love & alive
What? Oh, I guess it’s love
Just us & love Forever...
Sometimes I wish to have no more than a line penned in the margins of a newspaper going:
The light of all that’s good is true
if believing is the dawn of dreams.
Only when the ship is ripped is the sea a she and the water Nirvana-blue as solar spike.
Desperate for sex with a dream full of ladies.
Desperate for sex with a dream full of ladies.
Soft
and
loose
like
yellow
pencils
scribbling
dreams
as
they
arrive.
Semen spills like silver water,
under the bridge with the angel’s daughter,
splashing with laughter in a moon-glow chamber.
Don’t escape at night
into a heightened dream
from a dull and longing sleep.
Her breath a poisonous magic.
Sometimes perhaps
down opening quiet
I am drawn down
long and alone and
my friend and my foe
recede into deep sleep
sudden and still
like a dawn behind
a screaming veil
where silence is born
and all that’s loose and tight
and all that’s light is light
like first morning
with no night
and wend my way
so slow to Freedom
and soft Infancy-lunacy
with harp-sure eyes
so I can live
the last poet’s
last poem.
There is joy in things
and smiles not grins like butter
but like butterflies.
My philosophy in a nutshell: sensus praecedit cogitationem. It could be the motto of the LSE’s Philosophy Dpt; but when you write it down, what happens?
Tonight it is your right to judge by heart alone.
When I first read the line “I look forward to the future with rapt uncertainty - and I can’t stand the suspense,” for some unknown reason it chimed like bells, reverberating up in the fells and struck a warm, psychic chord. I even conjured lines to rhyme with it before I knew what it meant like:
[John is dancing with aliens in collective ecstasy].
Blessed may be the end at last,
under the sea,
below the soul,
in the upside-down
Oceans above us
(all that Heaven sends is rain).
V to the knock-kneed hummingbird’s wings… plus, in Rimbaud’s colours of the vowels, E is white; but in my friend Agent G’s musical code, when you detune the guitar strings all the way down, the streetname for E becomes F sharp minor!
2
JOHN TUCKER
ENGLISH
E
ENGLISH
JOHN TUCKER
HARECROFT
1
Signed by everwell, she couldn’t hit it sideways, or maybe a soothsaying Spiderman with the hairgel of Dracula, Atlantis, Aquarius, the 60’s.
Last night it seemed we couldn't sleep but maybe I was dreaming. The world expands inside my hands it's getting heavy. Of all the treasures I could choose I can't seem to decide. Today the shade was washed away where I would hide. Dream with open eyes, come below and we can fantasise. Now that I’ve stopped telling lies, come below and we can fantasise. Last night it seemed we nearly
died but maybe I was dreaming. It made me feel sooooooooooooo alive and soooooooo in love. Dream with open eyes, come below and we can fantasise. Now that I’ve stopped telling lies, come below and we can fantasise.
Where once I wandered far and wide
on a field-file, a file-field,
a fenceless farm without
security alarm where all hearts bleed
and all arts breed, now Hell
is very quiet, unadvertised.
McBreastmilk,
McBreastmilk,
don’t feed your kids.
Gentle face erasing cream,
smear it in and let it sink
down through the pores of your skin
to erase your deepest down dirt.
O stars the government
that truly speaks for us!
Get an extra kid for free
when you spend 99p.
Freefall 0800 down
your own black hole pupils.
Maybelline you maybe only make-believe
you may be the true mating queen of the hive,
may mad vampires stalk you,
stalking walls walk through
your vagrant dreams.
I see state of head
is more than Head of State.
Monster Munch can
always gobble up your food.
Cancerel can always
sweeten the stewed-
carfume coffee we sip in
this liminal afterlounge.
It’s getting cramped
as a tin of beans in here.
In emergency please
break glass and exit.
Credits at the end of innocence
are falling like numberless lists
of fallen autumn leaves.
Snatched handfuls of light
come to nothing in the dark room.
There must be a use for
this dust amounting.
There’s nothing like digging
a meaningless hole as if to cure the
spiralling lethargy of Hell...
and when I went into the
woods to bury my soul,
all the trees knelt down.
O perpetual orgasm of the sun!
Privation is the mother of imagery.
Prayers, ghosts and
e-mails chatter on
the ego-loss breeze.
The chitchat in the solipsistic
kitchen of fiction is 'phatic'.
My new, motley fridge magnet
letters contain no question
mark in the pack but the first
qualification of Modernism
is inquiry and furthermore
wilful ignorance is a sin.
Meanwhile outside the
fallen Autumn leaves
are where bears have
dipped their feet in pots of paint
and danced across the threshold
of the paving stones.
Water clears its throat from the tap.
Gunpowder was only invented
for fireworks and a firework
is a champion sperm nosing up
blind to explode bright and wonderful
deep-sea creatures in the Ancient Night.
The world is a cool, bejewell'd
marble snug in Holy Orbit
suckling on a mother sun.
Supposedly there is soon
to be New Atlantis on the moon.
The cure for cancer
sustains your heart.
Robbed by a bastard vending machine,
somewhere a tramp drinks paint-stripper
to cleanse the doors of perception,
a drunkard attacks a wall
on an otherwise empty street,
a policeman forces himself
to come with a gun.
Hey salesman
slow down
with that
fast-food.
I don't mind
waiting here
for a year.
Portability still seems the Apotheosis of Form: sometimes I can be walking along on a sunny day when I jump from the jungle to the Arctic to the Sahara. Mutation in consciousness itself, truth too simple to understand, these are gesture-without-motion-bones, like sadness gene and dreaming gland.
It's not impossible to write an anti-poem. Love is not a mechanistic set of rules. Love was once aligned with madness, fever and intoxication. Love became grouped with language not God. Love became a tough word-combination. Love has no ego as everyone knows, and so it goes and so it grows.
I for one think Lucy in the soul with demons may happen to be an actual substance. Travelling south, as I read Rimbaud, a rainbow smashed a railway train window. A baby cannot trip without memories... I remember “every atom ate our eyes.” Our eyes: they are ingrown in the ocean's bellyful of wine, down in the seabed-orchard. There is angelic music inborn in the inner ear; but those whom the Gods wish to drive mad are sent the end of ‘Bike’ in their heads and madness is not something to be Romanticised as a return to Purity.
Impunity seems more what the poet wants. He likes to float on the artifice of organic emotions through synthetic sounds, and is into exploring alternative histories suppressed by the overarching meta-narrative. For plastic surgery of the soul there are libraries. Poetry is the bike riding itself. Monopoly money will get us well, Monopoly money will get us bread, she picks the blue tac off the wall and says “my T-shirt is red”. I put my wounds up on bright flags; I take the angel up the arse. To plug my senses in the mains might engage [!00 %] of my brains.
It’s all about a permanent reactivation of the Glastonbury Festival spirit. John Tucker is taking acid again. Money shags in the dark. Thoughts of one’s greatness only diminish one’s greatness. Skunkfoot is putrid demons excreted through stone. Love an army of fire. Fire needs some incentive to rise up. Shall I touch my heart with a red Bic biro? When all the air in outer space is consumed… The bed in the wood, it was definitely a whore’s, with solar spike I can use the Force, with R2D2 I cleanse my doors, I’m just trying to win my Star Wars. I’m starting to think in five musical parts at once. The Anon Throwaway as a new form could become an alternative currency to rival with money for the role of the real.
Formal education is not for everyone. The yellow DogMuckels M atop the pole in the industrial park is the postmodern churchspire in the spiritual vacuum. Postmodernism is theme dissolved into message. Giant killers are frozen peas in the microwave. I look into the mirror though I shouldn’t pool my sources. I’m not going to die at the age of twenty seven, watch the dreamtapes on repeat from a golden seat in Heaven.
The heart beats to the rhythm of one. A fiver is surely cheese and onion flavour. Cataclysm is catalyst for the old cat that sat on the map of sound, just because the world is very round. If there were paper under my heart there would be writing on it and it would be art. I might ding it in compressed Space Age seconds.
If you falsify the Nirvana barcode it should have meaning. I can run you through a series of life events in terse precis that meant I arrived at such a culmination.
Well, at seven I helped invent the net: when the idea of the net needed storing in writing in the attic here to give it a chance to grow all the way round the world, I was the one to write it. By eight I was the witness from The Lords And The New You Know Who twice. By eleven who knew what was going on? By fifteen I attained the face of stars which may have been scripted in the Bible. By eighteen I forewarned of September 11th in 2000 and wrote the highest-marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the nation at 100%.
After school I recorded an album on binaural earphones, had an effervescent mobile reverberating the rhythm of ‘William Tell’ through every technological inlet in the room before it rang, hosted the Plough alignment for a rhythm change in the White House, got a First despite the onset of mental illness, worked the numinous, purple-bleeding PC screen, built the Tower as an instrument of philosophy, conducted an experiment into a cassette tape with a pause where resealed in the reel, and discovered the sheet where pictures (seemingly depicting one of my own song lyrics) grew.
I went through all that without earning 1p. Then as a summary of all of that which I had done, I invented and falsified the Nirvana barcode and in doing so attained visual radio, broadcasting dreams that swirl in digital, purple swathes about the head of the deranged seer...
So you see that it has been fast indeed! That Subaru Impreza! And Time does not pass but evaporate! And things live inside onions of themselves! And galloping water would be a cool thing to say!
I made the Nirvana barcode to be but the beat of ‘Scentless Apprentice’ by Nirvana tapped out in approximate barcode shape using the tool of the qwerty keyboard.
Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit
Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit
Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit
Bring bring
bring bring
“Hello?”
Gold member, you're the one,
the one with the heart of gold
Vowels, pure vowels
Immanuel Kant
will come to thee
with immanence
You come home smacked up you come
d/ d/ d/ down
grooving up slowly
d/ d/ d/ down
grooving up slowly
d/ d/ d/ down
grooving up slowly
yeah yeah yeah
yeah yeah yeah
yeah yeah yeah
boom
boom
boom
boom
boom
how did we get down here from flat-top
wide tunnel cities self driving cars
bears in the moon and liquor and drugs
and whisky baaaaaaaaaaaars
boom shanka, you're the one,
the one with the sonic boom
knickers knickers faster than lightning
skin up fall out of bed
and did those feet
in ancient times
rain down, rain down,
come on raindown
and walk the sun
fatter, hippier, less well connected
always walk the hallways
down to create my own
and in the meantime
and in the meantime
I'll do the monkey bars with my legs
manic depression has enraptured my name
don't know what I want but I just want shame
don't know what I want but I just won't shave
rainy waif, rain always,
lay back and dream
on a rainy waif
now I know how Kurt Cobain sang
oh now I know how Kurt Cobain sang
no more laaaaaaaaaa la's
removal van canes will be turned into furniture
we're thinking of putting Tricky's name on the front sir
you never see me dead near an inch of closure
|| | |||| | || | |||| 909 and 693 are wings
“and a record made of sound
goes round and round, conveying
music to the speaker through the stylus,”
says the radio as I turn it on.
Well, although there is no
such thing as the Nirvana barcode
it opens up a discussion about
the Telepathic Walkie Talkie, how
if barcode is rain barcode is phone...
and at least I have
the grace to come
back and say that the
extinction of consciousness
has no monetary value.
It is past dawn
and I see that
that first mobile
phone has gone.
If it makes any difference to you,
my little bro is a genius, who
designed the sheet
where pictures grew
and says <BEE>
might soon ensue
from @ in the international
language alphabet…
he did it for Flora,
subject of many a love poem of mine,
and it turns out
he had her, did her, loved her,
won her, got her,
in time past.
But who kissed who
is playground stuff,
and jealousy is a wasted emotion,
and I am proud
to be my brother’s brother,
and my mother’s son.
I would never begrudge my brother something I would want for myself or my mother either.
FLAGRANT RAPSCALLION
I
Apple blossom cheek
breath of wine
plates or confetti
he sips on disturbed
Nile insect
spaghetti
II
While that may be the ABC of aesthetics,
what I’m getting at is that
if a flower-press ending on cannabis
could = a dialysis a love poem
only hoping to impress poor Flora = a motor.
III
If I could sip from your eyes I would
and taste your name. Eyes of
deep undersea green, we
would skinny dip and fish
in them, drag out numberplates,
mangled car doors, crumbs.
The pretext is yours
and it is also my mum’s.
IV
If this were a fairy story
there’d be no happy ending.
No sumptuous consummation
will wait for the poet
at the end of a plot.
I think of a chain of music from star to star,
but therein am starting
to quote my old self again.
V
I’ve already lost my father
who was an international art smuggler
nicknamed Blue or so he said -
though once upon a time
I thought art was recourse
to euphemism for pollen.
The people from the future,
they don’t want his business to end.
VI
It’s good when the daffs come out in spring,
like yellow trumpets, broadcasting
their excellent news.
Excellent News was the ideal
in my New Beat youth, b/t/w/.
I was nomadic in those days.
VII
Before the daffs come out,
we have snowdrops like
pure, white flames
in the heart for love.
The long, dark tunnel
of winter awaits us now.
VIII
I sip tea, I sip tea,
unsweetened it’s
enough for me.
I’ve got a lot of washing up to do.
I tried to meditate today.
Come.
It’s good to get the washing
up done, because it is good
to make a clean space
for yourself before
you write – mess leaks in
to the brain when
you are in a messy room.
Now it’s done I can make a sandwich -
cheese, ham, lettuce, on special brown bread…
it has no added sugar unlike white.
At the moment I am leaving
the washing up to dry, but
soon will put it all away.
Then I can say “hey,
I pulled my weight today.”
So that I do, and that’s true…
I do a little bit more at my screen,
getting pithy about Place and Nature
then go outside to collect wood.
Sometimes I look at Nature and see
invisible sheet music flowing right to left.
If you like I’ll mention some scattered perceptions of the Lakes.
The fell from town,
when you’re driving towards it,
seems a great, slumbering
diplodocus, come
to fat and die by
the Irish Sea; but
nearer the foot
you can see it is
more Buddha levitating.
And when you mention
the slow ascent
up flat, gradual paths
I think more of a bullet
to the top of a telegraph pole
or even the kettle, rising
to its silent scream,
its steam Ariel returning
on Caliban’s chain.
Floating in the quiet
of a weightless dawn,
the buzzard is the crux
of the flux of time,
and all of Creation
his dark machine.
There are benefits living here, like
once I encountered a rare, red kite,
which sat resting on a fence post, waiting
for me like a warning or a reward.
Sometimes Nature is custodial;
and at other times, frightening, otherworldly…
in me, Nature is a great art exhibition,
but it can also be an immunity to Reason.
Some think of the future a lot,
and how there should still be
a place for Nature in that future,
to go exploring just to look at trees,
which like crows, dogs and
horses are Man’s friends.
Nature is the true architecture of State, at least unto some, while others would take a less staid and Conservative attitude.
Here we find mood as bracken frond.
We find dry stone walls creeping
in to the writing even of city folk, visiting.
I think writing about the Lakes could be the refinement of a drug called “Strictly Free.” I think the Beautometer would be a good invention for fell walkers. I sometimes think of Heaven as a pile of statistics when I ascend the fell – that I will one day find out the exact number of steps I have taken up it and whether I held the record.
The powers that be could be clouds
rowing overhead on their sky blue roads.
And everything in Nature is only semi-state: even the fell is mutable on a long enough timeline.
Well, nothing has changed to the map
apart from the wind-farm beyond the lap
of the tide, revolving its Mercedez Benz arms
to make electricity for the farms -
and also the cafe down the beach -
since Norman Nicholson neglected to preach. -
Changes to the place have been the net,
global warming let’s not forget,
the advent of the mobile phone
and increased opportunities for vice in town.
But who needs vice when literature is intoxicant enough?
Here, we find the beck is a fountain pen.
I sometimes stand by the beck, listening in.
(Dr. Bob says only those with their feet firmly planted can fly.)
I would be wearing my wellies, listening
to its most mellifluous applause,
the way she falls two feet
into a sound as sweet
as a kettle drum’s
metal petals of
silver bliss that
blossom on a carnival’s street.
Literature from the city is of alienation,
literature of rootedness repetitive,
and the city is the intellectual breeding station,
but countrylife closer how we ought live.
I
The reason my new work is not Anon is that I believe a writer has a right to a name otherwise an Exclusion of the Individual Machine can close ranks against you.
The earliest-written English poems, however, are attributed to Anon, the earliest recorded line being:
“Well-wrought this wall: Weirds broke it.”
Weirds could be weather-systems.
Combining the fact that the earliest subject is ruin’d architecture and the earliest recipe known to man is for beer, as discovered by monks, could make a poem’s definition “a statue of alcohol.”
The A595 is the main road connecting
the nuclear sub factory in Barrow and
Sellafield up the coast. On Sunday
the posse of motorbikes come
to this bucolic valley because the road
has something in the golden sector #
to do with its bends, its elegant curvature.
I went walking up the rearside of the fell,
and some one or two hundred yards in,
up the path and away from the A595,
encountered a rare, red kite
with dawn-charred chest, resting
on the fence-post, waiting
for me like a warning or reward…
II
Here from this seat now
I look about the kitchen, painted
a plush, Mediterranean coral,
at the indomitable things on the walls,
the notice board of cork,
the dead telly wearing
mother’s funeral hat,
the calendar with local photos,
the chart depicting the plants of the
Meadows, the clock, my sister’s art…
It’s a country farmhouse kitchen
with an AGA, where most of the cooking
is home-made, not from packets.
We have no neighbourhood or amenities
and country life can be quite dull,
but recently I felt elated
for capturing a partial alignment
of the Plough and oldest fell
on my new Smartphone.
I. T. might stand for Instant Travel too,
NHS for Lucy in the Soul w/ Demons,
H20 for hypothalamus tattoo,
ESA for extra sensory allowance
but I for one still don’t really know
if Lucy even happens to be an actual substance.
III
It’s a myth that countryfolk are stupid
just because the rhythm of life is slower.
The region is an actual religion.
It’s why my dad didn’t take too kindly to racism.
I was amazed the kite didn’t fly away,
as I stood there gazing upon it.
It’s as close to a bird of prey
as I have ever got out in the wild.
Apparently, the Vikings named the hills and the Celts named the valleys… this should be easy to remember because you can picture a Viking being able to see the mountains from the sea as they travel across; and the Celts likewise lived in among the valleys so it would be natural they named them.
Obviate not titivate, sate
your quest for meat and fling
to your bright ring, your
peerless orbit, your wheel
of hunting, out-stretch
wings to be engorged on air’s
ranting, rock-strong
sockets braced against crushing,
uprushing rivers and sail.
Eventually, it did fly away,
but not until I made the decision
to continue my walk, to leave
the moment, the spot where I stood.
Seeing its wings unfold,
seeing it fly away, I took a left
up the rear side of the fell, following
the path beside the beck
and – still not knowing
what the bird was, only storing
an image of it in my brain -
reached the cairn at the top.
Down
down
down
down
down
deep
blue
below
“eh up,
mate,”
says my
mate
and is
it safe
to say
hello?
When I got down again,
and back to my home on
this side of the fell, I
looked the bird up in a book,
and found it was a red kite.
For some reason I thought
I had found the golden eagle…
there was a rumour that a pair of them
had moved into the area.
So I was actually disappointed
to find the bird was a rare, red kite,
which it certainly, judging
by the book of birds, was.
That afternoon, I got a phonecall
from my ex gf on my mobile.
I told her: “I’ve just seen a rare bird.”
I also told her I had given up cannabis;
asked her if she still smoked;
but what she said and what she was doing
when she said it, I shall not say.
Simon says the River Goyt
might become the Styx in Heaven.
I say the rhythm of the River Goyt
beats blood to my head like a cold muscle.
The word ‘goyt’ might actually be Celtic thought-patterns meeting Anglo-Saxon vowel-sounds.
Back then I liked music by people such as: Boards of Canada, Squarepusher, Aphex Twin and Autechre. I also still liked some guitar music by people like Hella and Shellac, and my favourite act of all were Radiohead, ever since they filled the hole left behind by Nirvana. All of it was better to listen to when high.
Dr. Robert says: “the brain actually releases cannabinoids naturally for moments of signification like reaching the top of a mountain. If you flood your brain with cannabinoids un-naturally, meaning and signification become aleatory, a mess. There is suddenly meaning at any point of intersection in the crazy palimpsest of memory.”
Kurt Cobain sings:
“my heart is broke,
but I have some glue,
help me inhale,
I’ll mend it with you,
we’ll float around,
hang out on clouds,
then we’ll come down,
have a hangover.”
I
Now we’re just enjoying the peace on a calm, autumnal Sunday. It’s a time for expanding your threshold of Negative Capability… I am also taking care of my mother, who injured her arm on holiday. It’s her birthday today, so I gave her a book, and like every other day made her a fire and made her a morning coffee.
We need to get some new Vape juice
because there is only one bottle left.
Tesco is going to be closed for a few weeks
after today so we should stock up.
Apparently they are going
to redo the fruit and veg section
so that the fruit and veg is stored
in a series of closed compartments.
Now for the E as I try and summon up a purpose for this. It is healing, of the self and the soul of the world. It is truce between old friends fallen out like fools. It is air for the tortured soul to breathe. It is an experiment into more advanced modes of being.
II
Sensation precedes thought in art,
chain is made from same as key,
waves make gentle
love to the shore,
homework tonight is
to remember your dreams,
and this we know,
there is no ‘we,’
I am the third person
immaculate, free…
you know the routine
by now, the score,
and more and many more,
but let’s not dwell
on school-made things
when outside birds
sing with their wings
and freedom flies
and freedom flows
and the music never stops.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my brother Mr. James P D Tucker and my mother Susie for the odd touch or bit of redirection in this. Without them it wouldn’t be the same and it wouldn’t be fair to not mention them.
