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.
Waves
[squiggle]
crossed
the FTSE
[squiggle]
and
the Helter-Skelter
[squiggle]
crashed
in the electric-sea
[squiggle].
Words,
words, words… what are words? These are words. Words in this
epistemological
system
could be useful tools associated with the instinct to survive. Man is
words and “man” is a word and words draw bridges across
metaphysics and words make connections between first and third
persons. Words are also a great bandwagon of falsity we must presume
is not false in order to make life easier. Words are, well, ONLY
words.
“Mayfly,”
I say the word “mayfly” phonetically,
sounding
out every vowel sound alphabetically.
One
night, we
were having a Scrotbag
Party
in the caravan. That means drinking and smoking. And suddenly I got a
preternatural sixth sense that the dog had run off and was trapped on
the fence at
the local farm barking.
So we walked up through the fields, our
tombstone-shadows looming tall beneath the moon in the church field;
and we found the terrible goat which was tied up in the triangular
patch of land past our field; and we noted how its eyes gleamed a
baleful green colour when a lone car passed; and we made it past the
terrible goat and to the farm where we indeed discovered Ossie the
dog trapped on the fence, barking. I was wearing a fur coat and had a
bottle opener in the pocket and used it to cut the dog free. Then we
made it back to ours and told the dog he was a bad boy for running
off and continued with our Scrotbag
Party.
All
guns should be flown in a spaceship into the heart of the sun.
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.
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.
At
Lancaster University (a type of word-guitar from Fender) I coined the
word “co-imagination.” There was a wobbly patch in the middle
where I had a breakdown but pulled through the get the highest First
in the year. My dissertation was on the scientist-poet David Morley,
where I discovered a specific poetic effect that had not yet been
named. My poetry portfolio for Paul Farley, meanwhile, took the form
of defaced bank notes in its plot. I told him my father’s art
dealing business was code, recourse to euphemism for pollen, took us
back to Berlin where the art deal was supposed to have happened, and
where by now I had been on a band tour; then turned it into a
discussion of how the English language is worth billions of pounds.
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 too, 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.
If
it’s not going to be mine, because the Feds have commissioned it,
even though I wrote every fragment contained, then we don’t get to
see my brother’s <BEE> get lost in the garden.
So
we see it might not work out for me as the new Nash, after having
written the mathematical groundplan for the net, which became the
maths of the new colour, also The Road To Heaven by Noj and The Mob,
falsifying the Nirvana barcode, predicting September 11th
in 2000 and inventing the form of the defaced bank note.
The
idea is to divide things evenly for parity with <BEE> but as I
say if the Feds are not letting me have my own writing, we can’t do
that.
