MY FINAL STANCE

THE OEDIPUS WRECKS GIG, CAMDEN TOWN, CIRCA 1998

I

SECRETS IN THE MUD

This is the sound of getting totally fucked.

Of when you first get your notebook sucked.

Of changing gold into Glastonbury mud.

Of lying down in a field with your bud.

This is the music through whom we aspire.

This is the rule book that is thrown on the fire.

This is the jam where the trousers are down.

This is the wine-shop on the edge of town.

Chorus: Glastonbury, you should be free, and all you have in your big city,

you hit my G, you make me see how I want to see,

lights go down, lights come on,

and all my sadness seems to be gone,

although I still love to be what I dream I am.

[guitar solo]

II

OCEANS SMILE

Oceans smile with liquid eyes

and fill themselves with rain.

The tide goes out and leaves me

lost, the last thing a glass gene.

Follow me to the resurrection

while the blind get crucified.

My weapon’s only loaded in my eyes.

Death will come on silky wings

but I for one will not go.  

A soul is endless, oceans open

and keeeeeeeps a perfect O.

Follow me to the resurrection

while the blind get crucified.

My weapon’s only loaded in my eyes.

Go drink the ocean with your tea

cup, give your heart far out.

If oceans smile with liquid eyes

then they'll give you a shout.

Follow me to the resurrection

while the blind get crucified.

My weapon’s only loaded in my eyes.

Too drunkenly I sail the water

on Rimbaud’s smoking boat.

With whiskygills primed in fire

I sail the waves to Boot.

Follow me to the resurrection

while the blind get crucified.

My weapon’s only loaded in my eyes.

(reconstructed via the new, synchronised word)

III

KILL

My eyes sting,

my teeth are bleeding raw,

too much thought

to make me sick.

Stinky clothes

and mouth become

my skin and all

these fruits I want to kill.

Give my hope,

surrender to the tide,

you can take

my remains;

but I must go,

to wash the poison

from my eyes,

before, before, before I kill.

IV

SNAKE SNAKE BUTTERFLY

Snake snake butterfly,

lay me dead & close my eyes.

Angel serpentine, she

waits on the Other Side.

Give me your alibi;

give me chains to stop me fly;

give me night to soothe my blinded eyes:

so I can see the secrets of the skies.

We must rise, freedom

falling from our eyes,

unlock doors, it's a

perfect time to die, and it's

okay ‘cause baby we'll go insane

but don't reach out

too far for the flame.

Snake snake butterfly,

lead me to the Other Side.

Angel serpentine, she

waits on the Other Side.

V

VITAL SIGNS

Smile like a smile just to smile,

cast to Heaven for a while...

let's rip holes in the boat,

throw the captain overboard,

throw the angels off the bridge,

death comes and stops me getting

bored of life's soul-machine.

What we need is energy,

show me all your vital signs,

what we steal is what we need,

what we need to feel alive,

for I'm alive with vital signs.

Back to Hell to plunder wings,

let the ritual now begin,

come and ride the waiting beast,

ride it gone into the fire,

ride it to the waiting feast,

my baby's waiting to get higher,

to get higher, to get higher...

what we need is energy,

show me all your vital signs,

what we steal is what we need,

what we need to feel alive,

for I'm alive with vital signs,

yeah feel alive with vital signs.

Come again there's much to do,

don't you know that I love you?

VI

THE GHOSTS LAMENT (THE GUZZLER MEN)

I'm the only one left, left to shoot my

own gun. This is the dead land. Crack a smile

and curse the sun. Death awaits to fuck me.

Give me bliss and give me kisses. Death a-

waits to save me. The ghosts lament, the ghosts

lament. Come on baaaaaaaaaby, you know it's e-

asy, don't say maaaaaaaaaybe, let's go crazy. Death

awaits to fuck me. Give me bliss and give

me kisses. Death awaits the same me. The

ghosts lament, the ghosts lament, no more ghosts.

||||.

[Note: when years later I discovered the James P D Tucker sheet where pictures grew, and the pictures seemed to depict the lyric to one of my old songs, this is the song.]

VII

HEAVEN KNOWS

Heaven knows and walks away -

but what it knows it will not say.

It’s impossible to make a cowboy film in space?

Heaven knows and turns its face!

Heaven’s filled with silver eyes.

Heaven’s hills all harmonise.

I hear its angels when they call...

Heaven knows and lets them fall!

[reconstructed]

VIII

MURDER IS DEAD

Fuck this, fuck that, fuck me yeah,

I wish that I had been there,

been there to saaaaaave Jesus,

I'm sure he meant to please us.

Murder is dead,

murder is dead,

murder is dead.

We're young and filled with semen,

we're going to break some hymen,

we'll make the cops turn in their badges,

we're going over all the edges yeah.

Murder is dead,

murder is dead,

murder is dead.

I KNEW THAT SHE LOVED ME

I escaped last night

into a heightened dream

from a dull and longing sleep

and the stars murmured

their cool ballad

to the approaching sky.

Secrets hung like ghosts

in the corner of my wanton world

all blurred and drugged too deep

and I knew that she loved me

from her invisible motions

and the dagger in her soft reply.

The questions concealed in her eye.

Her smile a luring prison.

Her blink a beautiful danger.

Her breath a poisonous magic.

And I knew that silence

would soon let slip its whisper,

knew that fantasy

had never been so real

and I knew that she loved me

because I knew everything.

I knew.

THAT BLACK NATURAL E

[spoken word narrative for B minor]

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 enquiry 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. 

(2002)

KUNK

(spoken word narrative to go over a drone of E)

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.

(2002 – 2003)

AURORA FLOREALIS

Gilly flowers curtsey, not off the sound-map.

To make a flower-press would be womanly.

When our days still ended on cannabis

we would bemoan that flowers were legal.

To the tune of the wind I sink, then swim.

I no longer puff the evil weed these days.

It would be a reward, a kind of dialysis,

that separates the murk from the excellence.

I would need it to balance out my mind,

one homeostatic device for another one.

Now I worry that I am hurried and florid.

I hear an A. E. I. O. U. bird toot its long,

hollow horn out on the A595 and relax.

I hear its wheels go round, that it’s heavy.

*ketamineguitar*

CHEESE DREAMS

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.

SMART-TALK ON HEARTBOOK

[warning: contains voices]

Up all night working the guy who said he would plug his senses in the mains

incoming voices seem to be Smart-talking

Simon says fragmented for reasons of solidarity with the dispossessed of the world

feeling the Age of Communication = the Age of Alienation I am

chivvying words in different orders recalling the machine in Gulliver’s Travels that precedes the computer whom it seems might have destroyed the spirituality of Cabalistic permutation games of heart-purifying nature based on quest not arrival but whom it seems might not

sharing secrets on Facebook as if it were Heartbook

can’t upload spittle to philosophy chatroom

can’t pass the gravy over Facebook enough

started out writing a good book but laptop became huge container for storing the sum of all knowledge

thinking the surface area on which I write being infinite the story is now infinite, the content gone endless

still like Gulliver’s Travels and ‘Goodbye Ruby Tuesday’ – goodbye

still think if the windows were washed – every one - I would see nothing, nothing but the white mirrors re-affirming the quiet interior of this solipsistic kitchen of fiction where I write by night furtive in flight with the sprightly hypertext-sniper on Piper At The Gates of Dawn

when I look out of the window at dawn I sometimes see Eden, am like Adam walking in a prelapsarian garden with a bagful of names to scatter freely on things

the ingredients of apple juice might make a found poem called ‘Text Message From An Alien’

seems the internet is to writing as photography was to visual art

seems the on/off switch of the laptop is its clitoris

seems the omnijective interface of random access co-imagination is the new, synchronised word

through the rooms people come and go Smart-talking on magic alphabet radio

when I see the sun in the morning I think it is Holy not just a 2 pence piece

the kettle rises to its silent scream, its steam Ariel returning on Caliban’s chain singing sweet song my one note on hyper-vision this fair dawn

it looks like a good book is on the cards

it looks like Heartbook might’ve fled away with the Smartpoem

it looks like mutation in consciousness, truth too simple to understand, these are gesture without motion bones like sadness gene and dreaming gland and the pollen has gone under Gondwanaland and the ecstasy pill gone under the green hill and we are hiding from The Waste Land in The Waste Land still

was remembering recently the time my friend sent a text saying LIQUID CRYSTAL METH into space, and I was the one underneath it, the one to catch it

think it might be a psycho-technological post-poem pertaining maybe to replace the archaic sense of ‘gay’ gone to apathy, barrage and detachment

reminds me love is a choice of words

was WH Auden that said that not me

I still think love is the hope the heart literally needs in order for it to survive without which it can stop

A WALL OF REPEAT PRESCRIPTIONS

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 poem, 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.

Sullen, silken sulks,

we drink the same rain,

spit is clean

and so is dirt.

Necklace noose,

reckless truce,

drooling before

wet, electric eyes

My name is David Bonky,

I’m a knock-kneed hummingbird,

there’s a tear up my jacket.

(1998)

There is joy in things

and smiles not grins like butter

but like butterflies.

Waves

[squiggle]

crossed the FTSE

[squiggle]

and the Helter-Skelter

[squiggle]

crashed in the electric-sea…

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.)

Down

down

down

down

down

deep

blue

below

“eh, up

mate,”

says my

mate

and is

it safe

to say

hello?

To plug my senses in the mains

might engage !00% of my brains,

but it’s gone wrong at the plug,

just a dream on a drug.

I felt a leaf,

I fell out of life,

probably no-one else knew.

A trance of stalks walks on stilts

like a stance on talks only to the toilet

then back to bed to rest its head

under the soft, Pink Panther blanket.

She blows a poisonous magic

searched the corridor for a

crash had no survivors in Soviet

be weed

Il faut que je m’en aille.

Sometimes you’ve just

got to hit the road and

Colour circles red. How many circles?

Colour triangles blue. How many squares?

Colour oblongs orange. How many triangles?

Leaves that played on the surface of the water,

these are the leaves they have in Heaven,

these are the leaves of love.

Signed by everwell,

she couldn’t hit it sideways

or maybe a soothsaying Spiderman

with the hairgel of Dracula,

Atlantis, Aquarius, the 60’s.

“Is there anything I can do to help?

Looks like I’m on washing up duty.

It’s fine I don’t mind washing up.

It won’t take long then I’ll be free.”

£34. 84 at the Take-away joint

can get you quite bloated,

not just quench’d and sated;

and by now I sit here wondering

just how much it cost.

My fingers have crashed,

my fingers have crashed

and my mad, crashed

fingers have connected.

A thesis as thin as the Rizla it’s in

can lead all the way to the loony bin,

can make you forget how to spell

Winnie the Pooh at the gates of Hell.

The day is a dream’s balcony around mellow me.

I remember when banks let pens go free.

Art gets to its feet like a cartoon Bambi.

Love has gone veggie for reasons of Disney!

The future is no longer what it used to be!

I still crave a greedy DogMuckels when

the plush seat gets a hard-on at the end.

Caroline is the last yellow crayon.

This could be the key to telepathic union.

My grand-dad was in the Air Force and his wife.

Under a blanket in the back of a car.

I think of it now that I’ve reached this far -

alone in the solipsistic kitchen.

When Paul was talking of “McTruth”

I noticed a swarm of flies in the house.

Nobody else could even see them but me.

My mother calls the pills I pop “poetry

buttons” in motley conglomerations

like pool balls or songcells and

their names should not appear in poems.

Walking down to the Irish Sea slowly

to see if my place in life is lowly

I reckon a dying animal goes much faster.

“MAGIC SAYINGS HIDDEN IN THE TREETOPS”

A moocow is not made of dialectical antagonism. Someone else can lose your marbles for you. Vowels are our souls. Meaning in music is solipsistic, it is faces in the fire or Hamlet’s 3 creatures in a cloud-change. Life could be a dull throb of loneliness inside your breast as well as a colourful spew going on outside the cave-walls of the skull. If Liberalism is the allowing of all perceptions and it leads to Hamlet’s harmatia irresolution, pragmatism may be the reactivation of an attitudinisation in that situation. Planes are the shoes of clowns. It’s impossible to make a cowboy film in space. A drum is a dream bigger than a dream of bounding in huge, magic circles in space. The Big Mac, which contains the four basic, caveman cravings of salt, fat, sugar and protein, could be the heir to the apple of knowledge. Love can go veggie for reasons of Disney. Light-speed is my passport. If acid is the microchip of a peach, the sun is the peachstone of a black hole. It is not true that the effects of acid and of acid-rain on an imaginary species = the same, nothing, if there can be no more proof of something being real than saying it was Imagined. The constellations only seem to turn on axis unobserved. A trance of stalks walks on stilts like a stance on talks only to the toilet then back to bed to rest its head under the soft, Pink Panther blanket. When a volume starts to smell of redolent flowers or Flora’s perfume it could be the word of a dog. Death’s breath is a tear of flame with waxy dreadlocks drooped in shame. When we wake words are stone shoes worn by the bottoms of clouds, weighing them down hopelessly. It is possible to harness waves that also passed through the Beats. Leaves that played on the surface of the water, these are the leaves they have in Heaven, these are the leaves of love. There are fossils of art as well as fossils of life. Connection is Heaven and Heaven connection and there is connection between Heaven and vision for vision may feel in a state of Heaven and Heaven only exist in vision. Semantics is a road sign not a place. Meaning is inherent in something’s exact mode of expression. Meaning is not a delusion unlike Time. Meaning could be an emotional import given mere exo-skeleton with words. Every planet has its own colour and ‘Calliope’ means ‘beautiful face.’ The names of pharmaceutical medications should probably not appear in poems. Nature is the true architecture of State. If ever there were a light-speed law of neuroplasticity it might only be that “it is impossible to remember a new yellow line.” Cliche hurts more than truth. Where rain falls, falling reigns. Pictures can be done without hands. Life is not just about naturally occurring fossils of Jim Morrison’s poetry for the witness but the live Doors for everyone else too. Realism ice-skates on the surface of the dust. Language can be smuggled out of the unconscious. Enough is the hope the heart literally needs in order for it to survive without which it can stop, meaning Duff which is H suspended in deafness. H20 might stand for hypothalamus tattoo. Chewing gum is bi. Voices only pathologise what by another name might be onjects, quavers, syllabubbles, sonic machinations at the periphery of sound, an instrument of wonder. Clouds seen through hospital glass only mean that all things must pass. There is no such thing as mind cancer. That women like Primark is hardly a timeless idea transmitted across Time. Ecstasy is a teddy bear back in the garden of Eden. Autumn is Optimus Prime already in Keats. Freedom not poetry is the bike riding itself. After garage and house comes library. The poet extirpates every trace of recognition from the mind, unlooses the mind of form, method acts every adjective in ‘Howl’ to attain visual radio. If your dad is an international art smuggler nicknamed Blue it can become a new sense through which you can read of future events. It is not inconceivable that when we die we can re-access history at any point, be a real, live Red Indian, or a bird of prey soaring over a mnt. Birds are for flying not for special perception. The effect of global warming on the unicorn succeeded Piper At The Gates of Dawn. The summer rain falls with as many hands as there are names for new rock bands. The alphabet could be Nelly the Elephant’s suicide note. Sometimes on E it makes you feel like your mouth is full of cold, stunning, Heavenly, crystal water and when you speak it spills. If form is an easel, content is a palette. The main difference between the sticks and the city is that in the sticks you acknowledge the stranger you pass when out there walking. Creation is a dark machine. It’s impossible to curse the sun. Acid is a spirit-level for the spirit. Without flaws there can be no opinions, as without imperfection there can be no taste. Galloping water is a cool thing to say. Things live inside onions of themselves. Freedom flies where flags fall. Heaven is a pile of statistics no-one will ever see. Water’s boiling point is when it starts to involuntarily breakdance to the music. Walnut halves look like miniature, shrunken brains. If Facebook is evil one reason is that it makes you say things you don’t mean and freezes them forever. Your right to write of who is in the shower ends where another’s naked body begins. We are hiding from The Waste Land in The Waste Land. I prefer The New Family Tao to the non-fungible token. The sound of typing can be used as percussion in non-metred Sound Art. When Baxter the dog walks on the laptop funny things come out like the names of glitch electronica numbers. The powers that be could be clouds that wear DM boots on their red brick road, and ripped genes adorned with peace and anarchy signs, on their protest march. A ‘tron’ could be a point of intersection between technology and art or a post-poetic experiment with a psycho-technological edge. Objects can vanish on the periphery of madness when emotions are high. Reality is not a computer program designed by aliens in the 1980’s and nor were caves alien cinemas in the long distant past. Waiting in darkness can be nourishing for the soul, reveal a Technicolour shoal. With drugs you have to realise: wise up or die. The world of Stuff and Things is not amenable to the world of Transcendental Metaphysics. Time does not pass but evaporate. Life is naturally the opposite of Lord of The Flies because the mystic character is the one that actually does see things while everyone else thinks he’s deluded. Even a game of cards can be a rehearsal for death. The exact same words can seem absolutely insane when written down and confer absolute genius when not written down. Dream-meets in the silver forest, ESP and telepathy are more possible with the net around. When it comes to the sheet where pictures grew, they could be “people,” as we are people too, people who are levelled by the sheet, whose Equality is enshrined. If you have to read Homer in order to be a philosopher everyone should have that opportunity if they choose and that is my philosophy. Credits at the end of innocence still fall like numberless lists of fallen autumn leaves. To be the first to coin the word “co-imagination” seems almost silly. Crocodiles have had Sat Nav for 1000’s of years before our Age. A bird is a bird is a bird is a bird. Just because it has been called naive to perceive of the left as a beautiful, compassionate emotion to explore doesn’t mean it isn’t sometimes good to go down that path. Just because it was my brother not me that fired bullets to the top of the telegraph pole doesn’t mean all statements that pertain to axiomatic truth are his intellectual property. A thesis as thin as the Rizla it is in can lead all the way to the loony bin. Water has no more memory than it has smell. It is better to hide from the wind than it is to perform open heart surgery. When I say apples “occupy” a bowl on the table, I don’t mean they are a bunch of Nazis. It would be unwise to use the same shapes as a previous writer like, for example, Jim Morrison, if your creative writing teacher says it would be unwise to. If “Philosophy is a sterile subject” (as my friend Dr. Calculator Ptom contends) poetry is probably by default more alive. If Flora was in nets, I’d be Barnes in the game. Nirvana did the sheet where pictures, pictures depicting my own song lyric grew, so that’s why people like it when I say it still belongs to my brother (who laid it down). The healing and fusing of the cassette with a pause in the song where cut and resealed in the flimsy reel in a delicate operation could be down to faith more than doubt. Two photos on the blog, one for the ear, one for the eye, might still seem unfair. When you get invaded by madness and hear so many voices there can seem nothing going on in your own head but straw. If you did help invent the net you shouldn’t have to pay for publication. Words appear to come out weird sometimes. Glastonbury should be free and life like that all the time. Some voices take a few moments to decode after their initial shocking impact. If I said I went to the Louvres travelling by drug-hoover, it might just seem like piss. The crawl of the Doorsian poet through modes of perception trying to find something that underlies their variability leads to water. Maybe living here at the foot of the oldest rock I was never supposed to find out about the future that ain’t what it used to be. Cutlass maths is what I call the ruthless revisionist cut of William Carlos Williams. We live in an Age of sending without form. Drains can sing with Irish folk songs, about dreams that never die. There are dreams that never die. Love is a dream that never dies. Even the meme has split in two, and that was the new “uncuttable” once upon a time. There is breath in a death. It is not necessarily a disease to not be able to cry at funerals. The traffic lights of tears can be all dark green at times. The impassable gulf between first and third persons has been decreed metaphysics. The automated conveyor belt of poesis influences the voice to be a confluence of forces through voices even when I try and drive a straight line towards anywhere that may be light. We are all in one bed in Amsterdam. The light is a prism. Through the Hume people come and go, Smart-talking of Ted Hughes’s Crow. Life is fast, London brutal, travelling scary. Her wetness is so. Angels can be as frightening as demons. The witness was an Irishman before Jim Morrison was even born. H does not = 0 – 0 because I have a heart.

GRIME

I’ve already brought out 12 books and 12 albums (some of which are long E. P.’s) with the help of the net and I don’t think anyone will read the books or listen to the albums; but I have at the end of it distilled what it is I really achieved into a series of musical concepts. It’s all about musical concepts.

1. Firstly the poem that falsifies the Nirvana barcode:

Sullen silken sulks,

we drink the same rain,

spit is clean

and so is dirt.

It came about when there was a government set intelligence test at the computers at Prep School, the most expensive Prep School in the known universe for which a prize was promised, and I won but upon calling out “done it!” was ignored by the maths teacher. So I turned back to the screen and tapped in the beat of ‘Scentless Apprentice’ by Nirvana. That was when the teacher ended the game and there was still no prize awarded as promised, so I soon enough wrote the little poem which has been described as “the best piece of English Literature since Michael Hofmann.”

2. I picked up a tape that was cut in the reel and resealed it in a delicate operation meaning a pause in the song. The ideal became to do away with the pause maybe through chanting “another, another, another f**king joint.”

3. My mnemonic for the guitar strings was Even A Dick Gets Big Erections.

4. I was in a band that recorded on binaural earphones whom it would seem were even my idea to invent before I went down south and formed the band, according to my brother, although I did not remember this for the duration of the band.

5. I wrote a scientific paper about whether Lucy In The Soul With Demons even happens to be an actual substance.

6. My mobile started to reverberate the rhythm of ‘William Tell’ through every technological inlet in the room before it rang – the laptop, the telly, the stereo, the sentient air would all start going “di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit” then my phone would ring.

7. There was an idea to tattoo the name of the witness from The Lords And The New You Know Who onto Piper At The Gates of Dawn. It wasn’t my idea but I was the witness.

8. The one that takes the biscuit is my brother James P D Tucker’s number – the sheet where pictures grew – which I discovered, also discovering that the pictures depict the lyric to a song I wrote. The song was way back in Oedipus Wrecks, my second band, a London band – but still the sheet is James’s number.

So these are the musical concepts I have been working with, which I separate from attestation, from receiving through the eye, from things forced upon you, and qualify as one’s own work. There are probably other musical concepts I’ve worked with too but right now I think these the main ones.

As I say I don’t think my poems will last and the best one was that little Nirvana barcode one, which was almost my Nash moment, but I needn’t go through the list again.