Thursday, 20 May 2010

Kaddish : one

There is a welt in my side where Dead Souls was poking me last night. I am not immune to irony despite my condition. Every night I think that this is the night when I will, at least, move the books off my bed but I have to buy bookshelves and that would require me to develop a whole new personality-Yithbarakh Obama, audacious hoper. I don’t know from hope. I only have hope on a rope that was cut from the ceiling last summer. But here I am making you uncomfortable. My apologies-oh say shalom and shake on it.

There are deaths and there are deaths. There are black holes and you shouldn’t stand so close to the edge. I can’t help but pace around the circumference and so I have made a levy of sorts with books or is it a fence? A levy implies a wave on the other side but I am the wave. I am a wave and a wave and wave of nothingness. Hey that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? YitgaDali Lama and make me one with everything as the Buddha said to the hot dog vendor. But then again, it’s not good.

Speaking of not good, this raisin bun is not good. It tastes like something you’d get for breakfast on Air Hades-except would you be flying to Hades? At least it’s something. I got it from the store on Coney Island Avenue that is run by the nice Jamaican lady. She said “where’s your friend” and I said “New Jersey” because that was the final address. “You must miss her”, she said. Yes, yes. I got the raisin bun all sealed in it’s plastic casing and a big Stryro full of burnt coffee. Food for the dead-Kaddish Danish and some coffee on the side. Still better than Starbucks.

And still better that I have something to eat. The kitchen is covered in books so it’s hopeless to try to use it. I went to get some milk for the coffee and found the book “Grieving the Loss of Your Pet” inside on the top shelf of the fridge. It was appropriate since it smells like a dead pet is being stowed there. I flipped through the book a bit. “Even the loss of a goldfish”, it told me, “can result in grieving”

Yish ge fish –

people take photos of each other
outside this building

they have been and
now they have gone.

the corn laws.

a bird flew into the
front room window

this is a bad sign.

I watch the sea come in
and it reminds me of

a church an old church a small church
and the skating rink

we used to visit.

this was the germ of things.
the sunday delft
overlooking the long wall
from the window by the fir
we watched
and ate in silence. hungry

cigarette smoke drifts past the window
they are smoking outside the pub.

it is going to rain I can tell.

I am sat inside

reading yesterdays newspaper.


know the of hill

sketching all the strokes/altered night blue/room rapid heart
oh the hundred/s and hundreds of beat between the silent

which will never do anything
moves night cloud into new shape
our eyes our observing eyeshadow. Attack

the screaming ambulance
the hurrying ambulance
the ambulance with arms with tubes
the ambulance full of calm frantic people



understanding of robins
as we sat down to eat

listening to the incoming aeroplane when you would smile
the same again
the summer that never came. see

so the absent word

& soup

& oil

& the empty sea

nothing will be alike (under the single silver birch)
into the dazzling/sunshine from the shadow

as we wait by the white bed

of the rapid eye

as icebergs, any iceberg, blue iceberg

gone now bridge

bright red lip


I have your notebooks

the image of the girl in a teal dress, antigravitational toes. Lilacs

are tunics of bees.She catcDrhes raImmanuelin in a butterfly ntheyet,blisses out Dental okissn Idenwearilytifying,map of plaguthe streets are unidentifiablee city

Maps of plague cities. KAPITAL holds the rocyberbot’s arse up to the lpornight.
door closing. a lawnmower. sun: oily. an oil-egg. brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

ineverdream.the2 dance as the others break their heads among dust & dolls

dr immanuel unclocks a history she’s been painting 17 years the surfaces are inneringly flat they sink into behind the canvasyour moustache tickles
alltimetv.hummockhammocks > cloudcorpses. an old child rothat such monstrous byrthes signifie the monstrous myndes of the people myshapened with phantastical, dissolute opinions, dissolute lyvynge, licentious talke, and other such vicious behavioures which monstrously deforme the myndes of men in the syght of god cks rocks back & for

there’s notalot to do here at night. 1st they drug the sailors, sink the boats. the last train’s gone before he gets there. tvson in the corner. noones watching it. anotheroldchild drags a statue-head out of the tunic of bees. sucks where cowhells lie.

do you want to say goodbye. shesgotamoustache.

Plagues of map city. HOWOLDDOYOUTHINKWAS?

im strolling the park with youknow. there’s nothing of a moon caresses the path. traffic growls like movie killer. iwantosmellyourhair, to be you. imsuchaliar. we try not to look. screen the scene. imitation fireflies begem the river. warehouses. warhouses. letsgotothedemo.

in scene 3 only the left big toe is aware of its situation. god begins sucking that big toe, music plays itself metamusic. piethogoraus.

the plague is big with city. people laugh a lot. they tell the angels in their fetish wear & with their clipboards you are welcome among us, eat us all up. the irrelevance of art etc. is a final joy. everyone looks pretty enough for staying put. i thought in terms of a journey says someone & looks pityingly at itself

language is a stone storm: “hello. take the bodies away from there please. cr” ossed out; summer & a dogheaded rose in the starpool
summer & a dogheaded rose. in the starpool the bodies initiate summer, imitatively. i’m ending this call
hell. o, the suitcases are pre-opened. a book to read the summer by. yellowinged grass, es, dogshit & beer. almost kissing
this is what i mean by a song. up on the starpool revolutionary slogans. there’s blackberry juice at her lips o you are alone now
the suitcases won’t open themselves. inside several old newspapers, winged like yellow grass. dressing up in her tights & jumping thro a starpool into cartoon undeath
the backs of his hands have blackberry juice veinsblotch. he can be lost, i don’t want to wear his shoes. these effigies are strange, because they are familiar from tv. the wife & her children harvested heaven
szluîp/frqqq. kacxzio xzavzio. sprikkkkkkk
she walks beside the bodies, sprinkling them with white charcoal. a recalcitrant star lolls in the corner of the heaven. s>designifyed tearstuff. archived lustre. gogogogogôg
souls jump across the thames
from abandoned warehouses
to traffic lights & the caff &
he just stands there his over
blowing head wobbling on
his legs kicking crowds of
bees & mainlining petroleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
um. ive got punk badgers on my jacket. &sugar in my hair
i take the smoke from her mouth & roll it about. there’s a recalcitrant sun in the nocturnal sky, it rolls round heaven the heavens reduce to a needle poin
t of bruise
se takes the smoke from her mouth & rolls it round. iron bridge. meta-psycho-lizards trash the warehouse devices estbl 18. pulling her tights on, a pair of elbow length gloves. a perma-moon shudders against the starpool’s beat. yawn. wont you kiss me. its like im knot alive

Sunday, 16 May 2010


P-Q-P will shortly be redeturning, with Part II - Kaddish.

Watch this blog, midweek!