Glass Locked

Annihilation pressures for sure. I can feel them needling away on the tips of my nerves like biting insects. Burrowing creatures under the skin and skittering over the surfaces of the brain. Tingle nerves, endings not nerves, endings and beginnings or the awful tramping of the feet that belong to people you hardly know. Softer things. Delve and burrow further please. Because each play has an end, it doesn’t carry on does it? But she never says a word any more. Locked into the pane of glass, time locked and light locked. Glass Ghost.

Try and find a way though please, to inch further away from the surface and gasp for air. Try to fight and survive. They say. Do we listen any more? Sometimes, when the lights are brighter and the voices a little louder. But we smile and just laugh although the laughing, to be honest for once, is a little too loud, a little too bright. We grind. We wear down the substrate.

When Gods become Memes we suffer with them. We only 2D the groove and the vibe of God things. Little pleasures like little bites. We banish them now with disinterest as the horrors they threaten us with are nothing compared to the overtures the Great Clown throws upon our heads. Yet we are thankful for it. If not a little weepy for it. Hand on heart. The energy my friends is real.

Locked up and Lost. Broken and failed. Vision has gone. You can be free if you want if you take the choice and grip the wheel. Dread the day all you wish. Do your best if that really turns you on. Find a way to lose the fear and find freedom or let freedom find you. It’s not about me, it’s all about you. Try to find the natural hate and the hidden number is 8. Try to find your heaven in the number 7.

I have always been lonely and now that very fact succours my existence and my search for bliss. There is no helping hand here and no Knight to battle my enemies. For the enemies lie with the Knight and caress and fondle it. Yet my own hands stay still for to itch the scratch means an admission it exists. There are of course those I would curse and Hex. But that matter is best left alone for I wish no burdens to carry over that abyss I would cross eventually.

I sat and wondered about these things in the damp grass as she came down the path. She was carrying an empty bucket and had a pair of wellies on her feet, her hair was stuck to her forehead with damp sweat as further up the valley it was sunny and warm. Here it was cold and damp from the mornings rain. She never saw me in the undergrowth. I feel a large spider run across my face. Her breasts are full and unclad underneath her faded dress. Light blue with small pink flowers. Busy she was and there was no peace here after she disappeared down the track. I dug my hands into the thin soil and found bones. Animal bones. I dug deeper and they were numerous and large. Here one that had metal plates in it, screws, fractures healed. Another the same, an arm bone. Rib bones nicked with scalpel blades. Hollow and rotten from chemicals and damp. I assembled them as best I could into a complete skeleton and lay it out on the grass among the Harebells and Hawkbit. The skull leered, the jawbone without many of it’s teeth, polished almost. I removed some dirt from it’s eye sockets and looked within it but there was nothing there. Nobody sees me here tenderly touching these bones wondering what may have been and why. Above me a bird flew and made some noise and I pressed a shard of sharp bone into my neck so it would bleed me out. But my hands wouldn’t work any more and I pressed my face into the Moss and tried to sleep.

SHORN

Was it the last battle? I live of course due to your good grace but it was always an idle fancy and pretty much a fools disgrace and I am shorn and cut then you put your head over the shell hole and say ‘Yes, Shorn and cut’. What else would you say, about the world today, if you were here? A cold razor act, a simple fact.

The last fear in me flies away like a Coal black Crow, away to a place neither of us will ever know. You see? You are just a Clown like me. Puppet lovers and I am shorn and cut

We look at the fallen leaves now for Autumn is coming and a great change. The fires we had are embers and the cold storms just a passing breeze but we can still think just about, of the things we did. The subtle things. The night that was loud and we stood very proud and the medals they gave out were shined and brilliant. Cast out Demons and let them writhe on the cold floors. Let the branches grinch, let the light straps pinch. let the breathe we had just trickle out. Let everything turn and upsides are always downsides if the narrative is crooked. Fucking hell is there no end? No release. The oxygen again is low. The breathe laboured, my fingers deep in you. Your hand holding a trickling soft vomit.

Shrapnel Songs

Cold hands on very warm skin and I pluck my eyes out and offer them to you because I am lost for a moment and I think my hands have been tied. But your warm hands on my cold skin strip the flesh from bone, ripped and torn, never born. Make the last cut because my hands are tied I think. I cannot move them but I can feel your flesh move across them and I think your liquids are flowed. Or it is the blood from my eyes. I can’t tell. Would you tell me? But I think you are not really you and just a phantasm of sorts. The war is going very well thank you. I feel the rifle at my side and the small pieces of shrapnel fly past me gently tugging at the cloth of my combat jacket. I hope one hits me in the forehead and I poke my head above the trench. They warn me but I just laugh because someone is blowing a whistle and they have a dry mouth and it just farts commands. It’s good. A piece of metal slices through my stomach and blows some of my intestines across my shoulder. It’s a meat cloak, I dance because the pain is nothing but my blood pressure has gone and the oxygen to my brain is slowed. I am a retard. A fool without air. Blood is everywhere. You laugh again and so do I as you pull me towards the edge and throw me onto the corpses that litter the bottom of the shell hole.

Miss Abyss

The Abyss sucked me in and the sin of the forests put soft arms around me and I lay down and pressed my face into the soft ground. I was sucked in and twisted the archetypes in my hands as the wind blew and sucked. I smiled and you grinned. There was a subtle difference. Abyss-Abyss-Abyss placated me and it loved me. It loved me right in and the Forest hid me. Loved me, and hated me a little. We failed because the foundation was sin. I was loved in it. Dark soils piled on top of me, the flesh of the woodlands. The dark chittering of bark against twig and above the blackness yawned and took me. I laughed of course, and you grinned. There was a difference.

System Devoid of Anything

Annihilation and procrastination rhythms breed simple systems borne of ignorance

Annihilation systems love to hate, always give one thousand reasons why they are late. We tear down sacred walls and succour the reasons why we fall forgetting the fear of being born and lie awake. Torn.

The Grass had turned to dust underfoot and we laughed at the way the wind took the dried soils and threw them into swirls, small storms at knee height lifting grass and insects a little into the sky before dropping them back confused. Flotsam of the heat.

Crucifixion Selfies

He was fingering a small piece of concrete that has been prised from the wall by someone before. Someone who spent much of their time grasping the shelf underneath the small window high up on the Prisons walls. You could tell they had pulled themselves up. There was blood from the knees pushing, the toes scrabbling and the fingernails gripping to ease the body up. He did it himself and could just about see the brass and black landscape outside. There was a lone tree too and he thought perhaps if the fact that there was a rope here he could throw it over that blasted limb of the tree and just dangle for a while until the Clowns came shrieking down from the gate to kick him back to his cell. That was unlocked now.

‘You built it yourself you prick’. A whisper from underneath the window. Ghost voices.

He peeked through the door and could see everyone lined up on the balcony waiting. They can wait. Not even a pale thigh here now. Have you drunk your fill? Maybe. Or maybe I just need to drink again and remember cool water quenching the fire in the throat. The sweated hands around it. Pulling and squeezing. Manipulating the Eigen. Jump on the belly and force the air through the windpipe. Make noises, massage the throat until some half recognisable sounds emerge. Listen closely to what they mean.

It certainly wasn’t a time for making new things any more. He thought that time had passed. Maybe Ghosts were not the most reliable creatures to start a thing with. They cared for nothing except their vapid ethereal existence. And Ghosts were fucking boring any way. Magnetic aberrations, just noise really. A shrieking moaning mess, interludes, that’s it. Interludes from the boredom of the pain and the kicking, the splitting. If he saw another drop of blood he thinks he would just stare at it and not even attempt some sore of explanation for it. Little spots of blood. The beginnings of a horrible story perhaps. Who knew, or even cared.

‘It’s much worse out there’ she said. Ghost. Busy finger Ghost.

He threw the small piece of concrete at her and it went straight through of course and rattled to a rest in the corner. Ghosty thing you. Cheeky thing coming in here and giving points of view. Like the wind has something to say but it’s just a moan through a crack in the wall or window. A sight through the twigs and branches of that blasted tree. A comedy.

He tied the rope around his feet and ankles. He was naked. The holes in the wall carefully excavated with the tip of one of the three Daggers he found in the toilet basin when they made him drink the pissy shitty water. He kept them and hid them. Back in the cell he made three deep tight holes. One for each wrist and one for the ankles. Taking one dagger he hammered it through both of his crossed ankles smashing the bone and cartilage as the knife bit and erupted from the back of his left ankle. The right foot was blue now and he hammered the knife with the butt of another Dagger to make sure the hilt was pressed against his foot and tight. With his left hand he stabbed a Dagger through his right wrist. There was little blood although his ankles were bleeding well and a pool of sorts had grown about him, the blood on his left hand made him slip a little as he was standing up and he crashed to the floor opening a wide gash on his eyebrow. He had lost another tooth. Right hand Dagger through the left wrist and he was impaled with the Trinity. It was hard to stand but he did. There was enough blade there for the hole in the wall. The rope, through the hook in the ceiling, looped and half tangled. He vomited. Nothing, just air. Retch. He pulled the rope enough now that he could position the ankle dagger within the lowest hole. He bent slowly and with his palm hammered in the ankle dagger, deep into the hole he had made in the cell wall. Now can he rest his weight on it? Indeed. He was there perched. He loosed the rope which unravelled and fell to the floor. Now he must aim correctly and make sure the Daggers through his wrists hit the wall correctly, just in the right spot. The Right hand. Straight in, wedged tight. He tested it and yes, it was secure, he could not move his arm or hand. Now the left. A miss, a dull crack, a pain. A miss. He tried again, miss again. A third time. In. Now crucified by his own hand he was pinned three feet above the floor to the wall of the Cell. Good. Yes. The blood pooled black, reflective, yellow bulb shone.

Release please. An end. But there would be none. He hung there expecting to die. Expecting the Crucifixion to be magical enough that it may release him and he could be gone. But he loved this place too much of course. He could never leave. The pain his only friend, the Clowns his Confidants, the Prison his home. He laughed, this Crucified man and his belly shook, his hollow gut rippled. Even the Clowns were disgusted and gently closed the door on him as he wept.

Tenfold Split Voodoo Geometry

Good and warm in the black again. The treacle and the sticky things. Pulled over tight and all complicated so no one can really understand. That’s good. We are warm again and quiet and familiar themes lie as torn cloths and threads around and about. Good things. Anonymous tirades again. Bitter words. Targeting and the identification of victims takes place now. No places for gently putting down the blames. Just gentle sighs and whispers among the trees. It’s ok I think, to start again and blink.

There are parts of the system that have seen much action and jocularity of the Clown kind. Here is where the skin has been rubbed cleaner and thinner. Where the patina of laughter has failed to stick to the hot brass surfaces but instead has worn away a little or a lot really. But some of it has certainly been lost. That surface. That wall. Now of course where the plaster and concretes are thinner you are a little closer to God and you can feel God gently prod at you through the walls. Pushing you on, to the finish, while the Clowns for a moment stand silent and the drool gently leaks onto the floor as they wonder why I am smiling. But I’m not smiling really, it’s just a grimace, an odd reflection of the Clowns own emotionless pantomime.

You never want the answers to these questions but it’s the way and the dogma we have to follow. Ask the questions and then wait for the answers. Make up your own if you wish, get a dog to bark in the pale sun and listen to the way the sound waves and distorts according to the dim heats from above. Listen to the cold wind crackle through another tree and another fucking blasted concept landscape just taken off the shelf so at least we have another place to complain. It’s good and cool and you look great in your new shiny place you have made. It is good that the Suns you turn your face to are new and fresh and mine is Black with crooked rays that revolve to the left, 666 degrees to the left, 777 degrees from the bottom.

She was holding the Dillinger Doll she had found on the road as the UFO circled overhead. A car had ridden over it and the Bank Robber looked like Frank Sidebottom now. Deranged and flattened under tread, her fingers slightly dirty from the road dirt. She turned him over and over trying to get the Doll to speak. She shakes him and shouts at him but he is just a bundle of cloth, poor stitching and a very stupid face. He breathes a sigh of relief as he can see the blood start to slowly trickle down the gutter, slowly at first, hardly shifting the flotsam of the gulley, the cigarette ends and the discarded crap. She screams at it as the blood rain falls a little faster. “Why?!” she weeps. Man, where do I start as I move my little cloth mouth into shapes that might let a word or two escape. The fucking Nova bitches man. It’s not about the Novas any more Bill. Not the Police and not the Spies. It’s about the fucking Nova bitches man. The cloth lips mumbling as the stuffing falls out of his guts and she throws him back into the gutters full of blood because things are happening over there and here is shit now and boring.

Not Wolves but Dogs sniffing each others arseholes. It is the way of the world. Fucking Nova Dogs Billy, you never saw that coming did ya? Fresh and clean always mean, always sneered and smeared, always ready for a quick remark, a cutter of a word. A slicer for sure. I pat myself on the back as no one else will. Another bloody lock Michael but none of them are locked and nobody has a fucking key. But she rides Dragons you know and Dolls at the end of the day are an odd Voodoo. Blood on the Waterloo road and blood on the Hill, there will be blood on the evergreen and blood never sits still. Unbutton the shirt if you will and let me see, the distinct hate you have for them and me. I will sit and watch and write, the fight is gone and I sit still you see. The Nova Bitches freak easily and are free. It’s see geometry. Only when her flesh is naked will she turn the hip slightly and inside her a glint perhaps of light escapes and that’s it. It lights her flesh and illuminates it for a split second before her own wet fingers are diving and splitting the geometry. That’s it of course. All the bitches have the light and they just hide it in flesh so we cannot see it but we feel it. Just at the point of orgasm when you close your eyes and it flickers and you chase it and you again, fall.

What is to do? Another dull canvas? Another splash of colour thrown into the black and scarlet? Letters form words which can be spoken and it’s all art and misunderstanding. The Clowns are in here again and are kicking me to death. I can’t feel it any more and I am numb. One of my teeth are kicked out and falls to the floor. Clown boots, steel toe capped and polished highly. They are relentless and I don’t think I have touched the floor for about ten minutes and I am the ragged Voodoo doll in the gully. I hold the broken tooth close to my chest and the fists and the punches and the stamping goes on and the Clowns are silent. I can smell beer on their breaths. The make up they smear on is liquifying under the heat from the 23 watt lightbulb above. A bass guitar plays and someone is gruffly singing down the corridor. I vomit blood. I always vomit the blood but the walls are getting thinner my friends and the Clowns are getting dimmer.

Clowns are shit

Asleep as you can be here, trouble the locks, it’s easy just jiggle them and see if any of them just fall apart. Do we even have hands? I’m not sure. There is sand underneath my feet but I know the sea troubles yours. Outside the Detectives play cards on small cardboard tables and chairs from beer crates. The Sun was low and setting but is now rising again. I suspect the grass has even turned over and is currently upside down in the rightside up. In the glow of the poor lamps I see your hand stretch out and grasp. I can’t really describe it. The blasted and sanded earth here. The scrub. In the sky the pantomimes are playing again and there we are in full suncolour and fresh as yesterday and the day before. Intense isn’t it?

The land just sinks lower and lower to the altar. I think the chasm or the abyss is about ten miles away judging by the way the land sinks towards it. It has no gravity of course just geometry. We know the maps can lie. We know the creased and stained parchments we hold do not offer us a way forward. We just tangle up the ways and the routes until we laugh and try to beat our heads against the rocks that pop up through the grass here and there. But it never hurts because Clowns love to laugh and they don’t want their little fantasies splayed out on the grass like dead toys or defunct cars that rust and rot. They want live shit. They want this Kulture buncle firmly in their own groove. Noses are red, violence is blue, I stamp on your head then put it back together with glue. Cavort in the rain. Dance in the dampness. Curl harsh words to the sky.

On the Dam wall he scrubs, suspended by ropes he wove out of the creepers and vines that tumbled down from the Angel light richness of the six peaks. The ropes of course cut into his hands but it is a light labour and now and again he would manoeuvre himself around so he could look at the valley far below and this too was good. Because when plants grow so healthy here it means the Angel light is good and precious and the Clown mess is gone from here. THERE. They don’t even know what a Clown is because a Bee buzzing is funny, or a leaf gently turning suspended on a strand of Spider web. Clowns are shit compared to twinkling sunlight.

“It’s a diary of sorts where he just put in random thoughts from his oxygen starved mind” she said. But none of us really breathe here. We just pretend to.

For Violence

It was probably correct to confuse and sit

rather than push and produce effort

There was a way, now shut

that was open. Sit and wonder.

Rationalise the web of informed opinion

Put out gentle reminders of violence.

Be the quiet one who sits and watches.

Adjusting the eigen again, gently.

With subtle hand gestures.

Another blasted shell, another mans perfect Hell,

a chance to teeter on the lip,

a chance to drink deep or sip.

Never feeling the perfect way, and you say.

Tighter. Lighter. My Fighter.

Never Mind The Pollocks

Artists are a strange breed I suppose. Their art often stranger still. We look and fail to understand it then it becomes ‘shit’ and we walk on, or slide a finger more like in these days, across the screen and onto the next morsel of art madness. I’m sneaking into another gallery to see a painting. My school uniform is tattered and the sole of one of my shoes is falling off. I got to Birmingham when every trip on a bus or a train in the West Midlands cost just 2p. I went everywhere to see art. Watch musicians. To find out about things I had no understanding of.

I understood Jackson Pollock intimately, and I always did. Straight away. Everything he painted reverberated within me and became a metaphysical narrative instead of a pictorial one. Much has been written about Jackson, it normally waxes on his alcoholism, his errant humanity and his cheek at daring to tread the same carpet as his Peers. His work, most important work was done between the years 1947-51 and the splashes and drips entered the world like a screaming child. Splashes and drips eh? And how the Critics still wax those lyrics about the flat planes he left behind him. Read what you will about the art but you will read more about him, his politics, his background, his Wife even, Lee Krasner an Artist of repute herself.

But the art was the most important thing. The act of arting. Covering the plane of Canvas with incidents and subtle arcs we tend to concentrate on the flatness and the remains of his act and it is an ordered chaos we see. You can even delicately unfocus the eyes and see the layers of paint colour as they were applied and even the touches afterwards, after the vicious movement and hours spent in the fractured and weathered barn he painted in. But it’s only half the story. I sense Jackson had more of a relationship with Austin Osman Spare than the dog whistling of abstract expressionism. So the influence of Jackson Pollock as man and his art as part of that narrative is a false one. Where we should be looking is the act. Extrapolate the splashes and drips upwards and form a three dimensional cube from the flatness of the canvas. Do it by colour and untangle each and every loop from the painting and tease it until the sweep of paint is off the flat plane. So the vermillion loop here or there is picked out and lifted and then set into position in 3d space. The beginning of the loop of pigment will be at the highest point because this is the start of the arc. The end of course we will leave just touching the canvas. The sacred space is the area above the canvas, not the canvas itself.

Now we see the action and throughout every arc and loop something that starts to resemble other shapes, other colours too as we are looking at it from a completely different viewpoint. We will see an arc split as the brush or the stick is flicked roughly with the wrist. The paint stream stutters and then becomes drops or minute dots that fall on the canvas. A loop split into separate parts and lost almost within the cacophony of the act, the sheer volume of painting. But I also see within this 3d cube an almost terrifying exactness or metaphysical plan, a series of almost sigilic commentary where every touch of paint is seen as it’s own unique almost liturgical intent. The colour becomes meaningless and just a method to highlight a unique phrase or sigil which is then only really alive as it drips and flies through the air and when it touches and settles on the canvas becomes pure history or academic chatter. It is written on again and again until the phrase becomes hidden and tangled almost unrecognisable from every other loop of colour. The act of drawing the huge loops of paint, the way they are applied, the grunting of effort as the loop is cast is everything and the canvas when completed all that remains is puzzle to the uninitiated, a mess to the ignorant. Jackson Pollock was not the Shaman yet but he did see and became part of the process of explaining his visions when the act of explaining it stuttered and faltered. His message is one that is engraved upon the air and in the moment unleashed. In the 3d space it is active and alive and when settled is null and void, just a riddle

In ‘Lavender Mist’ above. There is a delicacy of vision for sure. There are delicate cobwebs of enamel and chemical paints that will lead you into it. It is a complexity which draws you in and indeed spits you out the other side as you become more and more lost. People look at a Pollock of these years with confusion. They are reading the story upside down of course. And back to front. No wonder Jackson brings so much pain to these people. They are used to understanding. Where Picasso blatantly proscribes his own narrative in a way or form that is quite simple to understand, Jackson demands hard work to see just a glimpse of the pain he wanted us to see. It is hidden, this narrative, and occult. It was enough for him to have this outburst and to say the things he wanted to and then release himself from the grip of his creative energy and slide back into nothingness. His work done. No blathering and whispering for him. No pedestal to sit upon and loftily proclaim his thoughts. A blonde with big tits, a fast car driven drunkenly into a tree. An early and hard fought death and let the rats write what they wished.

I write this here just to remember the salient points of my impressions of Jackson Pollock and this place becomes just a box to put my thoughts about him. I forget easily why and wherefore. Artists are Shamans or are on a path to being one. I skived off School way back in the late 70’s early 80’s to see a full sized print of Lavender mist at Birmingham art gallery. I hadn’t eaten for a few days and was weak and as the art got closer as I walked towards it I fainted and awoke to a plethora of folk around me. It wasn’t the lack of food or my energy which dropped me. It was the message in the art. It hit me like a punch. I ‘got’ Jackson straight away and as I sipped the sugary tea the Security Guard brought to me I watched the artwork move and slide around within it’s flat plane like it wanted to burst free. It felt confined, then I puked in my own lap and everyone took exactly one step back.