Get You Back Home


Mick Beck, master of freak-out free-medieval pervertamento bassoon, and polemicist
Out To Lunch (aka Ben Watson, author of Derek Bailey & the Story of Free
) took to the road in early September 2004 with a twin assault pack of scronching reeds and hyper-viper conscious anti-poetry ...
OTL's texts written specially for the occasion met Becks's medieval snorks & other aromas from his idiosyncratic kitchen-sink sackbutt. Censorship by magazine editors, radio ethics and the authorial Ego were evaded in a real-time in-fest of automatic critico-poetic effusion ...

Wednesday 1 September Sheffield
Thursday 2 September York
Friday 3 September Cambridge
Monday 6 September London (South)
Tuesday 8 September London (North)

Read at Mick Beck's house in Nether Edge, Sheffield
with Geraldine Monk (poetry)/Martin Archer (keyboards)
Wednesday 1 September 2004

At the tour grading hypercourse delimited in wainscots, the porrage oat man is defining flab musclature in an effort at putting the shot. The electronic window assails the drooping brain in image grabs, sapping life force vitriol with its oleaginous collusion. Through the slit the visored elbow man scans a blink horizon, hard parts in detail awaiting the clockmender. The whaling measurement outwreaked into pestilential fens, blind keys thrust in a pocket. Theft description policed by runic custodians, greased lightning embossed on every mechanical muffin. The whizz character hammered a sickle into the lawnmower, sea signs gulled by the choked-up extra. Diverted traffic was like saliva in a brown tube, orchid yelpstuff yellow in phonebox college-bar Drambuie. The tinkered tokens of a vast reading, the rhythm in an undertow like shingle, that's surely not what Shirley meant, pevertamento marimbula all over the beachhead. Groynes driven into the crust, sad sicko cement sack and hoping. These darling days you love to dog on, the hairs wiry against the cream emolument. Suffused in green light. Quality quality quality quality, oh what a sunrise rainbow cumulous cauliflower Caldecott cheesemonger. Surds and suds not important, mate, travel extensor out of briefcase highpoint trouser-press actual tongs bending and gurning. The shrivelled pellet of your risky forkfull poised on its tangent arc to prickle the buds on the furze. A freezelift like ice breaking the canopy, holes rent in the scenery.

In the Netheredge, a feather of hefted signage, the heated paroxysm of legs in sheets, your tuft. The rough stuff as lasting as strips of fried cabbage, the plated excrement of simple dreams. Dust cakes in the boudoir of longing, a thrown out bedsock embroidered with doo-dah emolument, and hurting. The syndrous soots disperse, leaving a singed intaglio on the bedspread. Splayed forms shattered on the concrete, your continual greed for present-tense excitements. It slips in beads of green, the groundshock cabled across the business park. A sphere moves beneath the sod, tangential flowerings of the mole hill. A drop carves a jagged hearse in flowery substance, a black crêpe orchid power in knots. In deft moonshine and hale-weather slantings, slipped before you lock it into sense. That slopped upon the vacant pot, the facile denunciations your curmudgeon shine-face shingleberry who shins up market junkyard bunting just does not, does not. The clean screen gleams, my hopped-up visibility dark upon the brow of futile longing. So long it ponders curves in space and time, the origami of the physicist who's breathing hard in short sharp gasps, the cardboard sandwich of the circus clown. In organge mist. In bits and bytes. In instep garrulous, the farfetched mastadon.

The story of jazz is invariably told as a parable of race relations in the United States: emancipated slaves encountered the modern world and western music, and created a musical genre which swept the world. However, this rose-tinted vision can't explain anything at all. Either the persistent inequalities of race in America, or the fact that most African-Americans today are alienated from Jazz, and know little of either its music or its history. In contrast, Marxism interprets history as the struggle of classes, not races. Contra to liberal myth, slavery in the southern states was not simply a backward, 'feudal' stage, a temporary horror in a gradual progress towards rational capitalism. As Marx argued, the genocidal virulence of plantation slavery was a product of the capitalist commodity market in cotton and sugar - business conducted from London and Liverpool - and a real threat to democracy in the north. See Karl Marx: 'The British Cotton Trade' and 'The Civil War in the United States', written for the New York Daily Tribune and Die Presse in 1861 - Karl Marx Frederick Engels Collected Works, Vol. 19, London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1984, pp. 17-20, 43-52. Slavery was defeated because of the efforts of American worker radicals: racism is not a natural feeling of enmity, but a product of oppressive class relations. This also explains why Blues and Jazz do not sound like any pre-industrial folk music from any where else the world. They were a response to the brutality and tempo of a modern system of exploitation. Hence their international appeal. To do this, Marxism needs to introduce its own categories: labour, capital and commodity fetishism.

The bassoon player likes it random, doesn't want a lecture. Resists the line, goes phut, wants a line of phuts and smuts. The buckled-up is shrapnelled to a teasing feint. In up and down, in ruddy health. In wax. I can't forget my brain. The mutated ganglia which spewed forth a universe of concepts, a grim grey sea of oily possibility. In ossified direct, the cliché bent upon the mantelpiece, that fragment of your tired-of-ironing, scratch-u-like in pottery. To build it all upon the name of Brian! The Branston wince, the brainstorm phew, haberdasher harbinger of crash. Schystlike glitter in the old canal. A skeleton of waterways on a horizontal dish. Necking bottled beer below deck. Geranium close-cut enfeebled plainsong bird drench cluttering up the linear linoleum. They wanted something to identify with, so I gave them a firewall, a cylinder, five empty packets of sealing wax and a banana with flies on the back. In presence of friends, strip off the painful layer and let the chemists peak. Anger, sump like of handmedowns, the old circles of pain, small yellow fires deep in the bowl of mahagony. Against the sky it's plush. When the premix turns, it's liquid architecture hemmed in by traffic jams. When the juice emerges the lazy bystanders are ecstatic, it comes to them in sugared ranks. We scan the stars for feather dusters, marmoreal motes, geegaws stuck onto blueblack ceiling paint. The banality of monuments translated into a thousand individual cases of pantheon ankle.

It is very difficult for those who live off the labor-power of others to perceive the exploitation inherent in such a situation. C. L. van Panthaleon van Eck. C. Watts Biggers. Trevor Winkdale. W. C. Bamberger. Karlien van den Beukel. Milton Klonsky, as ugly as sin and twice as interesting as you. Le Boucle est bouclé. What is this orange thread woven between the lines of this bourgeois figure-in-a-carpet? Oranjboom in a long tall bulbous glass, I have it. Lighting shops all along the prison island waterway, a closet packed with black bone parts and ashes. The world rushed out to semen. Random eyesalt in the cabbage patch, the bits and pieces strewn like confetti for effect. Not a single progressive idea has begun with a 'mass base', otherwise it would not have been a progressive idea. It is only in the last stage that the idea finds its masses. In the high deal swims the razor cut of material critique, or is that just a tank you're building in the garden? The little fishes from Borneo couldn't be driven from the aqueous humour. Hang on in there, you don't deserve the rest, but what the hell, the car park willowpattern shrieks with Tavistock and Guinnersbury spare parts. It's blast, a laugh, the patchwork jellowork of empty nights. In rills, in rolls of extra dynamite, the forefight guts-you-like in spume, excess and dressy detail. Deathmask over posing poisons, all covered over in flesh-coloured ointment. Loose fixes from their moorings, there being a direct correlate between ideas no-one can find a use for and unemployment rates. Musicians rejected by the very machinery which jazz had set in motion. Labour produces capital, but it needs a social revolution to control it. God made man, but he used a monkey to do it. Eric Mottram and Eric Morecambe found their finest spiritual precipitate in the De-evolutionary philosophy of the pop band Devo. Devo found its finest chronicle in the letters Bob 1 sent to the poet Ed Dorn. It is very difficult for those who live off the labor-power of others to perceive the exploitation inherent in such a situation.

Flash crisis uppermouth, labial tongue-sweat ricochet endorphin, criss cheek bleached in aerosol damnation racket-patch addendum. Appearance is rancid, but all you get is appearance, the blue and white armour of this our purist Paris 1924. All fact matter is packed in superfine whalemeat blubber, the storage tune named access access access. Torn taxi emotion futively striated with notions, the painful ache of transcendent residue. To nail the moaning symphony meant hard past rallies at four in the morning, tendency to chicken-wire oven-glove ring take, globules of mercury running in the dust. Belief tricycle announcement, shards of beef onion tea, lists of unstoppables it would burst a man to name. No quaint hambone or shoe's nest, the ratpack heliovane is seized with unguent pastures, quick pastel sidewipes by the motor car. The objectitude of fillet bacon resides in the horizontal daily grind of the careless whisper. To fortify the soul was a pitch bracket. Guilt and refusal to imagine the whole thing worked up into a scupltural froth, a beige balloon smelling of soap and defended by art critics, the process so processed it made you want to die. In the cast lot penumbra of the station forecourt, no genital rumours were hallowed by lengthy sections of mass-media ritual. Circus posters and gameboy adverts gazed down on a puddle and the lint from a plaster. Shed skin you left on all the barbs of culture.

Maybe if you spoke it slower I'd catch your drift, but the speed is the drift, you educated cretin. The words are sifted in from the physical side, residues of a stance perhaps you find offensive. Benison fence-off, a sped-up sequence recorded slow and played back normal, your chattering-class twitterings abstracted into art. Art, the hard part, the bit they don't like in England, twisted toffee in nasal lumps by the syrup pumps. Plaid dough in extra dildo platz, the gotten image so much gleam beneath the brakhage light. Slow is a low trick, the vicar's card, we peep the whistle of the rowdy referee: ungodly trophies in the wipe as myriad viewers purse their lipe compile ity backwards. It's because you listen to me that I hate you, that mec's music speaks because you didn't dot your ice with lemon-chaser care and servitude. The gap between boredom and indignation where sings the sea-lion chorus, walrus, Behan Endall where the sun shines. Farce and nifty, twin mice steeped in sugared dandy face. You don't want 24-frames per second because you'd rather own a picture than see it move, but the life our speed squeezes out of title deeds has a jet of life in it, the venom hits your eye. Bat an eyelid in the belfry, the able fry carted up the hill, young limbs for the toothgrinding old fart.

Hazy gann nitrate, the toy boy crewcut permutated into lakeside amusements. Denunciation as a knee-trembling parquet to be laid across all levels of the communication parlour, glancing laminate cynicism which rejects grease and stains, twinkles with knowing inbuilt clusters of mica-lite rejectamenta. Pista bafi so full of green dye it drowns the mind's eye, the gaudy peristalsis of your rainbow coalition. Stop stop. The musical process won't admit of a proscenium proboscis intenmt on shaping the phrases to its game plan. My phrase is struck bolt and lightened into discrete boxes of shade-set deluvium, no pestle wishes filched from evensong to temper down the patches. Drizzle over riverbanks, dank with the melancholy of expectancy. The gorge awesome in its louche expeniture, small memories lined like minnows on a tiny round pond. Polishing lenses paid him a living and allowed him to search his way into the crevices of moral philosophy. He did it from a romantic point of view, to carve himself a place and a shelf in the mountainous cavewalls of history, staring down from the giddy heights of Elsinore and imagining a tollgate tourniquet on the very arteries of Hanseatic commerce. Eruptive geology was a residual tweak that dissolved the certitudes of canon law, bringing everything into the fuidity of hard cash. Eye scale and ear rot, the calipers of sense burning heatmarks into the oysterflesh of centuries. Where the noose bites, and the humdrum parables are retold into antique gold and jaguars. The vast yard of her thoughtscape pitted with gnarly trees, old rusting bolts where the tortrix presided. Sheepshanks guarding the tumbledown cottage, the mind a blank from sleep erasure, the grey matter rising and swamping the niceties. Society bores me with its tiny corridors of communicado, when can we stretch out on a mile or so of virgin snow and dream of crystal life forms all across the sterile planet? The question stabs wavy blades of criss into blunder thighs of casual lust, too poppy crimsons dropping icecubes into smoky glass. The table unit was unprepared for bags of mere cement. In the central dildo of the unprepared, large aching paratroops have cornered pestilential enemas whose oozing song is seared with things-you-meant-to-say but daren't. The aggressor conceals his bad intent behind a clapboard advertising flour. The stick stick stick of blender paste is ready with its nougat charm. Bucharest nightwalk, prostitute, Mercedes-Benz starsign semi-sickness, heliotrope as flattering cream-coloured 100gsm magnet-enhanced tone-tried effervescence. Shoulder shake in the skeleton library, another soul made of a leaf vein. Sup the juice from off the florets, you're making a bee-line for the crags of harmony. Same again. Pah! Same again. Poh! Pining for the dead dark days, it's over. Even the whinnying creaks are thatched with golden farm-belows, Heidi's psych-soma petshop blunderbus.

When the finicking caves are griddled well. The times are legion, spill beer and crisps onto the boiling porrage called the floor. The ceiling quakes each time you eye the clock, the moves that swell in furniture, tablelegs and an old spittoon. Thrombosis cock hard permanent, its blatant terminal attached in every way you think. You blink, and summer bits are scrapped. Yellow tiles and rubric, farinaceous tubes and loaves and irons and lustrous fingernails. String the catalogue into a verb, find out the movement frozen in the nomen sods. 'Tis my commode, an inker-print, a foolscap footprint bender tome. Impossible soup plates furnished in hems and tucks and flourishes, a richer turn-out that you might expect. Anything said can be flattened against a page, rumpled up, its private parts excited, friction as the anti-freeze in swimming gear. It's quickened pace is life itself, but quicker. Overweening averages suffocate the enquiring mind. Objectitude of vision puts the very icons in a stack, mines the gnarly opposite. I'm griddled to the bone, the quaint and rheumy gossip has scratched the window of the world. In phase, in fits, in yoghurt pots whose names are primed with ideology. The lurching abstractions of a mispent youth make billiard balls of everything you once called free. I suddenly could see that all the scientific systems were attempts to articulate the same redemption, and I went mad, quite literally. The reverberant snort of Mick's basson was the only truth which kept me back from the outer sphere of Mars, a risen Venus making anus pictures in the waves. In the wild overfoaming of this my infinite subjectitude, a sharp and searing panic pleasure, quite unlike the slips and slaps and slops of yore. The sound had meaning, and my abstract drops were off the protocol, packed away for archive fiends and archduke foes. Frozen pickle note heap stalks, your excellence, the mortician says they help her line the soft black felt inside the box. It smells of mushrooms, and there's no point in hanging back or black about the very walls. Inside the hard white tension of the Esemplasm, black motes dot the vision, an everpresent sickness of the lower brain. Engulfment by the suns of suds, a biker's dream, a laugh, a canopy, a blankverse overkill. Each flash consistent with an interrupt, pale fibramatic scorch in the under tissue, the stumping guns, my yorktime flint and steel. Appealing reels spun off in spindrift clouds of mystic orange. No clove to nail you in, the loose flap irritates, becomes your driven tweak.

Read at The Bug at City Screen Basement Bar, Coney Street, York
with laptop guy and noise bands whose names escape me
Thursday 2 September 2004

Soulforce sapphire, the bloody gimlet, chap. Evil nerve ends poking through the lippy froth. Stretched denunciation wanting home set and matchstick, furroughed lawkin alabaster. Newspaper curled and yellow in the shunned wet patch. Blue crinkle mindset document, ten flags seeking the leader, microphone translator emblem blue blue toast unit. Blast Sonic Youth and all teen sentiment from thirty fingerings, the cashlock borrowbank scene temester narrowglide, too many careful calculations blocking the route to the fresh gash you think you got on your kneecap. Preben said he'd hold the pebbles in the concrete, blade high bleached by argument, flintlock, spark spark, ideology, knowledge steeped in caffeine. Burnt paper in the bedgraggled black tar. The burn drips worse by the exit lights, partner hidebound desktop overlay sea change, driven snow under the bed, smell of ice throttling the taste bud, statelet tax evasion no scare cream dream.

Forearm thrust, bad splotch, diseased kidney, random plot device strewn into twists of blue-paper communication outflow endlessly lapped. The tips on fires, sensitive, engorged, imagining a cut-off. Blue-blood herbivore knee-cap examinate, sluice moleskin, reddened cheek by night shepherdess keening by the night light. Nurse nurse, trapdoor fix erection set meccano privilege bad blonde advert fright. The frantic happy hopes sent aloft in dead balloons of rote ring pencildust half-shave aggro, blunted rascal tease-made slick-back rooster cut, chop neck tendon ankle paste, mate. The musty chupps who sees the lambline manufactured in a chrome tailfin go-faster uncomprehended telephone exorcism. Lee Renaldo knee frost, bandage on the length of it, grinning grinny limit limit, no noise as noisy as the noise of smug complacent fuckwit stupid tiddlywink creativity, the levitous puff-pastry no-exist halfbend down-the-lever silly lester bumbanged sentiment. Sentiment. Sentiments. The cement draws in your special-pocket pants, the embossed imago, innocent of the hatred born for you by intelligence, hurt hurt, string-vest power-fist broken bottle endless love love hasn't-shine woebegone bird-you-like, falming in parker, in chinese lantern parker, in gondola hindemith hopefilled village village parker, parker and parker, no tone rogue self hacked-out no brain, needlessly without needle, polish, chrome-bud sticky-bud. Up for sailors hard set foam wept, jesus christ, no foam, bad foam, silly draws. The eagle swept its broken wing against the owlet devasatation, bold black torrid mess, burnt plastic, decorative binder. Tried to get some syntax out of the list, bonked on the head by singular presence and stuff, a stream of flowerpots, marogolds, handbags, cindy dolls, fairy lights. Tough stains deserve exorcism and stuff, tuft, tittle-tattle gobsmack crazy sell-out rag, darkside exit-light, blue blue. The tidy weft stuck on the oar, obey and not obey, yet bender forces not in the aesthetic, Adrian Clarke grinning at me on a dance horizon fleeced by dunces, stupid open mouth, tooth sore, gumboil, check-out ragwort Economist with shopping lists, and wanted hate policemen neverfire demanding exactions, exact proportions, pork pies. The Lewes font issues forth in paper-towel constabulary, purple teats, your bloody brain, your image stick, pritt pritt, beat unended spank right, stocking tip, fop rounded pearly-view tumbled porn baggage entry see-saw chemical non-drift. Tomato pad, stink grace, teeming phase red red with guff agression - parker parker - help mate, so delightful.

The seeming pointer is in fact the last thing to view graze contemplate chinstroke meditate. Where the sense peeks the poke wilts, draws arabesques of hypocrisy in jissom disguised as decor and minimalist deadfish broken-eye smashed-jaw abjectitude. Where the cloud sweats tiny drops stick the needle in, unload the rainbloated pregnancy into streams of sheer filth filth beauty face. The featured list pullulating with chef nostromo tinpot eczma-spattered wish list. Beneath the tanktop tipple-brush and tuft tuft steaming you-thought heavy-belly scrawny turkey-gizzard holus-bolus blue nails like tin tacks. No balloon held aloft to mark the seance. Dug it deeper to a map of sewerage. History as an index of don'ts, Johan Viking and his boats of shame. Flame-griddled chicken wire, fenugreek, asparagus, coriander, reed plant hatch hatch, the crimonal option residue in hat checks, waitress pile, dingdong clean sport white shirt. Foment, evince and rinse the bastards' worries in the vindaloo, all stream clear sudden ice-cold. Image marge in flecks of pink. Open windows. Ivy burn. Scotch tape halo risen last, headache, early morning kept black, teepee teepee, wall-rose cultivated to fetch associated harding features off the nose black. Rest and back, the gridlock tube fare point black calliope, congestion whatsit retentive outburst, green hues in the top of the sky, bedly saids in sedge and theft of wicker palish dividend. Sandcastle memory and troop fund, edelweiss, prinking pumpernickel stickelhelm, old puff horse was just pulling through, the man with the blow horn looking for a wristwatch.

The lunk sealoined out, higher than a lunk, in tosh. The tush tush paranoid anguish, escalator free-meal effervesce not-known. Timed to boot. Tramelled in egg. Tide-mark ear-marked top the waiting post, fried at the whipping post. Thirsting for more, not Thurston Moore, no pun too crude for the smug bastards. Violence in the abstract, the squire subsumes the tenant at the bend in the road, grievesome, hearteche, unending corkscrew, Adonis and the endless poker. Poke mat pile-enfuse, automatic freeze-form uprise in terrible homage. Paid for. Post bill. Termite itch, an antsy rune. Deft notches cast to the winds for a loofah of punk, hard-wired febrile, appreciated in the face of the opening onion. Paleface barter, sorghum fix, rifles and whiskey.

When the item came for the slow drive up the harddisk, fairly decent longings scattered like litter beneath the red carpet. Toast red intensity fulcrum panning tripod big fire enormous. Slow recombine exit track caterpillar. Mud chunks we identified as clue sausage eggworth meaty breakfasy barbecue. Care worn. Lists pitched still in sistreen silver, shrill scratches decorating the upper pane. Before the dust remit, pelmet decency hovering like a menace magnet, idorized in wholeness. Chums of iris, we took the pitch and rolled a few white lines. The idea of reading this made it vivid to the mind's eye even typing on a suddenly quitet afternoon in Camden. 5:30, is that really the time, you amaze me. Haven't got the tongue for the veal-and-ham pie, everything is in residue and subsumption. Subsumed in capitalism he made do with lecture tours and first-class flights to Washington DC. A space-age sachet of wipe-face as the gift from 60s hope to the absurd partial things you're meant to be grateful for. Standing for parliament, a naked birch like something demanding a chainsaw, the splotch of leprosy a true pattern across a vile and jaundiced physiognomy. He can make it ugly, it's all part of the contract, vivid vials of spleen like amber veins in the antharacite. Sorry fools at their digest, eaten pickle perpetrating nothing more. Hyena bore, a dayglo dingo, each set clattering down like badly stacked pans in the pantry. File under texture, breeding ground, spore-filled potential at the back of the fruit juice.

"Cyber Improv, Their Progress Or Ours? (or, has Kaffe Matthews become the Madame Blavatsky of Free Improvisation?)" An article written for Signal To Noise magazine ... Free Improvisation is almost by definition outsider music, opposed to capitalist business-as-usual. Improvisors want to explore the possibilities of the instant - in this space, using these instruments, with this audience (or lack of it). The names of two improv labels in Paris - In Situ and Potlatch - are not accidental: the ultra-left Situationist International denounced corporate media for generalizing and homogenizing our lives, calling for artists to create poetic `situations' rather than saleable commodities; Guy Debord's first newsletter - referencing the gift economy of the Nootka tribe of Columbia - was named Potlatch. Free Improvisation doesn't guarantee any particular sound or mood to a paying audience, it produces a question mark rather than a commodity. This unpredictability may deter big-shot promoters and corporate sponsors, but it allows Free Improvisation to create pockets of resistance to commercialism. Given this grass-roots radicalism, a visit to an exhibition in May 2000 at the prestigious Hayward Gallery on London's South Bank was weird. It was called Sonic Boom, and it was curated by David Toop, sometime improvisor, style-mag journalist and Ambient guru. Musicians associated with Free Improvisation - including Toop himself, Lee Renaldo, Paul Burwell and Christian Marclay - presented themselves as `sonic artists'. Sponsorship was by Ford Motors, which at the time was threatening its Dagenham workforce with sackings and closure. A protest-march from Dagenham attended the May Day anti-capitalist rally in Trafalgar Square, though the police prevented it joining the main event, and the newspapers only reported a trashed McDonalds. Despite his claims to leftism, I didn't see Toop regale the strikers with ambient sound. At Sonic Boom itself, Ford distributed a publicity pamphlet with (unattributed) quotes on the cover. The first was `slaps convention in the face', a slogan borrowed from A Slap in the Face of Public Taste, a manifesto issued by the Russian Futurists in 1910 - a text which ended by predicting the 1917 revolution. Other amazing slogans dreamt up by Ford's advertising agency were: `frankly extraordinary', `fantastic', `unlike anything seen before'. Inside the pamphlet, there was a photo of a streamlined motor car, with the punchline `and that's just what they think of the sponsor ... not content with just challenging looks, fordfocus now provides some challenging sounds - the largest exhibition of sound art ever heard in the UK ...'.
Despite the big names, the `art' at Sonic Boom was a dismal collection of first-year-artschool installations, careless and casual, one-off concepts accompanied by some buzzes and hums and random-plays (the exhibition's `manifesto' - the only piece of argument - was a plaque by Toop extolling `the mystery of sound'). Brian Eno's decadent bachelor-pad recycled the euthanasia parlour of Soylent Green. There was a video wall just like the ones at Piccadilly Circus. Sonic Boom was a trade show, the risk and actuality of Free Improvisation completely absent. In the improv scene, no-one breathed a word of criticism. Everyone was too busy penning their own funding applications. My, my.

The effect was staggering. Like something in an infantile wish-fulfillment dream just before waking, a laugh-fuelled improvisation before the open peach of an Andrex sky. A lattice-work of pumice closed over my lower gut, sending up an intensely ornamented filagree of congratulatory extras. Tears of sentiment scorched the rim of his eyes, the big aching heart of forgiveness at the grave, or joy before the unbidden, nubile cradle. The soaring trajectory of righteous emotion held to an arc so strenuous it was only deflected by the movement of the terrestrial orb itself. His astral projection fell with a splash two miles out in the shimmering Baltic, causing a flock of incoming cormorants to wheel round in panic, and made for the island of Rügen. Sunlight fell perpendicularly on the crown of my head, making me feel like a hatstand planted at the north pole. Hands flopped like oven gloves. Beneath the rim of sensible reasoning, strange brews were telling me that Miles Davis had surrendered to CBS corporate policy, and stooped to the promotion of their subsidiary's electric keyboards in a servile manner even Dave Brubeck had refused. Once the contracts had been explained, and jargon-free summaries distributed among the populace, what had looked like perverse and anti-social aesthetic and political judgements on my part became obvious reactions to monopoly, gangsterism and stock-broking. Insistence on hearing music where it's actually played no longer looked quite so eccentric.

So sputum held it, my spun metal corncake rigamarole! Two lashed ovaries were pervertamento piped via aluminium into another cauliflower cumulus, the bent bent barbershop was covered at once in fine hairs. I could believe it, parthogen oh aching genesis, the black beam corrupted before it got through the green-tinted jewelbox. The craven claptrap which they spin in the basement, an accountancy sandwich larded with populace, celery, stampfodder, severed cords wanting a necktie homsepun party party deco scheme ratrace. The pices of meal weren;t wanted by day card, travel insurance and that pigeon which walked on a train at Ravenscourt Park. Passport to plimlico full of ruby lights and an elephant sock to teh nose. Corner, slattened nose, edge poultice or was that pedestal wanting, the long green code of the criminal. He thinks it's random, but the poodle loop rundfahrt is spiralling down on a haversack pupil of merely abstract thoughts, a wandering scholar full of lusts, ambition and greed. It's bumptious like a Simpsons script, refined into raffia, the bastwork on the clear-sighted chiati, boom boom boom at the singbirds. Bernrad Leach splotched a pot and felt wholesome, the amplic seesucker police chief harming the sucksud daily. He didn't want more of it, ten leaves spurned and raised to a degree enth, folded into original nip-and-tuck flash flash homely signs, we're listening, flute garbage whole sack interpreted fine dust, and parping. If in doubt, chuck in parping, the field is open to flows flows swallowing cake-tines, marshmallows, birds in thick crust pastry, detained immigrants, pain by the panelling, holster automatic, armed bodies of men. In huffa puffa windblown weevilface. The red stripe. The blue stripe. The arbitration arbitrary filthpack big blow. Stomp of the official stamp. The stampless, indigent pootmark. Waffleiron. Can't lock. Giggle free. Iris zone. Can't mark, maniacal soothsay cheapkiss redcheel kerchief netware gliderscope. Hot hot. Prison watch, unexpected leather rozzer fierce shark. Minnow minnow, thin tiny sliver, the axiomatic face face. You ache to hold the golden reins upon the vaunted steed. The latin tag is crusted with amniotic boot tag bloodulets, the brick is ribbed with slave salt. Slattern fence, folding stolen credit cards into the laundry.

In the freezedried, predictable misery of present conditions, the aesthetic correctness of Free Improvisation has been painfully underused. All accidents revolve around the crucial hole, where blackened and threadbare wings suffer from vacuum suction, and the pressure on your semi-circular canals is globular, awesome. Torn webs flutter in the creaking hinges of the safety hatch. Specks of rust on the starry perimeter. Perfect spheres pop like bubbles, the very image of eternity as insubstantial as detergent-fuelled squib-u-likes, nothing like the chronic presence of shoes and socks in this your actual life. The hatchback pilchard suggests risen glottal lusts as soup-kitchen solace for the benighted yuppie souls. Brown nasal instincts cast beneath the stink of artifice. Taking art more seriously than money meant you were certified as a paranoid schizophrenic. The part which puns played was monstrously real, great idea pumps concealed beneath the skyline of the city. Religion cloying the ledges of the masonry, suddenly an image born of Fortnum & Masons, a shrine of caviar in Tooting. Shrink caves in lasting place, injuries too tiny for the police to mention. One munch being a "Mensch" to all the other frightened mice, scurrying past the big bold senator, who steams in threats made of onions and Gatling guns. The line of verbal connection took off from the mental energy of making it, and sewed itself into the ceiling of the Sussex, loosing loops of line-mould too fragrant for the rabble. A rain of fine dust. When the mouth yawns it's ready to receive the droppings of tiny greasy black bats.

Finish fog. We're hating here the grey grom ice. Teeth at 90 degrees, and the stale smell on the flat white boards. Cold air across the deserted canteen, frozen mud in the playground. It's all coiled up in the ditch like so much infantile blancmange. Moon hoop and dirty boots, that bedsock on a pile of damp leaves. Each untidiness another rebus begging for a moral. Pine cone upright on the simple slab. Big bulk creaks with no-say gravity. The pity plaster with the hairs off, dancing molecule molester, night sky star sign ripped-off can-opener. Craven swards under the pinnacle mosses, nodge urine parts, slow grind of the digestive organ. Brain-flecked literalism wasn't as hearty as the floppy boot stomp parting-gas rhobmarine textural die-craze. Insight enough, terrible wickedness pitstop eat atom barminess windfork. Not enough to turn a whisker on the surface, the skimmed nodule modelling a unit case shrink totem egg-wept still box. Box case evermore hirsute crazy eggnog risible. Not driven enough to the absurdity of asking brainstorm to give itself to mussel thought-eating patterns, cloud carried spore infect, justly discraded diadem velevtcloak noughtscape. Electro means for forest field recording blabber talcum into grout-spanned smooth-off with a transparent jelly allowing tourists to examine the soft glow of life-forms trapped inside the stalactite. Caveform in waves, in billows of stone, the sarcophogaus cradle lamplight starpitched leg lie, twisted ankle surfactant oil-rinsed stunning beam envy envy, scalloped in gravy hooks bent from old punk safety pins, flash of symmetry under a cemetery wall. Hardsign jigsaw peturbation Pay Pal, tooth extracted gold gold hammer well I never, goldsmith, frosty lanterns magic parquet hot wine fenced-off. Petrol dollars knee-deep, scarsign uppermost jab jab blast of fire extension, rolled in the wheatscape, puff puff, the laborious crew flaming even stores crammed walk write walk write fuel injector half skimmed auto Doris see-saw. And the head won't move until it walks.

Read at Keynes Hall, Kings College, Cambridge
with Keston Sutherland/Pleasure-Drenching Improvers
Friday 3 September 2004

Eccentricity built the orb you cradle in the mind's nub of your TV-view. Without its wiry charge, no quantity of click-tracks could have spun the golf-ball tenement of the mass. Insentiate algorithms palm off data like the holy springs of catalogue, each pavement herded into footprint agony. There is no phrase which isn't a screen for the knee pain you thought you'd pencilled out, each ouch belabours glotten hops. No taste is free from the account book, no service that cannot build a trail that goes straight to your door. The crooked paths of some uneasiness are scratched in black grease upon the plastic bowl. Those with augury to read 'em, plaster chips in sear bassoon.

Crouch End unbelievable. Ulli wailing before CC cameras. Prune-face didn't like the ending. Anger flamed in the bottom-left cheek. Fragmented meaning on a silver plate, a silly scrabble for the letters A S R E. Siberian sores along with the high-table mustard. How much spleen for the avoirdupoid? Taken taken by the grocer. Fast ends bound by theory into a bolden tray known as confession. The personal porpoise in chunky steaks. Lost wire unbelievable. Credit unbelievable. Fast-run in disk key. Chat wire in dusky. Plate wire in transistor circuit Olympic re-run Athenian ghost-pot swastika Schliemann excavation bay-tree wreath Wagnerian Björk in seas of blue silk. A singing style reserved for the bloke at the computer. The tomato intimacy of a pizzeria stuffed with adolescents on the 14th of February. Ting Tao beer on the meditation sunrise. Freezefood fasterlock tantrum unended, think blotter faster down wooden tubes than shrink-knottled by widdicott whinny cot-room nursery bed seedling advice. Bland nonsense, my sewers of lardy consumption and car rot. The frangal angle picks anger out of a spotty neck. I'm haunted by the haut couture of the low set. Burbling Burberry, a violent posture maintained by comment endpaper Wallsall stringvest haberdasher keepsake endstrew union. Trying to be funny in a cheese-and-onion sandwich. Marowitz cut-up and he never recovered. Aerosal access to a killing zone, wet field bored mud, wipe it off with a tuft of grass. Tuft etch naked thigh innuendo polish possible, slim ball looped into silver and silver, token vein haemmerrhoid nose investiture in short sharp hairy legs. Get up and fit 'em with the loganberries. Part lips yclept in electric bar-heater forename gobble-picture antelope hostile feature letter-writer spell-checker see-saw, any amount in bunkum. Failsafe in bunkum. In bathetic armchair melancholic bathchair in bunkum. The ravings of inanity as proffered profiterole, an unlikely schemata of code respect among friendules. The groping tentacles of the fore-sign. Shredded skin in buster bear gardens. It's in me and you've got to let me get it out, even if the spittle specks tour anorak. The map fails and the book flames and the mug spills and the ampersand laughs and the cup ran away with the sponsorship form, dot sired dressage slow, mourning apparat politdown pilsner outer Czech Bandung, philasterface phalanx knee-guard Bandung.

The head won't move until it. Walks. Phrasal rotation on a theme from Captain Beefheart. The cadaver lynchpin puking on the bad walk. Ring field in breath talk atom boon-tune clappy clap ring guard. One more effort if you want to be a heffalump. Conceit bigger than the reality you seek to lord it over. Rampant unwit balancing an emotional cancer, the grip of the mental plague, the bubonic balloons of it. Too much rhesus-monkey business in the jesus toolroom. The serious side of the earn-while-you-pay escutcheon, at the joke for luncheon mealing more than a desperate sandwich. A rod for my back, and an endless series of pinched-in comfort nonstop paleontolological corkscrews. Shards of flint, the Michigan seminar workforce plastic-net croaking lawn compromise addendum. Platitude addendum. Poison gas addendum, the eyebrow rising on the bliss answer relocate ennervate. With foolscap pink prints of mounded butterfly smiling-cow silly-moo addendum. Cardsharp richochet police-endorse maximum chaos febrile hillock grassy tuft addendum. No more Rick Shaw, how's your castle, student-union lab proj still-intact dialectic see-saw skin dust botulism. Answer on a postcard please. Parenthetical lung breath, green cardboard dark waters leonine fury hairychest deskward no enchantment no escapology hindu meths Southall musclemen handback escapie-in-tongues do-write earnest bottom-cheek finger hold. Hold on to the paste and do that. Squeeze tube transport policy ear duct tape hard. Burn bit, scrape the tongue, cheesy flails, silly jars. You've lit the fuse, it's a matter of leapfrog alternate-process "volcano later" strategising. Fossa ditch, wreak unending, no funny fititude in the media res, go to death with dignity. A mound of ironing borads, tired of dungface attitude, smelling of boomwork grab-your-face inkpot, true bad Samantha sonata. Pouring out ridicule, vitriol, the stench bad and rising. Mindport elevate, star sign, in your mouth suck reed saliva-throttle - bad mark, bad sign. Gold stars! Heroes warp in the unlight, pity the poor doomsayer in the rosy garden. Mrs Mop, flower show, Sinbad the sailor, take the white stones and paint them again, coalface scuttleberry nighttime manoeuvre, dark side. Hell hole dream anatomy, class pass in passports. Confiscate the left side. Madness victim, tin-opener thrust in anus, communicant in belles-lettre flutter-bum easyscape, bent token masquerade, quick talk burnt-in grease and DIY green grow the rushes, no polish punishment rough, as Nancy Ruffer flute bane ear bane bad tongue. Biting the beetle lock. Addendum. And parping. Plot the scene and foot the billio, stomach-ache belly clench rebel Rabelais heartache rebel-gauge. Don't do that, it'll hurt your throat. The diminished seventh day adventist saluted Rheingold by mistake. Frame ten for out of that. Nonsense I picked up on the street, makes a tent show ten times as majestic as that poot you preserve in Whitechapel. It's not regarded as outsider, it's larded as a reminder of the thrift which shrivels up your kidney stones in Barbara Hepworth lozenge Digby Fairweather no-trap pork-you Monet tearavision marimbula Orphy consideration lyre liar pants on fire consideratum shiny penny wholemost least invasion mini-socks. Poochface innuendo, innings failed in green sward native pabulum bedsoaked urine urine fountainous green smoked paling grace, trout-whisked bottled cobra venom, spanked her insolent black bottom, paleface purple baboon spat most every witch pass-o, dangerfield rectum wretched-up spat again, addendum. Discussed every issue in a cool climate of position fixed to material base, the sacred home of castle forest meadow sward down down to ground rent and ancestor worship. Stop life because its livid turtle-fertile Clissold Park - Snickers Bars, melodious stinkvert, ingenious genesis - secret code investment guilt guilt parchment flattened image sea-sick hirsute goldilocks tripping-wire fence fence spud-u-like bake-n-take, the great black ulcer of the tide you sucked at through the drinking horn. The sin tacks were shot forth from the headlights. The beginnings were erased in an Abervan disaster. The bleak shocks you get used to because to live you must forget the others and the also rans. Heart bleed widdershin in no-turnaround stopmoat fire in zest mosiquito ointment strategy of foolskin workout. The barked parps pricked out to exacy a mew of slovenly pity from teh drab behind the door of your shiny shiny bearskin populace. Fifteen thousand maggots held at bay by the side of the fishing lake. Fire at Montreux, deep purple waters marking holiday fire burn extra extra little pieces grabbed in tossed-out Sunday hopeful bootsale pubtime chitterchat. Before it furls the nigh time of sinksome sinks some bobbing floats in the mountain stream. The picture of a glade resumed its green perfume. Rasta dots on gloss, the residue of commercial come-all-ye testament, a quaker pitch at haute cuisine.

They left me: twenty bottles of cholera, fourteen batches of chocolate spiked with anthrax or botulinium, eighteen packs of cigarrettes laced with anthrax, two dozen crates of beer contaminated withn thallium and boulinium, anthrax spores sprinkled in the gum of envelopes. the things was strummed in pilot lights, in this beads of glisten, sweat, the Noho answer to my central plight. Wrists crossed in the usual manner. Investment of railway urns, the ash went by the upper track. Grease on the junction beds. If only you'd had my chances you'd see the polarised direction of atom heads in the grain of every burnt-on stain. The coffee pot's spout was pointing up magnetic north, stretched beneath the cowerings of a sexual potency long delayed by uranium poisons in the streambed. Bother north. Bother south. Wipe some drool from the edge of your mouth. Sally Alexander and a pageant of cold sores. Potted geranium, uncle in the tool shed, picket fence duty, sharp-sided bucket and a pair of ineluctable tongs. Giving birth is a lot of trouble, you know. Fast fantasy, the green-pant pholsophic charade, the weakening of the heat of theorum, stock cooling on the top of the fridge. My chives are frozen, not dried. Project Coast scientists were also instructed to investigate the possibility of developing a bacterial device which would affect only specific races.

The limelight wasn't a pedestal, it pitched you up to the neck in ridiculous tongue-tied canapés, you couldn't even speak straight, the puffed-wheat filler material was pressing against your voice box and your anger at a tiny slice of the population narrowed your vertex of broadcast to a slim line of energy, a laser beam meant for distant galaxies. As a stand-in for God, the judgement of posterity is asocial, sentimental and pompous, a Nietzschean shareholder's confusion of knowledge and power. As a stand-in for the Id, the judgement of posterity isn't worth a fistfuck. Three shiny button-mushrooms glowing in the oakbeam gloom of the halfclosed mind, "on" and "off" and "don't-know" winking you their charms. Paste the racket into a fibre beltbuckle, we shall epoxy over all your resinous happenstance with petroleum jelly and clarifoil, the external starch of marching-order madbark lipcurl righteousness!

The bundled mania of riddled days, stooping to propose a thrush vent. It's dotted signature a cap of mud. All for the sake of a smell candle. The glorious flow of TV Glastonbury, a love of life rhythmically derived from advertising. They all turned out in Regents Park to launch a soft drink from a thousand outlets. It poured oodles, and the catch was in the money run. I sing a song of adverbs dug from beneath the turf, turn the sod and find the earthworms. Swarms across the sward. In this sense, David Toop's lightweight methodology is as unimpeachable as a travel guide. Any criticism will sound churlish, protectionist, elitist. The churled-up jarl cries lit-up hail-maries in the firstbite night, a regiment of chinless wonders and charmless losers.

When the open mouth creaks, desperate pleas to the conscience escape and fust the air-conditioned ambience. It's an unbelievable vanity, a con, only redeemed by copious amounts of wine. If you're caught in its malodorous slipstream you'll never live to breathe pure again. The unconcious of intellect is not pure will but sentiment, my friends, and only scorn and ridicule can rid of this treacle excrement. In this purgatory of moralised exploitation, vice and virtue must be purged down to the purest ether of rebelliousness. When the domninant crust of the vicious and virtuous sets, resistance is required, a volacanic alchemy. And no more than this; neither prize nor penalty; simply a series of shocks and stimulants to allow the kitten to catch its tail. And what, I hear you ask, is the partially purgatorial agent? The answer is: the partially purged. In media res, the thinglike nature of the TV sink which sunk my boats of bliss, the midst of distress unto dust of this our oh-so-wholesome croquettes végétariennes.

Dash dish defaulted sync-
Ronicity tabled to notion.
Plot curves revving against us,
Plush plum velvet. The mind
Open in a perfect oatcake,
Miller pill as divinest drivel.

Trade tune thin as the
Weather, mental muffins.
Togged out in repro-togas,
Any leftover a blessed toke.
The graze we hazed, a
Phantom liminal as hellfire.

So we came to the lordly shrimp,
Tenuous netting & deadly spray.
Covert barrels hegemonic in envy,
Fat bloat crescendo in tired pockets.
I'm cleaning the tackle, canvas in
Folds, the bucklecheek soft.

John Stevens and Derek Bailey, working class and proud of it, were the founders of Free Improvisation - a genre of site-specific, realtime music-making which bucked every tenet of art-world postmodernism in the 80s and 90s. Just when concepts of simulacrum, computerisation and commercial collusion swept the art schools, Free Improvisation vaunted craftsmanship and actuality - plus extraordinary disdain for commercial and institutional recognition. Free improvisors like Bailey and Stevens developed new, highly idiosyncratic languages on their instruments. Bailey used electricity, Stevens didn't: neither cared what their collaborators played (trombone or a broken hi-fi set, sampler or naked voice) as long as you could control your sound, keep it lively, responsive, interesting. Musical 'difficulty' migrated from the salons of Vienna to upstairs rooms in pubs. While Minimalism and 'accessibility' swept the board in the academy, musicians outside made a virtue of the opposite: collective interaction, contingency, virtuosity, the unrepeatable.

Humm, blunderbus, marigold, Hekmondwike Priory, viagra spam automatic post-Auschwitz phosphorescent punk & arrant rubbish, the blooming widderkins whippersnapper wicketgate hole-in-plasma-cake iodine zone-ray katerfalk enzyme! You stagger the labial chew in your melon-for-breakfast prune-shaped etiolation of the every impulses you churn out to chunder on, the yellow spray making golden arcs of corporate lifestyle nonsense across the dim smoky skies of an out-to-brunch Cambridge. All I know is, that the unspeaking clutter at your very feet has more to say - innit! - than the blonde blande finitude of the poesy-on-a-cushion you've been delivering every month to the ego heresiarch, I'm splitting my pants with a low-gut rumble of imminent laughter! In blistering e-mail exchanges of hard-pressure honey-tea, the "problems" of recuperation only threaten the already recuperated, their broken limbs mending in BUPA plaster-casts, my sense of attitude attitudinized to buggery in a raid on Burnley, Otley, Keighley, Pudsey, the magic in these names! Produced some fine cricketers I believe, m'lud. A student magazine entirely about dating, raping, faking, farting and stapling. The ursatz bear response was to hug right through to the entrails, verterbrae popping in for a tea-time snack! pop! rissole-tossing as a philosophy of existence, we don't even get to the bürgerliche Gesellschaft, cock's crow cummerband yellowjacket roadmender bandstand here-in-after largesse crapulence nosegay nailfile pine-scent non-entity. The raddled hues of damaged lore presenting hikes of rhythm sausage yearning after metric finitude.

For Stu (after reading Sheep Walk Cut)

Same net hoping for
draft cues. The snagged
line coils, my ambush
burning on the lip.

Trad focus on the I'm
in the image melted slightly
over generous patrons
looking for a pint.

The thing you can't see
is the regulating frame
hovering in the lake
of the verbal pigment.

Past the green surmise
all blonde smiles are ricochet.
I'm taken with the Hook
of Holland's flagged-up look.

In the sound snork moment
all bored onlookers freeze
surpise into carnation
Pepsis fizzing in the attic.

Trilobite flapperjack caution
burns the fatliquor, while
sea-sick gourmanisers prick
blood from bloodless fingers.

Full time attention to the dick
is phoned through day-job yellow
as cold-called jealousies
pull down in blind surprise.

Description is the script of the Des O'Connor milkshake, so bodies crawling from the TV set. Upended and barbecued, what if the piffle sprouts nerve ends by the eyebows, sets microsopic lopsters hopping in the bedsheets? The gnawing anguish of the uniform matrix is only busted in cloudburst democracy, the simmered cane of our desiring. Pink notions shattered as the flavour colours all the space of time, the gristle stink of human as the evry vein of life. Without the flattery of sexual exaggeration - "overvaluation from the love subject" - the agent sickens and so dies. James Bond in bed again, I thought this was an action movie. If you park the van of vanity outside the canning facory, all means of fishstick uproot themselves in teeming Qual of Angst. The proclivity tremors in the sky, a projectile wash of clustered lighting hooks, a futures-map for human history. Before the past was so much cottage cheese, now it's beige and dressed with plastic lettuce. The meal you sought was ticketed by arsehole touts, the fortune palimpsest thick on the wrist hairs. Festooned in old basson, baking sights are light across the merry throng, we fish for breaks among the chairs, in gelid lights of harrowed times, aloft.

Read at Bonnington Centre, Vauxhall Square, London
with Harris Eisenstadt (drums)/Sara Schoenbeck (bassoon)/Lol Coxhill (soprano sax)/Simon H. Fell (bass)/Ian Smith (trumpet) + Heine Thorhange Mathiasen (guitar)/Sandy Kindness (sax) + Family Underground (electronics) + Children Could Attack (bedspring mayhem)
Monday 6 September 2004

Note gnat time, the tiny sliver allowed the artists in the ragged queue. Turning and jostling and looking for the slimelit vagabond moon pool. Phew cut and rasher, strips of velvet over taffeta cross-combed jerkin. The pemmican test, see if Max Roach stuffed enough beats in the gap. You want the madness, let the greeting chuckle out, greed greed greed for repetition stretching the larynx, pulverising the temporary idea-stew into thin squirts of dead mud actuality. Where the crystals form and the life starts. The description was so apt it merged with the thing-in-itself, blew away like an old leaf. Lip mould, vain relief in stucco Colditz frozen-fountain architecture. The answer, my friend, is blotting paper in the windowpane, each corner livid in cubist bebop anti-freeze wood lice. The point however is to change it. Hard angle jangle being the rhythm stick wastrel of the dirty rascal. Up at the manor house, they're tottering on hillocks, roundly denouncing the tournament extras. Pole-vault athletico dreadnaught ignorance, you can't bear to enter the political daydream. Tart quince, jelly sunrise palindrome Hollywood apron-tease fine-left jabber hat-off. This grace slapped over hardknot tonk bullets. Parried face in the clue, marry chance fust extra add-in Sir Salt locked-in Nokia shop shop. On the pavement, Dave meant something else, in jazz posture. The open pastures of genre interrupted by the bailiff's gauntlet. Medicare in towers, in portcullis Amtioch curtain-wall, Antich. Fine me beautiful spiritual dalek hot rat hratche-plche dredgewood. Hah hah. Hah Hah.

Total eloquence below the level of your high-grade rigmarole. Direct expression, lay these and geraniums, reams and reams of it. Too much for the recognition burner, but registering every social shock. Coriander-humus Chechen-slaughter lemonrind boss cartilage, automatic degraded churned-out unworthy unworked rubbish rubbish. In stinksome reed orality. Nose so close to the ingredients she can smell them. Grating mummy over the tapioca, releasing rainbows in the coal tar, "getting it" as a block to the musical content. Deft tent in pottery, livid wet liver and spleen inside the ribcage, purple earth-smell and a temptation to nibble bits. Knife cuts the green plastic cutting-board. Wide open credulous crowd-please platform-ticket tannoy, queues woven into a rat's tail pentagram, Columbus barred from lozenge walnut living-room lemonsquash dreamed-of gherkin sky-line. Tickling the ticket of the pile-driver. Some gush, greed forsaken, whole movies sped by in fast bubbles of thought rapture. Seconded to the tenement, praise balloons to the rent pie. Cut bat bit fizz, soggy tenure and the lame excuses of ragwort. Whittled down to a numb stick. Accountancy twisted into stock response, repeated layers in the peat bog. Lay them on red ochre, let the hang-glide soup kitchens sweep the beach of landmines. It isn't mine, that curse of singular. In the crinkled packet lay a melted chocolate button, besty twirls fixed into milk pails and eye sockets. Mushroom waltz by the tin foil ray transducer, cellophane over the box window. Coming to check the boiler and turn the crabs into sleep mittens.

Dread fumes from beneath the garden gate, a series of floaters denying each bloody risk. Dentures on the click track as rodent calipers examine the breadth of a suitable longing. Before the equilateral rationality ate up the deep picture which wrapped the tribe in feather-toting semaphore. Sooth sucks its cheeks, lists demands upon the gate post. Unruly railings guide the crowd to the summit, ask them to submit a recompense to the suffering leader whose head bursts with extra fin-de-siècle phraseology. Hard deacons frozen into a bump corps, the mini-military land seige has poured bloodlet riverruns into the workings of the machinery. Imagining a world bereft of objecthood, the philosopher saw that a rampant spirituality was depriving punters of the slips and slides of experience, Quod Erat Demonstrandum. Sought in the afternoon, blood rushed to meet the food pressing on the stomach sack, left the mind in giddy homsepun reeling. In toddy mineshaft reeling. Familiar chat from the other side, a stupendous compendium of old licks, the page was not ignited. Turn crisp, Satchmo blo-dry aerosol, fighting tomes bedbug saturate. It won't come out like Silly Man or Spruce Untrues because the overwheening pressure on the random smatter draws another curve in the territory. Hank wire said a lot to me, outlined against the slim grey schooner of the sky. The tingle tangle of this your ancient bedding socks has cruised and bruised the styrofoam. Small chunks missing from the cornet angle. Across the street, it's powder, social plots reducing return on capital to dust. Let's bet on the averages, a grey pink flannel shirt open at the neck. In such intrusions, penny fruitgum bill-checks taste of mortar next apocalypse, so might, so fleeting, as the moonshine dies.

I hardly had the knees to pull the weight against the rectum monument. Films causing bad dreams, like I've paid for them to speak to levels of my mind not in my charge. Each grab to the wallet another lapse. Save your money don't go to the show, come to my emotional resue. Papier maché of the lyric sheets, a blobby new Ansicht in a new dimension, naked mentions of the pea-shell process. The hidden point moving through the cells, keep their eyes off the total joke, prim wonder at the shoes in piles. Pierced plasterboard as an indicator, a sign, this pub takes rupees. You polished every scrap until the glinting pile eyed each retinal rod with awe. In golden toast, in crumbs of buttery light, the treasure treasure sticks like treacle. Yellow and white deployed so well you had no need of gilt, reading lettuce at the sink. Turn another leaf and lick the vanity of unblemished rectitude. The go-between was found to be the emblem of the race: Loki in a Mercedes-Benz tipping ash from a cigar, an Eliotic image strafed by Saatchi high-priced cheapness, and a rash of tuney-tuney facts. In flecks, in dash of iodine, the axolotl grew some lungs, and lolled his tongue upon my breast. Fish past the paste, electric surge of wristbone twitch, hands ahead of any thought, the brain supping up its habitat.

No print, no flint. The great big "No" in the sky above Bonnington Square, a darkling blimp glimpsed through sash windows by listeners stretched prone on funny cushions slashed with abstract noise. Token token to a car net. No time for anything beyond a cheese-on-bun gulp-down of the socio-porrage, gruel spread to a grey horizon thin as gossamer. Poison laughs, the venom filed in blackmail passageways, the grinding launder of the so-called just. In Peterkins, in ready lots, in dots of 2-fold sentiment. The squirted squid trefoils another view, pan stuck in hedge hedge borrowstance. This traipss fits fine in show-shine glory, holistic glory stemming from the deviant slip. Each spurt of lust a moment in the onward push, every vacancy interpreted as social hurt, there is no Nomos outside socialism. Shorn of the accreted moralism of middle-class examples, historical materialism became a programme of instant recompense, debauch and license in the weighing mind. In this tongue flap pinned to conscious stuns, parched ears need reedish lights. Residue of spit, my era wax blocking up a cold sore of heft and shrift and blank denials. The place is blocked with canopy, sofa sofa as the TV shines. From tableau vivant to TV set, the absolutist terra-firma monoculture of their picture-thinking imagery. We can't wait until the landblock drifts, incontinent absurdities move your shelf of mussel beds and splash your hand with lumpy-gravy suss. Mick Beck, on the other hand, lives in the broadest way immarginable, on Broadway in transit protest kecks, codpiece primed with bassoonic spunk, a basicity to dream of.

I've got to churn out 30 pages of hot gibberish to read with Mick Beck this week, I ain't got time for fuck-ups who try and smash windowpanes in places I work in (or rather, where they ought to be working in). On the other hand I DO value what you have to say about music (and NOT because you represent "cursory qualifications/trailer trash", but because what you say is often TRUE), and don't want to lose touch completely. I wish you'd lose your fixation on me as a writer and attend Klinker or Writers Forum and start unleashing some of your undoubted verbal vim and aesthetic wit on other people as "poetry" (or some such). I think at this point the Zen Master hits the disciple over the head, but I'm a softy.

The well-featured scrimmer has dried his landing boots on a practise mat woven from motley shreds, lengthy theoretical tirades and bath scum filtred through raffia networks. When the big scowl loosens its murk over the plangent city, the scrip rustles in dry-palm anticipation. Prickles on the taut surfactant. Green slant light and strange crimson shadows over the railway lands. That bush we fucked in, a haven for drug users and self-abusers, a chapel for subjectivism strapped without cash. Chewed pieces of scalpel, the shriven stamp of lowering rectitude, the threat bill-hooked in your left mitt, with a sharp right hook you're masticated and meatless, the forlorn beige tone of sausage skin. Don't forget to grease the spatch cocks, here's ruminant verbiage in layers, the cud caulks just ache with the load. Those who dwell in the latinate landscape know precisely the profit margin of leaping one signal. You grit your teeth for the traincrash, swallow another bunch of falafel from the government enquiry. To make a mark just paint yourself into a corner, bad thoughts rising like black buffoons.

The petrol dividend is wreaking pole-page absolutes across the deed-poll list. In crazy scribs of black and white, in VAT receipts, in expense requests fielded by assistant managers. The grid wattled across the daub in high-time closure, my sacrificial cadaver reaching for the light. In hots and bops and ochre layers, what's this loathsome dogflesh laid across the woad-soaked Euston Road? In rich, in ruche, in dark-crepe tresses of purple loach. Setting the bee on the band, sure. Buzz me, friends, the fundme scissor-gram has found no cut upon the waiting cheek. In buttmost nether-leather, seated pits upon the pot. In grizzle fest, in festive tank, in sheer tutu, in fried a-maize. He can't emerge without a squeak, peeking pains inturned in botulistic agony. Paranoia's weft. The strong conceive a jonty paradise, weave it slick into the bloated sops. Stick fuming censors in the pile of love retard, pluck dank sutures under shelves of flesh. By the arctic trench, a span of lug-worms feasting on the sulphonated emissions of the screw hole. Beyond your taste, the objectitude of cosmic lust, petty errant depths while the sun shines blandly down. No seizure without the pork brigade, toes clamped in cakes of soap. Can't stand it, dig nails in blubber ecstasy, extrusion needles by the shorthairs. In feinting fops, the caring pear, roger droodles till the end of time, sweet buggery of ends in kitchen syncopation, washing dishes in the Oxley face.

Directly after the Russian Revolution, the Red Scare and the Palmer Raids put the American Communist Party (CPUSA) on the defensive. This meant that during the twenties, Marxism and Jazz seldom encountered each other. However, as long as Marxist activists took a principled stand against racism, they were bound to encounter Jazz, since this was the musical form which both exploited and celebrated Black America. After the San Francisco general strike of 1934, a wave of working-class militancy swept America. The Communist Party (CPUSA) took advantage of the new mood by engaging in popular-front work. They co-operated with Father Divine in Harlem, and staged anti-segregation gigs by Jazz musicians. Duke Ellington played benefits for the CPUSA, and supported the campaign to save the Scottsboro Nine, nine young black men arrested for the rape of two white women in 1931, eight of whom were condemned to death. By 1938, due to this and other campaigns, the CPUSA had over a thousand black members in Harlem. In 1939, Billie Holiday's anti-lynching song 'Strange Fruit' - with lyrics written by Abel Meeropol, a CPUSA member - was a historic expression of Jazz politicisation. Duke Ellington's subtle form of black pride thrived in this atmosphere. In the 1940s, the CPUSA was so in touch with progressive developments in Harlem that leading Bebop musicians played its benefits: Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach and Charles Mingus. Roach and Mingus even joined the party - not a fact you can glean from The Penguin Guide To Jazz. These names now of course define Jazz on a global scale.

Sweet pleasure of the Hob Nob, the idea you get your mouth round while the teeth sink in. Grip hard, because there's something at the biscuit end that wants to tear away and ruin it. In the green house of the pink lord, all sunny weathers are collected into round red fruits which stain the air with the scent of living right. In the recent random of the actual, all plots tend towards an alcove shaped like a cathedral. Fastidious wealthy liberals for whom the mass is always stupid shape their politics so its effects resemble those of their well-off conservative equivalents, thus proving that social being does determine consciousness. Global conflict pulls at the biscuit, bruised gums register the tensions. The ulcered soul breathes out flags of envy, scotch tape over the mist hole.

"Digitally recorded by Tim Fletcher, the omnipresent archivist of the London improvisation scene, Mopomoso Solos comprises a sequence of solos (and a quintet) by John Russell, Phil Minton, John Edwards, Lol Cochill and Chris Burn in November 2002. Quite apart from the stunning musicianship that allows each contributor to make a complete music from his chosen instrument, the recording at the Red Rose Club on Seven Sisters Road is exemplary: you can hear both player and space. You begin to realise why Michael Gerzon, audio genius and Beethoven fan, adored Free Improvisation: it's simply the most musical and unprocessed sound source on the planet.

Flea-built matchstick house pertaining to a conversation made somewhere so-and-so by somebody, its sum-total bearing on the union like a speck of dust on the table linen. If you could trace the transitions between the Many and the One, the centuries would pop their clogs to gaze at the merry mess your nuclear understanding had wreaked on the local culture. Boned bastards parping in the landscape, executing trees like the offense was a gateway to eternity. The steakwich belief that the day-to-day is automatically connected to the great carvery in the sky weeps over privacy like the sad clown it is. In the puzzle of the angry cock, crow the ranked hens of necessity, hire-purchase serenades by the cinder block. A quaint force of millions closeted in quince cheese, furtive variants stretched across a rather tiny flat. Fussed parameters leap on the modal shaft, constrained impatience plotting out his grave. I live now because suicide would let the fuckers think I'm wrong. Anger is an energy, those bombs those bombs those bloody bombs.
Worst thought, garbage bag, hot baconfat in plastic, splat. Projecting individual hurts upon a social sickness was a claim to purity others found offensive and distasteful. If your reading was a war, and I thought that I could stop you, of course I'd come to London. At last I'm aligned with intelligent people, most of them in Plymouth. Partwork plough share, feel below into the utopic daze, hot sun on an unprotected neck. Forthcoming ozone-nosed big-chance czech announcement: by setting it so, the drag tenement unpeeled in parchment sheets, each habitude a microcosm of the outer cabinet. The privet-hedge of Levenshulme, the sackcloth of the exit vice. Hot blocks in argument, with salmon on and thumps of Elvin excellence.

Black gunge in the tub. Ochre clouds in the distance. A measuring rod in the acqueous humour of my eyeball. What the fuck was Eduardo thinking of, celebrating Urizen on the forecourt? It's some kind of joke, any true-blue Blakean would turn, run screaming from the library down Euston Road. I turned on Resonance Radio, and Ivor Cutler assailed me, a song about taking a bus along the Euston Road. Why does everyone else avoid actuality, the only source of poetry? This is actual, mate, though minced so fine you think it blobs in sculpture of my wilful hand. All the universe is made of water, some clear and fluid, some hard and brown, some so thin it seems like air or space. All the bits tipped-in have sources, no such thing as the pure or unadorned. These fluids which wash your stones are dripping from the groupie's shopping-snatch. Have-nots stewing by the art pie, sylvan skippings of the bacchic crew, a pile of artworks in Tim Fletcher's loft. Phrase hindered by the pull of conscience, reality winding dental philosophy around the summer boughs. Draping the scene in spanish moss. Nosh syrup, riches for the nerve-ends, alienation from commonsense as the real processes are discerned, the physical truth of music as the only tag on the price pack. Timbred tones stamped all across the parcel, the marvellous seal who bounces votive forests in the gleesome air.

Read at College Bar, Crowndale Road/Royal College Street, Somers Town, London
with Jeff Hilson (poetry)/Matt Milton (violin) + Sean Bonney (poetry)/Hugh Metcalfe (guitar)
Wednesday 8 September 2004

Harruce in farmdale, from chronic lot to some time soon, parking pleasant in the steeped-in-evensong bird cage. Welcome to Delroy Cheevers, who doesn't have time to make you sandwiches. Welcome to the endroit of Rimbaud and Verlaine, reeling-frame citation by Robert Zimmerman, blood on the tracks of the bonny feature. Jaws slack with the enth face. In the Crowndale penumbra, a line from the Royal College of Art in Kensington Gore to black plastic facts of the College Bar in Royal College Street writes an angle too permissive for Len Massey to handle. Great chuff breath-in of the bean stalk, when the talking head mumbles yet more numbers. Excuses built in to the toilet paper. Minimum-risk reductionist scrape pant exhaustion. What's David Toop doing on your label, Mark, this is washing-powder y-front whistle pants, avant front not Confront. Making money, Ben. Making money, Ben. The gleeful answer of the man from Londis who won't stock the Holly Land pitta. Plum stuck. Frühstuck. Expecting Hamburg rissoles in the air-vent torture-chamber Mardi Gras tent erection. Where the provos loiter and the deep parts survive. Rid e-chaf of doll gethly surprises, getting the tongue round all those global vocables. Pent pelth lexicon, international Volapük unending. Split reed in the thin part, bass rumbles up the gut to say your say in body fact, in action packed, in risen fright in holy-boly sodden cane and light of promised dot. I wouldn't stoop to poop on the likes of David Toop. The money's in, we're made of tin, we're here to give you more. Please note that Beck-Lunch Improvors rely on the medieval maypole insolence of peasant gaity and bunkum, a strain perceievable in the material dialect of Nottingham Bonney, and the I've-got-a-fork-now brinkmanship of Hilson's slavish etiquette. We go too far and the ends squirt.

Frames of quartz translucent, end-willing nonet chime. The tum sucks a considerate berth by the engine room, churning for a foray into the enemy. Keep it safe, to the heart, the ribboned bag heavy with focus, a glint in the gold. The prick of the moatside thistle reminds me of the beam in my own bloodshot eye, egg cartoons stacking their footprints into soft cardboard mush. The creepy grey-on-grey of registering your emotional tone, as if the words which don't lassoo the unconcerned aren't worth the care and study you squander on the lavish leavings of the self. My oyster catch, your crabmeat tin, the fishstick left on the sucking pig. Hoops of irony rusted through with bad air. Tanktop herbivore scumsucker word grease! The fizzing pleasure in the either-or eiderdown is dipping lollies in the rooted bicarb, sherbert Henry Lowther loo-roll in dignity of turnabout. Sensuround in tenter hook, etched fleur-de-lis insisting on pinched gnostral gone-bake agony, terminal roof deaths hungry for their nose shine. Oldman polish gloss and sidecar warning-light, the loaded glide as gleesome as the troika in their burnt-liff purity. Posted-science brain burn, ether quadroon drill-bit pleading for a hand-job. Beloved blister handed down by centuries, purple bricks in tidy rows, the failings of the roustabout well-worn black-and-tan office stick. Misery pills by the counter. Moose advice from the sender. Frizzed cat hairs proving electro-chemical activity in the palm of the Godhead, the substance pressed into pustules and pellets. Supper minded, the horace gate swears each time the push tumbles fast against us. Frequent and lowly, separated out by edge shows.

Fixed into no sign by the choices on offer, waiting for the offer that never arrived. No-one over forty opens up a letter with any sense of hope. Leg irons and conceptual polio shackling up the image fixer in a flood of self-loathing, other-pity, subject-object knee-grind. In the fountain we saw bow-rains, pole-tads, hang-coaters, picture hooks, a fine salt spray on my fingers. It didn't matter what you think you though it meant you could sense the fervid charge in the underletters, the tuft brushing your kneecap. Cat fur on raw skin, the commensurate oddity of enforced policed contingency. Caught up in buckets on the belt, spools of value being transfered on the belt. Meantime the kids grew up, the neglected piffle of your inner wishes ached in the sunshine. Shun sign, it's a grey tasteless biscuit, the flavour of UPVC turned into a canticulum. Blodberry dods, blodberry dods. Mahavishnu Orchestra! The muted contradictions of the furniture suddenly layed bare in a conjury of lightning. The anionic charge leapt to the surface, as oak-bark tannin molecules invaded the foreskin, a pouch made of the bit off. Tooth knack was everywhere.

Festoon worthless, the streamer flicked
Across the lips, a test-which-sandwich
Filched and martyred like the sugarcane.
Stuffed by the big-F oud, the greedy ear
Drags remnants in a forcefield made by
Magnets. Drat that draft, I'm stuck.

Nobled by its sources, veined to other lights
Than poesy. Crestlock fallen, flamed in
Instance. Posit crew with fallen belongings.
Purse-filled crouch among the buttercups,
Heat on the back of the fucking adolescent.
Pain in search of the usual receptacles.

Crews ruing terrific pots of paint. Sick.
The luxury of vapid summonses. Oh, a
Plague on all your housey-housey tommy-rot!
Cat flash in rows of ectomatic, inverse
Killing field. Schmaltz and pestle, gone.
The vibrant writhings of saleable cack.

Sled readiness, the 2-by-4 conundrum,
Waiting being the bleak aesthetic of chômage.
Defends in tiniest cups. Lost the plot, to
carefully balance shame against the leg,
Endive motion tripled in another shake.
Doomy mores piled in carpet bags. Outrageous.

Although Derek Bailey and John Stevens feature in Haunted Weather as if they're national figureheads like John Cage and Toru Takemitsu, David Toop can't quite explain why they've worked all their lives beneath the radar of establishment recognition. Maybe it's because they play music rather than 'compose' it, and in so doing rediscovered - in a practical way - the thesis of Adorno: that far from being a shared vocabulary, a 'community of sound', bourgeois parameters (the tempered system, imposed abstract tempo, depersonalised musicianship) are obstacles to genuine musical communication. The practical players' modernism of Bailey and Stevens - from quite an unexpected angle - confirms Adorno's marxist musicology and disconforms the bourgie ambience with which Toop surrounds their work. Ambient, pop music for the middle classes, you can hear the corrupted consciousness in each pre-echoed note.

Feed fat needs in the swallow's ear, tis tuppence ha'penny on the spindrift two-rag Betjamin lamppost. With the needed scrape-paint hacked in tares and teers and veins and tubes and splits and forks and furs and fins and gems and tasps and green-coated saliva balls of hexed-up sophorific needplace turnabout. Where it doesn't sag, the thrusting muscle keeps a heart-mat thereabout, its traffic cone wincing at the glance lights. Skinny lines build lexicons of jewellery, its wu, its poo, its silly-moo, owning stocks of lardarse rigmarole called art. Heatless frustrations in a deep stir, realising we bore each other stiff, too polite to let the rabbit out. Nettled by the coach case, facile lusts in a beach hut. Salt sticky on the thigh. Home in on laundry ordinaryness, if you could get it right, the accuracy would make the heart soar, wretched eye salt on the bandage grade. Yellow piece of dressing gown, silk tormenting the suggestive elbow. Burnt toffee black as liquorice.

Pus-bound fangs of pillockry, a ready craze for skinflit asps. The burbled term is lost in lemonade. Hazy waves all round the floating sun. Fen weather in a pen whistle, green stripe on the distaff side. Hope beeps long to get 'em, snazzy outlets stocked with plastic cack. The so-called opposition builds a pile for the geek to live in, bad bent tomes on the underbrush. Filagree in mush, how you come to take the garbage out. In detail schist, the lost twin twinkle of the last star, gulls by the window and a brock tower. Wheeling of the indigent, the freedom fricassé you love to toss about. You loll in lewdness and saliva froth, key whittle in the daft days, that ton of tuna in the barrel hoop. Barred frames for iron-age retribution, seeking the car-kiss in the Austin Minor motorcade. As usual, the bland, blind sublimity of 'curatorship' - that weasel word for buying in the labour of others - is haunted by the social actuality of production. Can't class the calcifiers in the fossil-box mostrum, no man with a bow like the pussycat well-heeled Thermidor smarti-pant fuss face. Furniture doused in paraffin and left to the crack crew. Pinched gizzard turncoat eidelweiss porkfarm, a bunch of acronyms like a necromantic call term. Telephones as the live wires of the commercial sucker root, everyone gabbling in sex-money-smell linknode free fall after dark shell shock. Punny fun and end lock. Roots hair and pad lock. Strewth geezer and burn lock. Agitator bloomsheen bedridden cough drop. Shunted out to the meanering moslehill. Terminal sneers to do with the return form. Don't leave blue to the mosh pits, carry-down papers making suck-mouth dinosaur lead-ins for a faulty rat scape. Crumpled in heaters and mountebanks, the red room has a furry floor which strokes the sole. Ramraid brakelight hair-extension audience-figure gormlessness. Had your lot while the sooth sayed.

"Recorded live at Little Missenden Church and Berkamsted Jazz Society in Winter 2002, Green and Pleasant Land treats issues close to Michael Garrick's heart. Garrick's career has included spells at Berklee School, quintets with Joe Harriott, Shake Keane and Ian Carr, and a choral work performed at St Pauls Cathedral. As the title indicates, Garrick loves England. He also wishes to celebrate its humour and Indian food. In a sleevenote he says: 'jazz is too profound an impulse to be limited by geographical origins or to be pressed into service as some kind of colonising agent'. Despite these good intentions, English 'folk' tunes are so vacuous, only the most raw renditions can prevent them sounding intolerably Victorian, sentimental and bogus: the angular events of 'Sad' therefore arrive from nowhere. There are composerly felicities, but subsumed in a cloyingly cosy folksiness (Richard Rodney Bennett?). Chris Garrick plays intelligent post-Ponty violin, and Dominic Ashworth's guitar has a stinging quality, but their 'unplugged Mahavishnu' efforts remain mere interludes. Admiration for Winston Churchill and Fidel Castro - plus love of jazz and curries - fail to add up to the universalism Garrick yearns for.

A cloyingly cosy folksiness has enveloped the bathtub. A push-Sutton zappology peels off shards of musicology into adornoite plasterers and filched-for muffin caverns. Coal for currants, the timorous sods biting thru plastique. Alpha gamma ray bulldozer heartflip sorry boatsick addendum. Mahavishnu Hovis franchise, holism in a plastic wrap, five purple policemen knocking at the door. They rang the doorbells in unison, a beatle vision of utopia. He stuck his pole up, let out a mighty parp, the risible bubble of musical excellence. In tents. In teats. In worried life of when-the-food, in ticking time of anxious plank. A plunked on fiend with reddish eyes, no surprise when bays of juice arrest the bites. Teethy curl in the gum bust. Orange on coral grey, the stripes of loofah law. By the tile-pile. If it works for me, it works for you, the working has a social curse. Incorruptable, the making ends have frizz upon the knuckle-duster drainpipe flick-knife, gangsterism sterile like capital making the "n"s meat. In Little Smeaton, in Hudderfield, in Roger Blarney's cosy home town. The hazy fringe upon the shade, the hanging trews, his upfucked kecks. A devotion vootly to be pupped, with zigzag crisps, with rattled tips. In phase of beastly grind, his hazel aspen was a stake, "the girth!", he gasped.

Technological fetishism is a ready means for recuperation of the avantgarde. Cubists and Futurists are equated with designers of art-deco lamps and wind-up grammophones. Ignoring the fact that samplers and music software actually encode the parameters of classical music, the twentieth century musical avantgarde is narrated as a dialogue with the machine. This is music understood like the history of automobile amnufacture. This of course suits David Toop, who found a ready sponsor for Sonic Boom at the Hayward in the shape of Ford Motor Cars. This is music perceived as the gradual 'ascent' to the prone posture of the 'comfortable' consumer, as Devo would put it. The real history of the twentieth century - a battle between the collective possibilities brought about by socialised production and the ideology of the family and nation state - is actually more interesting and unpredictable than mere technological advance.

Soft cock plenitude casserole unlikely, the floor strewn with rushes and the smoke running hopefully into the rafters. Imagery of yesteryear to crank-up the ferment of your ant-hill uneasiness. It's just a voice croaking in the upstairs room of a Victorian terrace house, the be-all-and-end-all of a brain breaking down its necessary compartments, comportments, deportments and documents. In the sleep forum where the concepts leak across to the images, and your craft rears over high waves in the hurricane, white crests on each polo-neck glad-eye bean-quest fermentation. Anything can happen in the metabolic pool, and Rundfahrts are boring. Neath the bedspread, the sleep dirt wriggles and invents a spiderworm silverfish. This protagonist looks at me with googly eyes, eyebrows floating above like cartoon-style questionmarks. I dreamt my brother was an earwig with arms connected in a hoop like a stag beetle, and I woke up screaming. In the connectivitis of the unsaid brain, I see my thoughts in negative, it's where they don't link up I see the real forces, looming outlines of anti-matter against the neurone star map. White paint flicked from a toothbrush, my cosmic anatomy derived from idexical light prints. In the ripe obstacle the fruitworm turns, fishing in the dream tavern for the living apparatus.

When you have it in the memory, the whole thing quakes with shape and sneeze. You tweeze it with analysis, pointing percy at the porcelain. Nucleotides swim past, waving at their chemical landing sites, each feeler febrile with ambition. You're an internal voyager, and the crimson bow upon the blouse indicates a heart pumping blood into the lung. The ox-blood of the wanting beef. Delroy Cheevers was a feint, a fiction framed for fucking "f"s. The elsewhere beckons, each traffic cone in longterm orange fastflash cinitude. Welcome to the ending of a bush, a smoked-out zone. Wry piles of grit, the stale stale smell of it. Down of course to the root canal, where Gamma's drinking Strongbow, and the time of image lapse is strong and long. A lion's roar in donkey face, in harsh unjust, in patched-up smear. Where's d'you leave them flipping tongs? Honey buds so the room fits, a partition across the blind of the eyes, sequence nebulous, a sussed-out rim silvering the gitane-blue sky, "d'après M. Ponty" on the box, walking on the python-scape. The tightness of the sun and moon and stars reflected in the pinching of a week, their Timmy Ottomi which ties me down to ersatz rhythms of the spectacle. Wire forks up Henry Kaiser's arse, that Californian summer is so blear and bland it's downing murders in the hemlock cross. Why's the Wake so full of names? Because it's an excuse to write down nonsense syllables you hear, but have no lingustic permission for, the sign of words as music. Permissive sundance barbecue, he's skipping spurs of jizz upon the Park Way dance-floor. Between the sound and the letter choice falls the Shadow, twanging Hank, salmon-pink Fender Stratocaster to the phallic fore, the distracting superfaction of the twine mind distraught in popple flesh. Please me in extras, crossing gates held in the chiasmic rite, waiting for the charge of sex express: fine-tip sensor blast, encomium 4-suck brimming on the bristol hurze, undisconnected to my wishbone heavychain warren cuccurullo popinjay. So clear it beetroot bites and snacks on Purim froth, an air-to-tights beyond the building cape. Knee-sock to an alter-caster ferr-rock, the quim was suitable and boiled. You take you chants and bury them in measly stores, careful of the spendthrift list, wind whark wail to endlessness. Will do until it's bent to sugarcane.

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