[pdf: The Fabulous]
The breath of the proto-choice volumed by a cause-clause takes flight at Dawn. S/He flutters, sweating green lite of the future fast beckoning the ghost musical, the split Human Flag. Changing the blame, skirting fleed medals, combing that portion of a honeyed/blessed/wed n ridden refugee, the Tectonic hide, rent of the future’s speech, like a pine tattooed onto the Community at the green lite with harmless money S/He accrues, is Lover-phased. Methodical host musicians toil round blades of a rodent aching Heart, as a swelling belly takes flight by saxophone, Dawn-fluttered and sweating in the Palm. The future slits its Human Desire, giving caresses to the Angelick green hairs of Anti-Thought. These elastic bands of the guiding foil are stretched between foggy moments to sit on this fence badly. Residing with the flute creation of dissimulations of ‘Literary’ fangs, the Vanguard Creates Itself; pseudo with delirious legs, without appropriating the pool, and without appropriating wheels, so…
How d’you get away from/wipe out/get rid of ? (Read more… )
Video: Michael Donlevy | Harp: Ozlem Simsek | Ramona – Anatoli Tsampa | Narrator – Alex Walker | Lilianne – Jennifer Oliver | Sancho – Mark Springer
Images: Michael Donlevy | Words: A. A. Walker | Harp: Ozlem Simsek | Ramona – Anatoli Tsampa
[pdf: The Present: Ephemera]
Those who extend their understanding to brave these incompetences Surrounding dry arch wit and clueless circumstances Prey upon Ephemeral elementals for want of better terms, and the reason, the Logic, proven by Fact and Historical accuracy, serves the favours of Beastly and incompetent reason at the expense of Imagination, which is never prescribed, always unexpected, transparently wondrous and incongruous; Beautiful in perpetuity and the colourful states of ambiguous, tremulous wavering before the receptive audit, an Imagining one who sees whole new lives unfold in brand new shades of impossible unmeaning and illuminated phraseological pictures.
Inspiration, idealisation, and the impressionable beings of divine laughter; swallow tailed, characterised. Diviners of elongated Tranquillity have been formalised to a greater or lesser extent, yet the heirloom of creative foreplay (because any given circumstance relates another’s tale) bears no implication that there’s a planning committee going on behind everything that’s going on. Unless you’re James Bond, or John Dee, indications are not Prophecy. The fools who make attempts at proof will inevitably be proven correct! (Read more… )
[pdf: The Present: Controversy]
Reflecting upon heat maintaining the conditions for life to exist on the earth at an intermediated origin of attraction, ‘constituent parts’ are made up of:
- Criticism of abrogation
- Impressions formed by content, however absurd
- Piracy of the quested
- Documentary evidence
- Graphic effects/photo montage/fabricated chance events
- The most perverse analogy imaginable
- The Transparent metaphor
- The Attributes of Verification
- Vectors and stealth
- Objectives, with their Hallucinators named
- The signatures’ Function, which is the same as Knowledge
1. This is not supposed to be a natural jump from one parallel universe to another and beyond. It is merely the present, pre-conditioned requirement, as most people are wont to liken such things to anyway (Our Meteorologist, by replacing the Mythic and Mystic considerations, was displeased that something looked a bit like being started, yet it hadn’t, and nothing was how it should have been). (Read more… )
[pdf: The Present: Infiltration]
When the day drives dead leaves over pastures of the molten fissures of heaven-spawned and mysterious knowledges, when we speak of that fabulous encompassed destiny, that known and familiar radiance shaped by dusk and dawn’s methods of the present restructuring—never to be disembodied—always fixed even without space or time—then together the irrationality of our Ultimate Glasnost shall be woven forever in the dew and shall forever be.
The Society Culture promulgates is usually quite Moist, and it is extremely unlikely that at its most Primitive, Society was the same as either Truth or Madness. (Read more… )
[pdf: The Present: Atrocious]
A cynic wastrel, mind numbed by terminal, spiteful, make-believe reason and the feckless, indeterminate Will-to-Truth, like a brain surgeon on a learning curve on a mobile spiral, invariably went and made the mistake of beginning in assuming that rationality of argumentation and ideology-mongering does, in the end, prove correct, if disagreeable or open to Criticism, properly speaking. It is preferable to mix the Absurd with the irrational, to blur the boundaries between this Jezebel replica of seamless timeliness many conjecture will stall the mountain of the previously held belief custom that is the steaming orifice of the world-view as it is promulgated by rationalist supervisors and documentary flimflams.
What language is this? (Read more… )
Lilliane’s new song poured from the hi-fi, bringing me to tears: “What Will We Be Burning?”. I was honoured to be inhabiting her lyrics. In one of her rooms where Sancho had fitted a black taxi cab, I read aloud one of my screenplays. She was so hyperactive and thin and muscular. Really elegant! Irresistible, despite our better judgement.
So, in the morning, we found ourselves displayed lewdly at the table, breaking our fast on one another’s bodies, and avocado and papaya and coconut. Once we were conjoined, we became very still in the fusion of pompoir. But, she called a sudden halt, panicking over what to wear for her appointment with a photographer she was already late for.
She showed me a warning she’d scrawled with a felt-tipped pen on her denim shirt sleeve cuff.
After many attempts at costume, she settled on a bright orange business suit, blue silk stockings and stilettos.
We met a photographer in a gallery and he talked about ‘creating an image, the capturing of a soul’s light’.
Later, we browsed through a record shop and Lilianne seemed to realise, ‘there’s no point in anything’. She was accosted by a supercilious music radio station host who recognised her from her last television show.
‘I’m more shy than I think I am.’
‘No, it’s the other way round.’
He didn’t need any persuasion.
© A. A. Walker
[full text published in DARK CLOUDS]
The Vampire has the luxury of enough finesse to activate indelible vocal shapes glazing over the emotional rationalisation of an inner struggle against art essayed against politics: ‘Democratic Suppliance’ by Barings Hood in the latest edition of Angelique. For the advert-priest of undemocratic dogma, that glow’s discernment. A skull is encompassed by a shipwrecked rhetoric speared by history, painted in a forger’s hand. The Vampire is well pleased.
‘The body is an instrument of itself, voice the conduit of script.’
Divested of the last remnant of daylight, passengers to Venus are following the spectacular uprising of the alchemical Black Sun. Inside the Black Sun, multitudes are in dream-time. Their will o’ the wisps are swirling through the door left ajar. Venusians digitise the invisible realms of artificial reason, releasing signals from interspatial dream-time. The blind fire of dream-time — you don’t know it yet — it’s an insane medium for a miracle.
The power chord is deranged. We’ve been shoved by the hooves of the unicorn into dream-time’s dark fire of good scripture. Fundamentally, names, dates and places are rid of the reflections of our costume jewelery. In the spirit-count of switched flesh, the repercussions of slumber are pleased to deliver the bloody fruit of no dawn. We are sliding over into the Black Sun, cutting stars to the quick in the soft dilated aura of no dawn. We are delivered as one red rose to impart the savage life.
Now, let’s let rip… (read more… )
[text & image © A. A. Walker]
Whether or not it is an everyday observation, have you ever tried to do anything but decipher codes? You will perceive that here, where what is there, is in the making of the difference being made, but it is merely between the choice and the record, no more, no less.
Some time during my sojourn, I would regret it later but be obliged to play tribune to that part of human consciousness which is of its time [insert date] yet without a contemporary, which means to say for each of us it is in fashion. This thought occurred like a rapture pliant with foolscap devices, randomness, accounting, murmuring.
A sense of belonging concerns the definition of how desire takes place within a custom or saying, which at present is bearing a resemblance to literature. That is, to furnish knowledge going near, without or toward, relative to the images of the characters of the written word. In truth, not even the speech, and neither the thought!
But the written. (Read more… )
[full text published at Great Works]
To Robert Burns
It’s a Catch 22 situation.
I’m yours, you’re mine.
The Freemasons are dogs.
[Note: the above lines are sampled from the dialogue of the 1976 costume melodrama ‘Burns Night’, directed by George Winters and starring Bryant McKenzie and Nicola Appleby. A marvellously bawdy, lurid account of a night in the life of the Scots poet Robert Burns, ‘Burns Night’ is a piece of cinematic magic which brings to light the poet’s connections with the Freemasons.] (read more… )