selected writings

The Core of the Machine

[pdf: TCOTM]

core01

She stopped in the lodge and ransomed her travels for good. Sophia Reich was made of fibres. In sally gardens where a former suicide pact had left us alive, we drank milk and blood, buoyant with maudlin promise. Indiscretions in abbreviated forms were austere manifestos upon the characters of a rock. Led by customs to knowledge of moonshine ratios, we were in-commensurable figments, hi-fidelity skeletal junkie-stations, insignia of simulation. Spoken powers and knowers leapt upon our bandwagon. The species of composition, offspring of red setters’ component precipitations, were voiced in a space between antiquity and the surface of a mysterious unpredictability. No-one wants to be a statistic!

José and the Ziegfeld girls, the follies, reached a crescendo exquisite as human sacrifice. The Winter bride played a game of swans. Midnight fishermen provided food. The consumptives with azure poise and balance of the words of the sea were slow-flowing out of this era. Our brothers’ and sisters’ pride swelled the gates of the citadel, ageing the lakes and the rivers. Antagonism darkened the sentries with a fiendish raiment of punishment: the reasoning of Man. Without astonishment, José endured. Market sellers and barmaids had found an affinity in his animal / trickster renaissance, sustenance for an extraordinary “Scientific American”. (more…)

Envelope

a condensed novel in 22 verses

[pdf: Envelope]
[audio]

_0envelope

1. Specific to sitting in a deck chair, lacquered, bright, snowy cheeks. One critic of social and political life. Nerve end, Fabian. Left the body a god in Cairo, in the foyer with the McEwan’s manager. English punctuation or the decimal equivalent. Plays at Wimbledon Cathedral, a Mobiüs strip breaking the hyphens of the characters’ tics, now stalactite. Ulysses’ rooms bequeathed by merchants’ muscle fibre, barbershop Swift, are ravens on wires flying to nests of croissants. Invisible, distilled, immanent. The zinc stylus is saying who doesn’t read the Dubliners to Antigone made magnanimous dents smelling of pine off of a Renaissance Pope.

2. The World’s Most Famous Electric Razor. Freud’s rational, secular spice tree slightly intriguing the mischievous French starlet engine. The voice lymphatic. W. B. Yeats clones in Belfast stitching the tremours to Nevada. As a kestrel, the poem is about to taste the milk, smell the coal in a threadbare armchair, with a glass of Vouvray to help navigate the Panopticon. (more…)

Vitriol

[pdf: Vitriol]

_0002 copy

Utilitarians: shall we assume our forgotten science is hidden somewhere deep in the cellular memory banks? Imagination has given in to information. Then heretical methods won’t suffice. For we are subject to location. Yet the earthbound field no longer attracts. It seems that we are being utilised for some kind of sensorial induction.

As in a dream, we are passing time by supplying and constructing our bodies and surrounding objects as instruments for assuming passing time has real integral quality.

Let’s explore the content of our applications. (more…)

Statement

[pdf: Statement]

_State.1

The spectral sign of imagination is superfluous and profane. It is an anti-consumerist luxury, an antidote against the poison of quantification.

It is an anti-artefact, not a psychological reflection of whatever data assigns it an author or creator. It is not a metaphor.

The material out of which this play emerges is by magic ritual and sheer chance. As the reader or viewer you are complicit in the transmission of this play.

And it is play.

The intention is not to make ‘art’ so that it becomes ‘work’ for a political or personal ideology. It is not to fulfill the purpose of an identity. In offering the ultimate, nothing needs to be qualified.

Against self-surveillance and identification, the astonishment of presence is always inconclusive.

(more…)

The Fabulous

[pdf: The Fabulous]

_0the.fab

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… )

Eyrie

[full text published in DARK CLOUDS]

_0eyrie

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]

Recitation

[pdf: Recitation]

_0recit

Recitation, Kings Head Theatre, London

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… )