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
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]