SNAFU [Situation Normal All F***ed Up] is an anti-narrative fiction dealing with themes of morality, the news, art, and the political corruption of the Social Bureaucrat Party. Its protagonist is Nasrul, a ‘facilitator for the non-hierarchy of projected imaginative phenomena’.
Originally broadcast as part of the Radiophrenia art radio festival, 2025 edition. Produced in collaboration with Listen Gallery, Glasgow.
Sans the Construct by A. A. Walker published in AGON Journal Issue One
‘AGON does not stand or remain for anything but is birthed from struggles of such violence that do not mirror but are the embodiment of the intimate cruelty of Eros — this form of agony so pleasurable it tortures; a torture which, in its turn, produces the rupture from which bursts new life. AGON must be, must contain within itself, must become pregnant with and ceaselessly deliver nothing but itself; itself inasmuch as this self steals into, latches onto, and becomes everything else, and thus affects a profusion of selves from the explosion of the one; the movement from one to zero to produce the many, the innumerable.’
Fossilised Frequencies radio broadcast on Radio Buena Vida, spoken word / sound art collaboration with Love is serving the ears now [Listen Gallery]
[text]
“Art is no longer an individual social statement, even less the total act of expression of a qualified representative of a culture, but an indiscriminate development towards that which was previously taboo: the irrational propagation of synergistic alignments consolidated between the non-exclusive spirit of imagination, cosmic mystery and the unknown.” — Hortense Varner, Violent Beauty, Art at the End of Time
Traditions were under threat. Patriots wanted a day of reckoning, a crackdown, and the intervention of their Antichrist. Embracing the topics as set by the paradigm shifters, the monetisable personality was relentless. It had no moral backbone, but at underground assemblies everywhere speech was perverse and inexplicable, against everything that was sacrosanct.
After fixing up the hit-pieces for the Professor to be trashed as an abomination, Anikulapo-Kuti inspected the emblems at close range. Having breached security at the bio-surveillance office at Idolator he traced the path of their instrument in the correct order, and while it seemed the emblems might pander to or patronise both the dominant and competing narratives, this served to signify they might have the power to smash the meta-narrative.
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published by ALIENOCENE – Journal of the First Outernational [Stratum 11]
Alienocene is an electronic journal that gathers texts, sounds, and images seeking to reshape the relation between the human and the inhuman.
Unfolding interceptions herein necessarily occur serving an aesthetic fashioned to radiate. Made of multipliable, eternally repeated strategies of rendition—objectives exhibited to, and simultaneously by, the unwilling poet—the format of AUTOMATON leaves at reception verses floundering on the edge of a litmus paper, and unbeknownst to the deliberations of any common sense, posing themselves as characteristic of the forked tongue.
download >>> AUTOMATON
Autonomic Précis | Disembarkation | Unorthodox | Cupid’s Opera Has Broken | Radiographs | Along the Centre of the Leaf | A Journey Faithful to the Destiny | The Werewolf | Fault | Dominique | Fraction
reader: Imogen Smith
[>>> Audio-Video]
[>>> pdf]
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]
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.
Licentia Facebook page
Words: A. A. Walker
Theremin & harp loops: Ozlem Simsek
Licentia at bookartbookshop, Thurs 26th March 2015
Links: bookartbookshop | Licentia IX: extract | Licentia Facebook page
‘Licentia’ poster, bookartbookshop, Shoreditch, London
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]
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