hollywood

Carnal Synthetics

“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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Envelope

a condensed novel in 22 verses

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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…)