Reader: Imogen Smith
“I am a nuisance / I am a pest / When it comes to the worst / I am the best / I am the reason / You can’t reply / Cause the answer you’d give / I would deny” – Naii Chatak, Whoreticulture
Edward did not believe the anti-narrative. It seemed like hogwash. Yet something about the novelty of it all appealed to his mustard and puce-green intelligence as it fed into a crude notion about timelessness he’d earlier toyed with and discarded, so he decided to investigate further. He comforted himself in the knowledge that this was comforting.
Suddenly, there was joy in birdsong and the approach of Spring. He squirted a lemon onto a dish of plaice, lay on the couch and surveilled his reading materials…
The Rules of Literature (more…)
“The accretion of delusions engendered by the myths of capital and labor imposes a diabolical doctrine of competition and respectability which amplifies commodification to no end.” — Eugénie Villiers, The Meta-Psyche of Capital and Labor
On a bright cold day in April, in a land where everybody forgot technology equalled control, machine personae deepfaked the human category. It was not self-evident.
Their realness going forward pixel by pixel, bystanders began to take on the appearance of houses. Little fortresses were shielded against the elements. In the shelter of wayward appetites, structures of organic / machinic toil — produce — were couched in fabric, offset against buildings observing each other in the environment in queues and lanes and clusters. Plots of land divided into units each attached to different pairs of hands.
“Is identity the same as character?” wondered N.
Sancho: Mark Springer | Harp: Ozlem Simsek | Words: A. A. Walker
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
[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
[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: 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]