All of this is temporary*

The City swells with life
& I,
                        insignificant,
stare at the people & the buildings
& the utter lack of meaning,
overwhelmed by purpose:

one must stay busy.

Smoke dances the in rain
                        framed
by the sickly-white, luminescent light
of the street lights:
sentry post for every building.

They are trying to say something,
these buildings, something
more than their designer or
creators ever intended,

but I don’t know what it is
                        any more than they do.

So I flee to the nearest breath of green
& living things;

I tilt my head back,
as I lay down upon the the grass,
& stare at the immense & ancient darkness of

                        the sky…

*“Emnacipatory politics must always destroy the appearance of a ‘natural order’, must reveal what is presented as necessay and inevitable to be a mere contigency, just as it must make what was previpusly deemed impossible seem attainable”– Mark Fisher

Losers of the world

The game is rigged, every decision made
into a mistake, chained
                        to debt
                        & to regrets;
the boulder becomes heavier & heavier.

No matter how we carry it
                        – in the stomach or on our shoulders –
the weight will break our backs one day.

Violence is the only way to break the chain,
only through solidarity can we regain
the dignity they stole from us
                        before the game began.

Fear holds us back,
                        but we’re always afraid anyway, so:

Losers of the world unite!
All we have to lose are our lives.

This is how we live now (if you were born after 1984)

Expensive mistakes made to wait
for the cancelled screening of lost futures.

                            Never mind,
just watch the trailer;

a sentence cut short for bad behaviour,
particular particulates chosen
                            for both air & water.

Which method of suicide would you like?

No need for haste,
we have a decade to waste first,
                            & anyway
the decision has already been made.

                ****

Words twirled like sugar cubes
                            by silver spoons
into porcelain cups are not enough.

They’re useless.

Images are different.

With careful consideration
they will change the world,
                            or else become exhibitions
to be sold & then interpolated
into the process of rebellion:

no longer threatening to the system.

                ****

We drown in noise, suffocated by information.

Anhedonic hedonism,
                            cynicism,
& one more beer, one more smoke,
just one last line of coke;

desperate times & desperate measures,
insanity as a reflex against insanity;

                            a litany
of clichés & new prescriptions
for yet more medication. Don’t question
the efficacy, or the necessity or
                            the cause,

just take what you’re given & be grateful
someone is pretending to listen.

This is how our problems are solved now…

                ****

Pull out the roots & the flower wont grow,
just like weeds won’t;
                            to consider
weeds to be as beautiful as flowers,
is to consider the power of words
to change the world
                            which is to say,
it changes your perspective;

to hold contradictory thoughts,
                            is to survive
& thrive, like weeds & not flowers.

                ****

To speak of flowers is to dissapear
into the ideas of others but this
is consistent with the insistence that
                            nothing is new
until it’s too late:

words no longer matter on the page.

Now only screens change the world
& dreams become as tacky as a pearl necklace,
draped around the neck.

                ****

So now, of course, we want not just answers
but solutions;
                            different desperate measures,
a new insanity
to replace the one you gave us.

Don’t think that we lack the courage needed:

we know what must be done,

we just don’t know how to do it…

                ****

They say that thinking of these things
will only make matters worse;

those of us for whom the drugs don’t work are told
                           to focus on the small things
& ignore the dying world,

drowning us all.

So:

crouch down to a round, purple flower,
notice the green-tipped wing of a butterfly
upon it.

                            Reach for the phone as a reflex
to take a photograph, &

watch as the butterfly flickers away…

 

Do’s & Don’ts

Pay no attention to the world outside of your city,
or the sunlight bleeding across the sky.

Don’t look at the photographs of Henri Cartier-Bresson,
or allow yourself to cry.

Do not listen to the Gymnopédies everyday for a month,
while taking commuter trains;

don’t look at single-platform stations as you pass them by,
or aimlessly observe the detritus trying to hide
 
in the fringes of everything. Never create, only consume
but don’t drink alone so much that you

begin to loose your mind…

***

Listen to teachers & parents & always do as you’re told,
exercise regularly & deny you’re growing old.

Listen to Spotify playlists & buy the latest clothes,
have faith in reason & that technology will save us all.

Always assume a community is just a collection of potential enemies
waiting to steal everything that you own.

Believe that you are where you are through merit alone,
& drink only in moderation.

Ignore the homeless, have faith in the government
& believe that you are free.

Teach your children to respect authority
& do the same yourself.

Use razor-blades only to remove hair,
not to mutilate yourself.

Learn to accept your place…

***

Choose pleasure over meaning, close
your eyes & let advertising
do your dreaming for you.

Ask no questions, you’ll hear no lies:

it’s the only way to survive.

Here, there, everywhere*

When meaning twists & coils
over & over again, &
becomes the slain god-monsters of
our ancient ancestors;

when the specific, the particular
is devoured by these monster
        the other
            ceases breathing
& becomes deserving of sacrifice
        to the mess
            we’ve made:

        this is our fate,
neither a bang nor a whimper

        but a mass-psychosis

            with an ironic posture.

* Here, there, everywhere – Sam Kriss

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity

Here I’m alive; a mediocre, twice-
failed suicide,
                hypomanic
in hyperreality
writing unremarkable poetry,
failing to be
               Homo Economicus, but
I’m not the only one

I know;
        this system fucks us all,
why do you think so many of us are depressed?

                There is the voice,
have you heard it too?
                Telling you
it’s all your fault,
a flaw,
a weakness:
            
                – worthless piece of shit,
                can’t just get on with it.
                You’ve got so much privilege:
                just look at how much you can get when
                half the world lives on less than
                you earn in an hour.

                Don’t be so pathetic: you don’t deserve it –

Sometimes, I think the voice is right.

Sometimes,
I realise what it really is:
            
the propaganda of our disgusting society
that’s wormed its way inside of my psyche.

& yet knowing this doesn’t help

because
        this mind of mine can’t find
meaning in
the featherweight consolation
       of ironic distance.
I need
the romance of defiance;
I need
        all or nothing.

When Politics fought Art it ended
with a bullet in Mayakovsky’s heart,
for stamping on the throat of his own song;

when Art met Capital it ended
with Johnny Rotten complaining about homeless people
spoiling the view from his fucking disgusting L.A. mansion…

& when Politics starts fighting Capital,
that’s the sound of the revolution starting.

So now we have a choice to make:

“Revolution or suicide”**

* The Accursed Share – Georges Bataille
** Guy Debord

Never let me forget…

For S

Never let me forget
    how much
        I wanted to forget
the way you looked when I left you in bed
    this morning,
to face the dawn & the dawning
knowledge that the futile elegance of
            transcendent vision
allowing us to see
the meaningless mystery
    of nothing,
means nothing to me
        compared to you.

As every breath in my lungs
pulled like wet leaves through mud,
    you looked
        so beautifully
           at peace:

a rare orchid on the far shore of sleep…

In that moment
        I decided
to quit smoking; that moment,
    knowing
I had to tear myself away from you
only to throw myself into
the world where bullshit is King,
    felt like a betrayal
        because I forced myself
to forget:

it was the only way
I could make myself leave
    the bed;
leave the island of peace
    of our bodies
        pressed together,
just to travel
        across the filthy sea
            of the city
that doesn’t give a fuck about you,
    or me
        – or anybody at all –
to work for the wealth of others,
    so that we can sleep beneath
        a roof & between walls;
            so that we
can eat without the need
to raid bins to survive,
    & I
        can return to you
            again.

So never let me forget
that the society we live in is disgusting
    & you
are the only reason
    I remain within it.

Never let me forget.