:The origin and nature of the Erotic:

WHERE WHEN AND WHY?
The Kiss. The Strip. The Fuck.
Beauty. Scent. Construct. Perversion.
Absence.
Abandonment. Destruction.
The lady velvet political hawk goldmine slot.

Ex nihil.
Two particles twirling, a compression
Of all that will ever be. Hit
And explode into a gaseous
Cloud of hot particles and forces.
Settle within minutes and start
Gathering together again into swirling
Clouds of dust, circling towards
A centre like a sink
Filled with sand without a plug
Slowly blocking the pipes
Until we return to exactly
As we were.

Allaha Akbar.

I live in a gallery
Sitting behind one way paintings
Watching people tentatively touch statues.
I dreamt myself as a god and became as such
While dozing on my stratospheric throne I dreamed
Myself a man and fell to earth.

Oh! Woe is most of you
Bumping something nothing you think
Through the glue of blue
Haze for days and days
Getting nowhere anyway.
It’s not worth the surface
So submerge the urgency of such tendencies
And
Never
Fully
Birth it.

Exchange character for concept.
An elderly lady without a home sits on a dirty curb on a busy street shouting at passers by:
“YOU ARE WASTING MY TIME”
They ignore her of course, any sensible person would.

Godhead. Give me life pain pleasure death hope tasks responsibilities and gifts.
Alight the bush for my wandering eyes and speak.
Protect me from pain knowledge exploration and freedom.
Give me land and beasts as extensions of my hand.
Take my rib and give me a servant. So that I may serve in comfortable satisfaction.


I’ve left the shore in search of the new
But my boat is fragile
Cracked ragged and infantile
I’m terrified of what I might find
The demons of novelty play on my mind
But I feel some of that old strength; secure.
I have a hidden defence I feel will insure
Protection. A shield made of thick
Glass, I keep in the bow. But it has a trick!
I’ve painted it black to protect my thoughts
From the unnerving prospect of fresh jugernaughts.

People talk about sleep
Far too much when awake.
They let lucidity slip by
For competitive bouts
Of who slept the least
And who went without.
“I am so tired; didn’t sleep till half three.”
“Oh I long for the days when I slept at half three!
For the last month and a half I’ve
Been sleeping at six. With birds
At my window and light
Oozing over the horizon.
You, my friend, are lucky,
To be drifting off at only half three.”

I call for a toast!
A toast of failure!
A most appropriate boast
Of absolute ineptitude.
Of hot feet, whirring cameras, books laid out like solitaire, muttering amateur academics, whirring cameras, dizzying screens, a spinning view, a whirring camera, hot feet, thick socks, thick boots, worn leather, an aching head and whirring cameras.

No, this will never impress.
But how about this?
Waking up is painful.
I enjoy mornings so much that sometimes they last until evening.
I would rather walk in the gutter than feel the pop of snail shells beneath my boots.
Thick boots. Thick socks. Whirring cameras.

Heteroglaciac polyphonia
A parading carnival of dialogues.
Humans exist only to receive and catalogue light.
I only ever seem to shave at night.
The demiurge is among us today. A time travelling project creating the universe at its end, sending particles underground in Switzerland into the past to watch it begin. Until we return to exactly as we are.
Allaha Akbar.

Glory be to you, word.
Glory be to you, grace.
Glory be to you, spirit.
We thank you, light:
In whom darkness does not dwell.
No man shall mingle on the Sabbath.
In anarchy, every person is a monarch of their own body.
Where is the ‘beauty’ particle? Is it between my eyes, the light and the atoms?

Look. Look. LOOK.
Why don’t you all just
Pour me a drink
Leave the gorgeous ambient lights on
And fuck off.

No shoes. No use for maps or keys. No wheels that don't need chains. The remains of a sandwich. A sympathetic BLT

My name is Comrade Homeless and I am the Mirror image of you.
I wear your boots.
Leave your footsteps.


words found and drowned by MIA A A A AA

The preposterous ramblings of the late Terequin Jack

My life, in all its oddity and strange techniques has led to this state. This state, untold bar some apocryphal tales and whisperings in the cold night is something not unlike that of a guardian being. Some have called us angels. Some have called us genies. But throughout all the renaming and taming and misunderstanding we have clearly been misrepresented. We are trapped. Imprisoned and withheld to the upmost degree. Picture the summation of your life thus far. See all that you have accomplished in a shining second. Does that shine seem un-deserved? Fuck that and all judgements; at least it has lived within the moment of the least, which is more than us souls of the past; denigrated to mere memories and desolate imprints upon the ever-changing BORING planet earth. Deep empty breath. Hold it. Within. No thing. I live as I do. I am something which you might call a spirit.

There is a being. A being which due to some anachronistic reasoning of it’s own is choosing to name itself Comrade Homeless. It even has a blog and everything. And all. I am gone. Not that I know much of that to which I will reference; due to its inclined nature, but I assume that as time develops; as the human soul falls into a settled mood of nihilism, existence becomes somewhat of a hindrance. At the risk of straying off subject, I beg the question: “What is the point of undergoing the pains of life when life is but pain in all its fullest and least?” Exactly. None at all. But I have the great fortune of being relieved of that great pain. I am departed.

No. Not quite. I am attached. Quite attached. There remains upon the dear planet Earth a young being who calls itself Comrade and whom others call Homeless. I am, through no active fault of my own, irreversibly attached to this sordid (as in LIVING) creature. But. But. Butt. I long for a word which distinguishes life in such a way as that... but I must present to you the history of the state unto which I have come to form these words.

MANIFEST TOE

CLUT

Day 58 - The cat boarded the tram -

Four poems -

1. The Ghost of Terequin Jack:

Terequin Jack hasn't breathed in weeks.

But although he's dead he stands next to me

reminding me to sort my hair and check my pockets.

He slips me notes of witty jokes and reminds me of

the contextual reasons for contemporary politics.

He gives me ideas and draws neat fine-line pictures.

Tells me which books to read and which songs to know

Tells me which colours match and which colours don't go.

He tells me when to be angry and how loudly to laugh

When to have a quick shower and when a long bath.

When to drink beer and when to drink wine

When to lean in for a kiss and when it isn't time.

He does my exercise and works for my money

He writes all my poems and provides me with rhymes.

He has such powers I hope he'll never take back.

The wondrous ghost of Terequin Jack.

2. Holy Poems I, II, III, IV:

Sick unholy children

you are loved.

Bring your son to an altar

that you might be judged.

Kill him, spare him. Cut

Don't cut his throat.

Have legs and kneel.

Be sick. Be well.

Uphold your mother

and murder your brother.

Go in unto your daughters

and preserve your seed.

Have choice and choose wrong.

Choose my spirit and my son.

Rub oil into a pillar.

I protect you from

the Knowledge of yourself.

Godhead. GIVE ME life pain pleasure death hope

tasks responsibility and gifts.

ALIGHT THE BUSH FOR MY WANDERING EYES

AND speak.

PROTECT ME FROM pain knowledge exploration and

freedom.

GIVE ME land and beasts as extensions of my hands.

TAKE MY rib AND GIVE ME A servant.

THAT I MAY serve IN comfortable satisfaction.

3. In Between My Fingertips:

Ckargh . CKK . Keurgh . AK .

at the back of my throat

at the base of my tongue

in the depths of my ear

buried under my eyes

through the gaps in my nose.

Lays a small spider, one of my eight.

I swallowed it about the age of eleven,

watching Buffy disgraced in Cruel Intentions.

I captured the little fellow in my palm

and forced him into the centre of my head.

That itch I'll never properly scratch,

it's bothered me ever since.

4. Painted Glass:

I've left this shore in search of the new.

But my boat is fragile,

cracked ragged and infantile;

I'm terrified of what I might find,

the demons of novelty play on my mind.

But I feel some of that old strength; secure.

I have a hidden defence that I feel will insure

protection. A shield made of thick

glass, I keep in the bow. But it has a trick!

I've painted it black to protect my soft thoughts

from the unnerving prospects of fresh juggernauts.

that is all for now. CHX

THE
FAY
TOFF
NEWT
RAAL
NOOR
WEY