English and its arrogance; words and their arrogance
Infection in the corporeal body/Transient T®ashkent
Delusions of grandeur / illusions of satire ?
Self conscious subjectivity
Overly racialised / otherised / fetishised body meet culture meet multikulti meet non-meat meatspace
Left as a empty form; empty form of represented matter / a plastic happy brown face
An ‘African’ ebola victim / syphilis and ISIS and our old friend AIDS //
Contagion / anarchy
Body’s purity and London 2012
Just one more leap %
And stratford bursts on into Dizzee Rascal’s success
And all the home county girls can be ours too – that’s the goal right
The vitality of the corporeal body, Isaac Julien’s chains realised
Vitality and lyfe post-crash decay
And Baudelaire’s ephemeral fleeting yearned to be
Grasped across the white facades
White visages of crumpled crust slap-and-dash bunglarouge
Infantilised gentrified abjectivities abound arife
Regenerating our hollow crisis
Post crunch crisis crashed into plasticated sweating cocks oozing with the debris of an imagined populist politics flirting out of the fractured Farage’s gushing lips
Tiber rivers and red foam refracting et al
Fragmented narratives, fragmented realities and not enough space not enough time its all been sold off in our dirty suprematist metropoles
A Vampire’s Castle if only
And yet privilege dominates with its rejection of the trauma of the broken/ histories/
Only orientals and the filthy mob and our crass contagion
Berlin’s ghosts whitewashed for the Kitsch; for ostalgic caricatures and whitewashed abstract internationalism; we can do better
Better than Rojava and ‘left solidarity’ – that left a while ago
So we come back to the self-reflexivity and the neuroses and the Self-critique and our technologies of expressions / production / construction
What’s it all about? To write? To Read? To explore other nice things?
What’s the knowledge for? What is music for or drawing for or dancing for or cycling for or cooking for or walking for or dressing for or talking for or cameras for or buying for or writing prose words paper twitter email letter tumblr discursive argumentative creative info objective expression constructing reality making sense lolz expression #opinions et al.
Communication with ourself with others who respect that first premise
Beyond public performance and cultural production
‘Working’ intellectually emotionally creatively to ‘work’ through things past things / sometimes ‘theory’ sometimes not / often stories often histories /
Mostly fragments / frail fragments already futures sold off
English and its arrogance; words and their arrogance
always ill//always unemployed//always silently idiotic housemates creeping//always no space 4 nothing. so now: internet! hallo! some space! but my mind is full of nonsense cos always ill etc ad infinitum so i can think just this:
umm job shop
:// ….. so does any1 have jobs 4 us? in berlin? or via interwebz? know anybody?
we r both highly unemployable pessimistic slackers. in fact we can even share a job.
- k is fantastic @ writing in english, will do any filing/organizing/& other paper management activities, knows all the histories, strums some guitar, believes in nothing, knows abt coffee & tea.
- i believe in having made films, know abt coining neue pronouns, have big strong muscles, can garble little bits of languages, don’t know abt coffee, don’t know abt paint but try.
also we r both experiencing continuous existential crises regarding y work whats work how work & we like twitts.
so yeh will do anything 4 the euros. even party crashing @ [[hipster shopfront midnight meetings 4 the window shoppers.]]
trying to pass
You do your best; you’re courteous; you enunciate your English properly; you tell some banal stories bout London; you talk about past flat-shares disasters; you laugh you eat you drink, alcohol even; you complain about English university system and bureaucratic mouldy decadence and high cost of housing and food and shyte food and all that plastic ‘toast-bread’; you complain about American English; you mock-complain about gentrification though you know its just fashionable topic postmodernly dealt with via café discourse; you’re playing the game; and maybe you feel almost comfortable; like these are nice enough people/ maybe this will go somewhere/ they’ve let you in maybe;
////and then India///
You initially felt a little tremor of otherness of a complete alienation from your chair from that room from that block from that city when they asked ‘where are you from?’ but you managed to just get past it by the skin of your teeth and you utter with varying forcefulness and waver - ‘London’ (The modern Babylon right?) - and brush yourself down for being so stupid that it should still be a big deal cos its just a common formality; a point of interest right? And people know about black and brown people in London right, they know that’s what London’s about right? That’s kinda fucking obvious. In fact that’s what most metropoles in the West are like right? And still up comes India
That brown shithole full of mud huts and whatever and I know that’s not true but that’s what I feel about that ancient space long gone from my lyfe cos of the game I have to continue with these white fools about ‘the colour’ and pretend like a give a fuck about the place and I gotta give some family history (as if gujurat or delhi mean anything to me compared to Croydon, Birmingham, Brighton etc.) cos that’s what they want. Why… fuck knows.. and all the food I make is ‘indian-style’ apparently…. And these are liberally types who were perfectly affable really…. But India eh….
And each time I think hrmmm I should take this person seriously about India and I’m struggling to work out what I think about the place so maybe this conversation will help me out meh and then I just feel more like an alien when they start blabbing about woman wearing western clothes yeah how fucking great what is this the nineteenth fucking century but yeah that aint a response either
And then all our stuff is branded as vegan and ayurverdic like it’s a big deal or suming and yeah these are can be important things too at least on a health level but come on your hipster orientalist yuppification is fucking sickening and you’re just another formation of a structural process happening since 1492 and yeah I take my high horse now and then but it don’t really make it easy; it aint like there’s really any space and this on top of precarious living anyway.
And then on top of all that you gotta write some bs race essay for some old soviet-bureaucrat-style white academician so you play the game some more and you try to pass; in all its meanings; pass as a proper writer; as a proper student; as a whyte student; as a student who’s spoon-fed to be critically-dependent on critical theory and not on actual experience; as a student who believes in university ideal; as a student who enjoys the hierarchies of knowledge and power cos what else is there? At least its better than ‘real lyfe’, right? But hell aint the academy at its core as individualist and colonialist and patriarchal as it comes really? Yeah the social democratic moment was interesting and important but its over man an here we are, to quote my latest failed wank:
“Primary sources become part of the industrial make-up of this sector self-perpetuating a field that for all its worth has been discredited a long time ago and yet due to its situated position within a high-price high-pressure no future social and economic discourse around Higher Education in the UK post-crash I find I am stuck to continue the flow of intellectual labour to hopefully acquire intellectual capital (a degree) to try and make the most of our precarious post-crash economy in all its immaterial cognitively astute glory. And so the citations and marks continue on their self-perpetuative cycles and our egos and (non)futures follow suit. Sorry you had to read this shite but you should have passed me the first time.”
And here you gotta pass, but you don’t really; you just lose some dignity but hell I aint gonna pass judgement on other dark people cos what can you do? What can you really do as a brown black person but prove yourself and try to pass? Fuck and maybe its easy to identify with the UK or at least with London cos it’s the most acceptance, the most recognition I’m gonna get in a broad way but it aint enough is it? Maybe it is but I aint there now anyway; I’m with a bunch of other white folks; being courteous; searching for work; searching for something right
trying to pass as a proper person //while word-splurgin tumblz when I get some head internet space//
creating a space
Creating a space;
So we have this precarious transitory shit going on; tryng to break into a new place and make a new space wit some new peeps and many old ideas- the place Berlin, Germany. It’s as if its still 68 sometimes cept its lots sadder, lots more privileged, out of touch with the world; precarity a mere lifestyle choice and its odd with all this s p a c e . yeah its kitsch and whatever and its not gonna end capital or modernity’s insecurities but man the quality of lyfe can be so gr8….
Not to say its been easy being brown being queer being woman being foreign being complicated being quiet and confident and comfortable with oneself cos well its fuked really all these insecure white heteronormative oversexualised fools looking to conquer looking to subsume you into their little world like we’re some happy Indian face going with the white supremacist hippy flow or some traveller.
Oh god the fucking travelling
like its only thing left cos your own fucking lives are so easy and dull and square and white and yet they’re not but you can’t conquer home only you gotta move on and conquer other people and then tell more people and so the insecurities are socially reproduced and if you actually want to genuinely travel well get ready for these fucking shitheads all all over the place with their little white hippy networks no different to bs antifa blac bloc nonsense go lyfe is fucking infuriating and ‘normal’ people are so hard to find cos club mate cos anarchism cos 68 cos postfordism cos precarity that exists cant access this shit cos white supremacy cos patriarchy cos safe spaces don’t mean shit if you don’t want shit to do with the shit discourse and the shit form and yeah im ranting but whatever my own space is mine and you will be slowly let in maybe but that’s my decision cos sovereignty cos individual thought and fuck neoliberal consumer ‘anticcapitalism’ and its anti-individualist bs cos Stalin was the biggest activist and the most insecure
anyway decadent established alternative marxist nonversations can die in their smokefilled hell of ripped wallpaper and Mao’s imaged culturally revolutionised breast-staring in the traumatic hallways of Mean Girls while fucking off back to Switzerland
so off we go to the hofs and their markets and walking down the streets with a keen eye for some passable furniture and a few too many beers and the hunt for the amp is on cos music and jobs loom somewhere in this hilarious metropole and yay for some normal folk to live with cos well housing’s a fucker and mate its so much easier for the single for the ones who can sleep around and fall into large cliques and their bs patterns of behaviour who all help each other out in their little bubbles of white decadent taste – shite culturally appropriating (need that be said) music and shite aesthetics and just crusty and horribly irritatingly and cringely white ergh
but yeah for own spaces cos guess what treating yourself well and trying to live well isnt ‘counter revolutionary’ or ‘bourgeois’ and is very fukcing important so fuck all those lefties who say otherwise those privileged pieces of demeaning naive shit; life is gonna hit them hard
and shite my laptop’s running out of battery as a I sit in this hilarious bar with everyone Friday knighting it up while our flat sits here (anti)/suprasocially making use of wifi cos yeah internet lacking homewards lol
On Capital Pee
On Capital Pee Poetry aka straightwhiteboystexting
he he is the first man he on the moon sorry He is the First Man on the Moon he hehe. let’s talk politics and maybe some love for the existentialism in between forever sellable sorry sex i mean with many body parts sellable too. And then synonyms: composition creation untitled /untitillating/ opus pompous ex why zee. serious proper syllables forming cream puff cum hot cross bums yes please we ask you for sexualization, forever placed under the table as if i can’t stomp your sex fire out right there. diy poem recipe fruit and bodies and sex and brutal political prostate cancer still sex-tied not sex slave but sex the encaging. and don’t forget the ‘non-white’ subject-ifiable for decor reasons and construct your spectacled spectacle critique.
””the cyclops doesn’t know you from nobody for insert ancient greece check i’m a poet it is texting penis city flowers flowers vagina and landscape architect sky scrapers itching clouds gray and elderly elusive because pubic crabs built by manhood boots stomping on eggs are special because men don’t cook right you’re special because nonsense i am unsteady you must all know i am unsteady for i believe i am unwieldingly shit splinter in my ass whole hole ass sludge insert sexist poetry woman metaphors similes puns existing man poetry only as woman bodies bleep bleep oh eggs means woman diaphragm oh cheek means bum means woman oh flowers mean vagina mean woman nature is woman nature is woman and man machine technointelligent enough for self creation oh oh oh cambridge in my mouth and one two three i count in order witchcraft and wordery fuck i forgot to curse let the shit hail down from mount olympus shit i meant ah yes eight nine ten.””’
I am incapable of listening now just hearing. maybe this is quite listenable but i keep hearing ‘i am from cambridge i white he your breasts belong to a woman’. along with getting wasted don’t forget the coffee and cigarettes for which the words adverbed adjectived exist to wordily create, men.
at least we all know it’ll end at ten because christianity.
there’s nothing to achieve
So I’m sitting here trying to work out the pieces of this History essay, a reconstructed recollection of fragmented pasts/fragmented writings/fragmented cultures/// syntax and diction and grammar simulated and reproduced as the liberal arts tradition clashes with the postmodern simulacrum of knowledge of neoliberal subjects of careers of digital futures and imaginary industries as the fabric of our postcrash postfabrik society slowly disintegrates to the European house beat of straightwhiteboystexting.tumblr.com…. and I’m getting excited about ideas of the future from the past; of modernist utopias and the vitality of the new and I’m conscious of our historical impasse/of our postmodern overload of information and culture and image and electronic beats and lines and cells and likes and selfies but I’m comfortable with myself and my surroundings and my agency and my critical faculty and my formation of my social relations and bubbles and I feel free and optimistic… free from institutional guilt or obligation/ free from attaching and identifying myself with the ‘new’ social/political/cultural movement/trend whether it be movements against mental health stigma or vapourwave and I can still admire and learn and support and gain and grow and I’m still myself and no social media description of my avatar is needed to concretise myself for my ego…. There’s nothing to achieve and nothing to prove and the future is now and the tumblrs are now and the twitters are now and the aesthetic is happening and the music is perfect and the culture is mine and it is ours too (if you want) and the politics is shite and its all imaginary and immaterial and postsemiotic and postwhocares and the expression operates postpolitically cos Stalin was a stupid white boy (cept he was brown)
And yet here I am in a library at the top of a shopping centre under flickering fluorescent lights pasting together 19th century Britain and industrial rhythms and imperial chasms and moral revolutions and I’m feeling drained just for the institutional recognition/for doing the right thing for the future and I know its bs but I might aswell do it and yet the conflict remains and pragmatism remains and I got this gaping emptiness in my stomache over the pressure and horror of failing and there’s so much going on and so much to prove and so many choices and so many people and so many opinions and so many neuroticisms and insecurities and shit going on right on your doorstep and yet you can see through all the shit and the will to power still remains and imposes a struggle for recognition a struggle for being put in a box cos Difference is the Identity /// the patriarchy and white supremacy and the heteronormativity/// the valourisation of the perfect bodies; minds; statuesque and perfectly white as the cum on the oriental bedsheet and the white dust blowing reminding the history and the present and the continuity and the stupidity and the insecurity blocking critical faculty and perception as the ego is threatened and well we could maybe decide to be Zizek and klugscheiss the lot of you but who does it serve and what’s the fucking point….
There’s nothing to achieve and nothing to prove and the party is over and there was never History and there were never rules and there was a never a Great Man and there was never a Real Economy or a Real Woman or a pure-blooded Black Person and the East is way more postmodern than representation allows… there’s only our imaginations and only our memories and only our insecurities only ourselves and the confusing multiplicitous fragments of our intersecting lives and that’s something to be excited about maybe sometime
So yeah there’s plenty to draw on from now and from before and from displacement and the reclamation of intellectual and creative agency cos the SWP’s dead and Sid Vicious is dead and Dambudzo Marechera is dead and Bauhaus is dead and bin laden is dead and Charlie Chaplin is dead and Stuart Hall is dead and George Bush is drowning in an ice bucket and Blair is still on the colonial rampage of the Great Game and Hitchens was an asshole and Beyonce is intersectional feminism and modernism is dead and Hobsbawm is dead and loads of other old men are dead and punk is dead and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this exists and this so what’s the problem
last night i slept in the crack between two mattresses, i was in that half conscious state all night so i woke up feeling guilty i hadn’t made the decision to move. and also in half-consciousness all the languages mix in my dreams and they layer themselves talk to each other german shouts at english for being ever-present and georgian says hello i exist too and czech is just guffawing and then my contact-less eyes are covered in a fuzz of that overpowering hippie sheet on the ceiling which I didn’t agree to. and then there’s an old friend - old as in maybe not friend anymore - who is very straight very white and lesbian, you know, telling me i am a strong woman and feeding the lump in my throat, demanding to know how it is i am not lesbian, she a cis woman misunderstanding, and she kept running around me through the forest in circles and she had become herself without a stomach because i know, eating issues… and they were my eating issues in her lack of stomach running and running — it was actually like a gaping hole when I thought about it half-conscious, but physically just a thin stomach, and I felt really empty and like my secrets eating secrets biggest secrets were jogging publicly to be seen frantically and in a flash but without much depth and reproduced into someone i am not and that was sad.
and so i awoke with muscle pain to remind over and over of the night and when i opened the door to the rest of the flat the hippie housemates had this song blaring… and the guy, trying to be both bobs, marley and dylan, was singing about a ‘she’. and it just made me even more sad. i wasn’t thinking or really listening, i was just moving my body and feeling the muscles and looking for water and hating the music just cos i didn’t want to feel nostalgia but i kept having these flashes. ‘who is she’. ‘she’, some history i haven’t uncovered. ‘shit i hate these hippies’. ‘wait she?’ ‘wait i remember a she…?’ it was like when these hippies talk about their past lives that they discovered through tarot cards and i drone out what they’re saying: i was feeling some past life but my muscles were in pain on purpose to drone it out… ‘she’? i felt really sad, like when i hear trashy 90s music and somehow remember being a child, some specific moment when one of my parents held me, fingers gentle on my brow, and i remember their faces and my oblivion to gender or whatever, and it’s like ‘she’ is attached to my childhood just as a way for referring to me, someone’s whispering my baby nickname, even if i wasn’t a ‘she’, really… hrmm. like when you smell your grandma’s perfume somewhere suddenly but you can’t place the smell and feel weirdly melancholic all day until you know and then you realize it’s actually your other grandma’s, the one you don’t talk about…
i don’t know, i feel like i’m struggling to maintain the struggle, like i feel i only really exist if i don’t resign myself to some definition, because this definition doesn’t really exist… but it’s too hard for those around me seeing me to let me float. like i hate it when people say i’m in between man and woman — no, i don’t like the space between the mattresses, i don’t need to be put there, i don’t need to be solid enough to be pointed at.
it’s really weird admitting that everything’s not super easy and that whilst this who that i am is kind of like a ‘solution’, it’s damn fucking difficult, and it’s not just the ultimate stop, the search-spotlight won’t find me, i’m displacing forever. and i don’t say so, that it’s so hard…
i feel nervous. a lot. and today, too. hehe. (: (especially submitting this :P)
Walking down the street: performance probing
disappearing in the folds of urban anonymity
urban 3d printed anonymity
what is your agency
to pull the wrinkles down across visage visibility eyes
and merit your existence
or have you none,
being swallowed question mark question mark
boxed up plasticed up packageability square and
supermarket aisle city scape
jarring legitimizing contrast for extracurricular hippy love to sludge: if DFL where to?
parallel and parallel and parallel
And still parallel and parallel to exist further parallel autobahn and telephone poles and truck storage space
And no sharp corners can disrupt robot arbeit
Wake up when the coffee burns
Lingering lack of buds alarming me in nuisance
Multitudes of masculine [imagined?] [imagined?] [does paranoia live upstairs?] monologues sweeping
Sweeping – clean? Cleaning? Or Bristles etching masculinity back and forth
You dole out space: here, cardboard and parallel and square
I repeat you
My tone is mimicry
Your monologues so normalized
Only mimicry jarring
No you cannot undress me under the table, not even in poetry.
Pruned, actively watered, trees
Outside, far. English: fill-in-the-blank
Creeping misogyny machine — propelled eyes zooming
Soggy accumulations graying sludge, dust dirty mind dusty mixed by/with white bodies
Fuck you for sisyphus for tumbling angry black man angry feminist angry trans stereo-snowballs silencing
Sunset shrouded behind calc not dust on Dover
And the industrial translator looked
At the vacuum cleaner and thought
Thank you, planned obsolescence
Really just yesterday
But all the people from all the Ubahns
Rising up from the downstairs factory
Rolling off the conveyor belt escalator
Into level zero
One meter of separation, one meter, no distance for human smell
No distance for earphone tinned voices
Drink ok magazine ok life ok lyfe 2k14 ok one euro forty nine bitte
Refrigerator public drone far away from hums
Through reflecting windows robots plastered shards of refracted celeb faces
Reluctant arrival underneath the table
Where, bodies next to bodies flesh squelching closeness impeding,
splaying, marking, splaying, pushing, gendering, marking: secured existence.
splayed open legs splaying space and none –space – for us.
Fuck you no you cannot undress me under the table, not even in poetry.
That table cluttered with Africa*-shop elephant spoons/mandatory beer bottles: fair trade/pushing quinoa inflating Bolivia*/rooibos from South Africa*/weathered south-east-asia* so cool goa* travels whiteman hands/nonversations floating
Ahem jerk interjection fools under the table ‘where are you reeeally from?’
Compare and contrast
Scram scram sheets of talkings different but flanked by ghost town institution
Jobcentre Plus, employment per square metre
Water closet door person swiftly, efficiently,
buyably unlocking locking always the
Jobcenter – no plus
Bare transliteration, trans
Were not hireable
Squarely: multi-culti, it’s globalization you know
Hurrah, you found India*, conquerment of the 21st century
Been to Thailand*
Been to Peru*
Been to Nepal*
Been to must-be-saved*
Been to south and east through chocolate gourmet fairtrade journey
Been to –where are they from?
Been to the path less taken, banker or backpacker, two two two
Been to planting black red gold
or: ‘wir’, you think
If I if we but: warning construction underway under always whiteman working binary perception, two two his his, so swiftly practiced: cement over all
two two two
We cut you, your swinging words from up there,
cut you and your splaying
—Kinder surprise, sweatshop sweetness, we’re not in that cardboard box under that table
Sparkles and pink and sidepartings spacing nowhere in your eyes
it was kinda like yeah here we are travelling in fortress Europe in a car of two poles (one going to Poland to bring his family to start in England, and the other on the way back to university after a summer of working in London) an aged german traveller-type and us on a school trip. So off we went searching for the green chimney, getting lost to the sound of U2 and Abba, and generally sharing an odd and pleasant transitional moment with these transitory characters in all its absurdity…
to arrive to normality; a transitional fellow from normalcy brains used and sane secure perspectives. peace
to move to further simulated absurdity – Things and Sex and Safety and Whiteness and Alternative living without a clue of real Difference….. Mother Tongues and Racial Profiling and Anarchist As and Gentrified images
oh the images; wretched imaged and depersonalised and reproduced; from Brighton to Berlin to Rome and elsewhere; the bohemian pseudo-political pseudo-artist Proper Non-Persons Proper Different Proper Small-Minded White Heteronormativity reproduced in the Karl Marx Strasse Commune 2k14 (cough post68 precrash decadent idiocy). Graduates with Futures not that I’m bitter or nothing.
Oriental and African and definitely us German you Other; us connected Proper Non-People you an empty vessel to fit into our ‘flow’ or drown in your societal conforming ways non-conforming with our bohemian pseudo-commune; two paths only; let’s not actual look at the world because everyone is a homogenous white German subject….. white male narratives; echoes from lamentable insecurities 1492 via Trier
So yeah… for shite jobs no prospects shite simulated spaces shite politics shite ‘alternative’ hippyland anarcho gentrified white shiteness future shite and past shiter// shite bodies and shite art and shite imaginary industry creating shite post-digital nonsense empty shite vessel holder its all fucking shite and its all in fucking English and its all stuck in that shite academy devaluing all subjectivities to shite theory reproduced and resimulated in shite institutional comfort for an imaginary public service shite shite social democratic shite liberal shite art shite career shite. Shite alternatives and shite futures and even shiter writing, not that I’m bitter
chasmic canals // postindustrial lyfe