outsideinroads

Life games, music, magic and all the rest. Adventures of the fringe of the fringe amongst the.. "People's Republic of Brighton and Hove"


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Other Albion

exiting, existing – burning fire out bro heel daggers.

We, unknown and known super individual at a moment

   of 

       perception shift, a shift of perception

that tailormade skip, a fart and a 

cock shaft – laser pen chases

divine birthright claims,

hyperbole magnification of

business as usual in this racist albion

fractured, forgetting folk

deep, dark tunnel of treasures,

golden portals, light in cross pollination.

Dream a dream of bus drivers and

sailors. A new home, away, on the road.

It was always one for the road

in every phase of love, clinging movement

faster, scream.

This dream comes out of a spiral funnel,

spinning Spinee, are you, escapade? 

Escape?

Are you?

(g)nothing

Are you in my bones and cells and molecules,

are you a way out?

are you in those helix structures,

same yearning drift process of my broken not-yet-ancestors?

we ourselves

dead already, 

ancestors already

telling witch tales, walking people, look away…

A circle which is a process

is a spiral. Call it,

speak it. The voice in the moonlight electricity,

learning at last to be gentle in violent times. Yearning, to

let go of… those spiralling accusations, hurts, 

spat vitriol. You, BJ, you are but 

a projection, symptom of this land.

I’ve never understood it. The rules of 

who is spoken to, how to, who not. I’ve willfully 

misunderstood it. Hoof and horn, baby,

is better.

Don’t sweat it. You can’t claim.

Those inner/outer gods remain 

ever One/Many. Ever

Us. You can’t, your centuries at it,

this war, imagination, art

this war, the deaths, brutality,

oh our stories! It’s a dance. You can’t

claim anything that matters.

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Home, London

Home, London. That deep grain hometown feeling in this amorphous human expanse. People don’t know the vast galaxies we made in the corners, central supermassive black holes that could pull us the world outside in a moment, translate out our activities everywhere in a neutron flash. Finding your strange style, and ours, in fashion on the west coast of Mexico, before I knew about the patterns life throws up, yes, but still I tend to think that one was our celestial fashion vomit. And the deep vein connection / anonymous comfortability. Our legs sweat against each other, bus seat thighs. Shades of skin and expression. Cosy down into this, shouty silent safety in the shadow of the city suited thieves and their machinations, illumination symbols twisting around the lot. A twilight Thames embankment walk with my work boss teaching me all kinds of meanings to this imagery I grew up with, always surrounding us. Brixton, Dalston, Brick Lane bustle and swirl, a jumble pot of lives, dreams and hurry… bright orange lights and glowing shop fronts at the top of late 80s Crystal Palace Hill, with its tall metal tower characters and Victorian monsters hiding in green trees. Feet out on grassy parks in warm summertime, humbum, people and people for centuries and miles and miles, views out of windows, from hilltops, endless endless habitations, vibrations, perception points. The mysteries made at playtime, breaking out our moves for shifty molecular twists, vibrating resonance in our threads and stories. Oh, dreams, customs, food, festivals, telly soaps, potions, gods, candles, a same but different choose your own adventure yearning, playing, building, oh joyous sore confusion in the gritty caged playspace, digging for an Otherworld in the dry dirt under a lump of concrete, beneath the holly tree.


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The Past’s Future

Open | Sun | Shimmer | Movement

Slips between channels,

our experience, energy

moves from

place

to

focus. You, the heavy weight,

tall hoof of the past’s

future, you burning neck,

soul inside my heart,

trapped and

breaking

Out, weak point

must be strong to hold

space for you.

The largest

form

an everything

for endless expanse,

still tracking under !Xu’s wide sky,

while these layers of

Power struggles

demand sugar in the cement.

For shudders, kicks,

expulsions, pushing towards

our future, our past

presents itself now in threatening letters,

to loved elders,

whose home is here.

Who once welcomed

to Britain

as young folks,

descended from the people

ancestors of this country

stole, sold across oceans as slaves

into the hardest life on

those soft wave shores, the ones who survived

and broke finally free

into a world which has

never yet stopped trampling on those

Bones, those humans, adding

accretion to inheritance

trauma, constant battle ground

to be known

as human, to live in peace,

share in, and hold

wide network of Love and

All, for those ghosts

that haunt the bones, raised each time

Words are spoken or

threats or guns are raised. The Windrush

a n  o p e n i n g

of its time, another expectation

of servitude, to previous

powers, now in need. One dressed in

fancy best and invited

for tea, which we drank in your living room

when we were very tiny, so sweet, so

Delicious. My first attempt at a school friend,

I digress. And you know

on a day like this

in 2015 I

wrote about hearing Miriam Makeba

in the sunshine in Brighton,

Our own adventures in community

and amplified political

horror had

just begun. Whirlwind creation

of spitting fire between our hands

You kick and sputter, you

Hoof hands, you heart

neck attack, the world,

the life and

death

oh my. Half a million souls

across the waves to reach these

shores towards attacks, you know the

signs in windows, fists in

faces, words, attitudes,

Integral structures

against

and hopscotch

Imagination games, playing out

Beautiful mergers, our

learning, playing

music, dancing

our attempts to make some sense

of belonging

Together

Apart

to build what we saw,

make magic in the mountains of

our dreams, like, no idea

what the power of stories,

words | breathe | touch

could be. Still. A woven dream of

a moment in the

brutal

Interruption, a vision of a home to make

somewhere. That

somewhere.

It continues, perhaps on purpose

the layers have kept

Pouring in the same patterns in the

mould.

Mold may grow in

Different shapes. We weaponize mold

to grow new forms. If fungus can eat

plastic

we Mycelium are the fungus

that can eat these structures, it is not a drill but a

Growing, and the patterns can be moved through,

Can be adapted or SMASHED

We say NO to this

repeat pattern built of slavery. We say it

with real process inside and outside

of ourselves. We say it with care and love and

Setting fire. We say it throwing seeds and spores in all

Directions and ready to water | wait | tend | protect.

We say it with sigils. We say it with alchemy.

We stand together in our home.

We build that astra

Diane spoke of.

We say it with those we love.

We say it looking

at who we are.

We say it clearly. We say it with words.

We say NO to this

repeat pattern built of colonisation

and slavery.


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and yet not

Doubt, holy force

centre spiral, this life with

central point in all directions, all

directions doubt. To stop

and read, encounter

words, feel

strange

strands,

never

had to

read entire

ancestry through

               colonising other’s

eyes, eyes of my forefathers

             saturated in unimaginable

disconnection grab grab

                                                             grab crab better like my family,

                                                                  like I just learned

                                                                           Gandhi did

also, in

chain

of

like Do Things Our Way but

not too much, know

place, fuck off //

territory not

all over 100 years ago

how we have shifted,

flourished, grown

and yet not,

chasm

       failure perception

Where the road

had taken us

every moment

                                                                             still

                                                                                 here.

and say No.

and remember

                                   transmutation

Hope,

Love’s wells

spring

in

 step

 we are new

  Children

     Weeping

       in the blood and

curses

of our ancestors,

we take foot

and make new

Our own methods,

Will learn

(depths, games

Nothing) from

Everywhere,

Still

acknowledge, respect, dance

only way to play with

gentle footsteps

although

                                                   loud pumping progeny

                                                        rest and grow

                                       Build new queer

                                   Future We Are

                               from nowhere direction

                                  Meet and find the others

Only when the time and stars

                                               And spells are


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Ticket #1

Sunset, Western Australia

A ticket to the Void.

Inhale,

Exhale.

Everybody,

Nowhere.

Home is a flicker of light on the horizon of vision,

Is a disjointed question, awkward stacks of suitcases,

Is the yearning I have to communicate to you its lack,

 

because you already know.

 

A still sad everything

in slowly emerging morning.

uncertainty in how we dovetail joint

these flickering wing shudders

life and

words that seem to resonate like

murmuration.

Joy when it occurs,

as obvious the rain is when climbing

and skidding down mossy paths

to Cybi’s Well.