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.
The shadow, so enormous.
You know how so, as big as the light, as…
It skitters and cuts at every vessel in you.
It tugs at your heart and spits acid in your stomach.
You know it.
The tactile and tacit pleasure
it seems is found
by those ones
in the stamping on, sidelining, eliminating
of the paths of “others”..
weaker others. Our complicity.
The rot at the heart of capitalism,
at the heart of these motions in nothing we
You’re no good, what’s the use?
We pull out corners, we seethe..
We, those who find ourselves here,
we watch and move and still
we breathe and watch
and watch and breathe
and aim to let it go, we
cover our heads in wing like blankets
and sing “kill the rich! kill the rich!”
We tentacle up our faces with our
hands, we hide in the shadows,
we take refuge in the everynothing,
we yearn and weep and howl,
and the individual stories,
are always so much bigger
or the same, the same
and billions of atoms,
billions of stars…
I want to say “Here we are kids,
this is it.” I want to say
“Chin up, it just happened”
But No, or maybe a bit
I see you, leaving, I see you,
growing, I retch, I spit. I hear
Party til you’re dead lads,
it’s only just begun.
But a puff of smoke,
A parody of itself.. I..
don’t know how to fight,
I don’t know how to play my part in the
bursting vessels, flowing vessels,
this pipes pipes pipes,
This outwards, inwards deep deep hum,
This arena of such unbridled joy
and such hot hot empty desire,
Violence. I don’t know
See how we get on with that.
I love you.