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Wednesday 28 May 2014

Lee Kwo

State of Molecular Agitation

UMertz is in a state of extreme mental decay
shifting his axis of control after years of agitation
of antisocial insecurity life litters his suitcase
a frozen heart a subway pill boxes prescriptions
tickets mail art faded polaroids par avion
worn out postcards letters from the front line
under degradation of riot control/sex is trapped in a word/

Nothing left now but recordings run on logging speed/
The noise of sexual parasite echo of cerebral parasite
Drawn out soft and lyrical industry ceased to exist/
Grinding magnetic tape sucks up metal postal dementia/
Ambiguity/there is no equation that can compensate
for the lost object provoked to arrive by nightfall
Are you with me?/We turn over what we do not know

Smell of young grils of late morning the breath is flawed/
And doubt evaporates depths of the self even at a distance
does not allow for identification of the point of the intrusion/
Diminished by sadness at the prospect that the mission/
might be terminated due to lack of temptation and danger
and too much naked flesh burnt out the cathode ray tube
within which stretched to the mercury stained glass/

A savage edge of emptiness the problem of evil dictates/
A soldiers reaction to the expectations of duty and loyalty/
A situation of heavy flight under the polar ice caps/
Where the expression forever is a state that has
passed away into the future leaving the scrawl of N/S/K/z
Interference in the sounds emergence of a solution
to the intensive self-reflection of the eye to eye confrontation with
the faculty called paranoia is it you is it really Japanese sandman
your strange you look different than yesterday/
I recognised you as soon as you walked across the road
no need for introductions at this junction of the night
I wouldn’t be here unless you invited me to read
the notes from yr psychiatric report as follows/

A plan of costumes scarves and feathers a disguise of sorts
drawn to the adulation of contempt crashed to silence/
Rising sun illuminates the desert dunes moving West
where flesh loves its melancholy/Trading old dreams for new/
She died without knowing if there was anything left to say
or anyone to listen?/Invisible sonorities turnstile of flesh
The accent of numbers neon lights in her eyes/
The voice of her time in history an excessive death/
A woman abused by the vengeance of man and beast
collapsing into the future of sublimation/
Resolve the situation do not accuse fate or destiny
the word made flesh made word/big word payoff/
Merely chance ecology of the electronic image track
the dominant paradigm being artificial intelligence/

The Machine an impossible image/incarnation of our Age/
In praise of silence not indifference or abandonment
but a taut and menacing spring as a tool of revolution/
And reprieve the danger of becoming a style
the instant of going/
Conjuring the void of boredom with repetition/

Dreadful negations of death emerge dig a pit to bury you in
from barbed darkness its all there/roll a stone to crush you with/
UMertz think of death as an absolute impartial remorse
which prevents it from being increased by his sense
of panic and finitudes disaster/Motive defies description/
This sleeping death frequents artificial paradise of
constellations/ Sedimented in the flux of time/
Hell/the rings of Saturn twist and radiate
a trail of metal dust the illogic of the positive negative
and calcified bones of /An impasse a dark lauff/
A state of the absurd silence disappearance and absence
except for age she think/he plot/counts the years/ she imagine 
left perhaps who knows who will confess to such
an obsessive activity in Public/It could be tonight you see/

UMertz think silence the most extreme form of revolt
Were the limits of possibility extended to the surreal/
But only the few have the skills and the contempt the
subversive fervor to cheat despair the false paroxysm of life/
UMertz think the symbol of a distressful revelation/
Is that/along with desire and transgression/all you have to offer?/
The sophistry in which she wilfully shuts herself annoys/
She becomes what she dreams abandon canons of taste/
There is something foreboding in their lethargy/

She think of radiating toxicity flood and torment bloodshot eyes/
The image of a dream the machine and chance the error/
The icons of our Century replaced divinity at a distance/
And the dream image the brides veil virginity lost
caught in the gears the rotating balls of the Machinic Phallic XX/
I think the eroticism of the proletariat/there is no oedipal
repression because there is no oedipal state it’s a fraud
outside of the imagination mania and a frenzy of words/
The mind prepares itself there is a state of fugue/
An inability to focus on breathing the rush of wings/
The head is heavy with the fake drama of last thoughts/
There is the walking stick the piles of dirty dishes/
The last meal and end of libido a lost erection/

Go silently and alone the empty wallet the alarm clock
vanishes the sound of sea waves crash on slippery rocks/
Such a state of exhaustion lies alongside enforced celibacy/
No dark and unusual passions can be aroused/
Hindered by odd subtraction and equal plus/
The fan blades slow to a stop/Desolate movie factory
She appears anyway in the mirror smeared mascara
there is no water flowing from the shower rose/
Simply drips out of time with the alarm clock/
The solitary woman is always accompanied/
She was the best at chance which has replaced
divinity the automatic and the artificial
patient and quiet accidental or non-repetition/
The universe be smashed by a thousand nuclear bombs/
What a relief to stop thinking about this individual death/
Life is in the hands of technology/Hook me up
before I fall asleep again and again/


Still life with self Portrait

The dream with its character of too authentic reality
The never ending events of catastrophe/
Disaster as words break free into delirium of imagination
become eroded skeletons agents of indifference/
Dust and sand are weapons of mass destruction eventually/
Off the organic chromatics and the blank neon
spaces empty of content/Words conspire to mystify/
The deadweight of ragged light drags its feet along the horizon
the metallic tinge of ultraviolet the creative exhibitionist beaten
into ionized slants/Big shunt of illumination
that reflects tenebrous light itself on those who stare/
Whose motive escapes recognition/
Secret images divided by steel and noise/

Insomniac lunatic in his mind cannot sleep/
Fill the mouth with the work of words/
Leaving the mind empty with an attitude of pessimism/
Error rules the answers and androgynous
questions of life and non-life residence/
We become inanimate the secret that the body abandons/
The error is well hidden intimidating/
I think the rats that flow from the eyes and mouth
to get there requires a violation of the self-few can tolerate/
Greater wisdom and the silence drenched in thoughts
the silence of error unable to detach gaze
which has its own radar tracking across
the cluster of satellite dishes/What are they listening to?/
Who are they talking to out there?/
The first words of the post digital will not be human words
Extreme horizon swollen long rolling storm clouds
Invisible shadows darken the ragged dawn
She is hung over with a blistering migraine/
The liver is swollen suffering from opiate constipation/
Invisible Page use fences to pull herself the 5 kms
to the communal house/Pathetic creature
Cubic by cubic metre of concrete glass and silicon
a radical divergence slides from abrasive carbon
No longer the eternal life the psychic farce and I think/
I think about this regressive erotic content/What a waste/

In a later episode a vampire appears more disturbing
than the silence of disbelief this neglected lesson of history/
Effluvia is in deep mourning her depth of solitude/
The world is so pathologically depraved/
Regions not ruled by time or space refuse annexation/
How to get out without leaving a mysterious arcana?/
World is weeping and warring into eternity
Irrational ingredients of scientific precision cut thru/
Blank faces stare from aptitude for the habits
distorting malfunction of evacuations/
And to descend beyond the function
of surfaces into the slime and shit of the  
of repressed fear bought out in the compulsion
with artificial shock./Not possible balance between
the interior and the exterior refuse any object

Which intends to castrate the drive or the lidido
The Post Human is on the horizon extinction/
the elocutionary ape in abeyance the evidence
can no longer be denied that objects seduce
prey to its own fearful device/
I think of the sadistic self-mutilating intention/
But what is the use if the body doesnt exist
I think windows are barred urban streets
robbed of their romance and innocence/
They are killing the street grils the sex workers
doors reinforced fire alarms blink on the ceiling
deluxe editions of vehicle sparkle in the moon light
sucking vapours of petrochemical disease
and emitted pathological fumes/To deny me as a male

I shuddered was ashamed of my exhibitionism
Black tents of Nomads embargo the deserts heart
with rocket launchers manifest the collective unconscious
the house reverberates the windows shatter blood is ruptured
with their catastrophic intentions to terrorize/.
Always on the brink of hostilities
the microphone abounds with spit and slang
in prophets and poets and manufactured pop tunes
an experiment in delirium albeit from masturbation
for the moronic child phase of titillation of leathered queens/
Fade out double shot start the incision/

Oh make me cry and make me laugh
She think nothing works for her
nothing works inside her/
And produce drama and panic/Aggressive oral contact/
The sun is rent cracked with fissures sending out flares
Thousands of miles long of scar tissue/
A paradox without dilemma of double infidelities/
How the universe refuse to listen to her pain/
Prefers to be unheard interrogation of the object/
I write undistorted by admission/
Interplanetary gravity forces an ejaculation
that coats the Cactus tree indifferent and mute
with sparkling lubricants /The strictly digital sphere
within which desire struggled to become free and erect/
With sperm thick and prismic and in this manner/
And a few drops of eggs from the woman/
Odors or music or tactile sensations/
The earth reproduces itself with the orthodoxy
of the avant garde/The didacticism of avant garde/
Texts and manifestos should be pared down
to their total disappearance in a type of writing
that recognizes nothing but its own codes/
Behind the smile of Jean Pierre Brisset a mystery/
The nude has a movement too in those red ballet shoes


To break up words to decompose them

It rides the shoulders claws dug into anorexic
emaciated upper torso sucking out the marrow/
Do you feel the slight visionary jetlift as you leave/
Inseminator of future androids/
Ash bone grey tiles a few millimeters
all it takes to reflect the furnace of re entry/
Just a few words and a tune of aces
hung so tired of the Avant Garde/
then plummet back to earth with
a soft thud no pain links the Machinic to fear
there in the dogma of clouds no warning of
the violent and repressive birth
that the strange distractor has come to resurrect
not to disconnect the jackplugs/

No thick animalized skin to protect your
promulgating tissues the vanishing point/
They want the dark spade the sublimity
of the trashslut princess less refutable theory/
The studs /nails/piercings subverting
the scarifications the self-mutilation/
The smiley burn from overheated lighters
pressed into the forearm/
Pain begets being and being begets the style
and subculture of the need to be damaged/
But it must be attached to something
or someone to believe in its symbolic value/

This is the confection of the self you seek
to be alive is to be in pain to be
completely alive is unbearable/
The Ironic automaton can be no accident
now under the arrest of the slash/
Quant est moi? I dream of the Other
or another to theorize and recover
the fainting glamour of age left here to dry
on the stones deaf and dumb/
A frenzied skitzoid appellation/
Arrggghhh you have been named
on the list prey to constant revision
by the intelligent concerted
ill will of good will/There you hang blind
to your rubbings and chalkdust/
Covered in that awful pallor of social stricture/
Fascist fuker audible technophile
the accumulated wealth weight shoulder ache
that keeps the commodity fetish/
Grinding suppurating rope burns around
yr throatal grunt bifurcate yrself/

Reduced to a squeal as hands tears
the covers from yr night piss in yr bed/
Sag kapok mattress big tree shadows on the wall
black and white how lonely old women in empty blouses
to feel in a full house of women gone frigid  
from sleep deprivation the last image begins to fade/?
to cynical too respond to ironical too bear old ugly love/
Is yr night of the kind to collect memories?/
Disintegrated to well-read the middle of life
is a precise moment slumped deterioration/
To umbilical to alien to inhuman to stand this/
Grating genealogical slur slow past leaves fall

I am not in you or of you or about you
so slough of yr false perception
an inquiry into dangerous thoughts replete with guilt
an illusion all approximation attempt exactitudes/
Discrepancies overlooked living men fear the dead/
This is not my planet?/Clouds move in time passes/
Define the word qualitative without an opinion?/
I am annealed inorganic in dreams of a knock at the door/
I collude with the confusions the phone is ringing/
Of pomp and circumstance torch light parade
down midnight Swanston Street/
Dreaded in shiny black the smell of squeaking
leather the thud of boots/
I have reached the Age of Unreliable Menace/
The predicament of finality I am buried here
And sit on my grave beneath a row of cypress trees
In the end I am an arse fuker a butt licker
not worth the kiss of death eternity of remorse/
Trembling in my destruction I watch
As it goes its own way leaving darkness behind it/
Foot and wing an instant in the universe/

1 comment:

  1. Particularly like Still life with self Portrait. Some lines seem to suggest an almost Zen like approach to both writing and reading. An emptying off, as much as filling, words.