I went to Brixton to write this post. I'm there now -- here. I just kind of wandered around a bit and looked at the people there, and even stopped and talked to some of them, to just like get a real sense of the place. So I guess it's a kind of psychogeographical post. Place is very important to my posts, in fact the other day someone even described me as a forum poster of place, I don't know how true that is, but anyway. The boiling irony is, I typed it thinking it was going in another place -- here on the POETS ON FIRE forum, but I can't seem to register. Can you? Roddy Lumsden asked, "I'm tempted to join the protests but a fair amount of my wages come from the state -- should I still shake my fist?" Roddy was part of an impressive line up at a tolerably half-full ("intimate?") La Langoustine est Mort last night, & a little hollow birdie intoned boomingly to me that footage of his reading may soon appear on Openned. Roddy's poem gathered from various fire prevention web sites might be interestingly compared with Andrea Brady's Tracking Wildfire.
March, if that's your bag. Yeah man, put a pill in a pig. If you do, you will be no more a hypocrite than your proselytizing and spine-free (friarweather friends, if you will) "comrades". Though "hypocrite" derives etymologically from _hypokrites_, the pretender, actor, and "hippie" from the _fin de siecle_ Chicago underworld figure, Arty "Bricker" Von Hep, via _hepcat_, "jazz afficianado," they are the same deal.
As poets on fire, we have more in common with the effigy, "galloping into colour" before the Bank of England -- our role is to agitate the nostrils of the imagination, to sear the surface of history, to kindle debate with our coiling black skins and draw the steady *thwuck* *thwuck* of hecklecopters o'erhead. Our lives must be assimilated to that role, just as a City (hard-)worker, had he been muddled with the effigy, must lie still as he burns, or else risk profound hypocrisy. He must judge as the effigy, plop over as the effigy. What the marchers, or "praxis dudes" as they seem to now be calling themselves, don't realise is this. Effigies which get up and run around screaming *are no longer effigies.* The same goes for poets. ONCE YOU ARE THE EFFIGY YOU ARE THE EFFIGY.
What really winds me up, more even than how the praxis dudes act as is made rational by our system (taking state funding etc.) in order to dismantle it (rather than doing the right thing & sacrificing themselves absolutely to that system's tendential slavery and homicide), is their *litter.* On Wednesday I even saw swathed caitiffs dragging metal partitions into the path of oncoming rows of brave truncheoneers! By their own logic, they should be stooping to clear their yoghurt pots and flapjack crumbs from under the boots of the charging law & order! These are certainly the same folks we see flying, driving or taking the train -- not, at any rate, cycling -- to their various Climate Change / Anti-War / Anti-Domination "conferences" (read: jollies) in exotic locations across England.
There's nothing more laughable (I mean it: "ha ha ha ha" there I go) than a *pamphlet* exhorting me to recycle! Why don't you just *tell* me, mate? They have everything backwards; I will swear I saw an anarchist at the so-called vigil on Thursday (what kind of "vigil" forces police to kettle it just to keep the peace, I ask you?) suckling a severed boob on a baby's head which was immured in her chest. New Social Movements come Janus-faced as standard, so I'm not surprised their members have extra faces sticking out of them. At Cambridge, I knew a global warming activist, "Jonathan Stevenson," at Cambridge, and I remember often seeing a light in his window late into the night. Even the energy he spends waving his arms around while he bores you could have boiled an egg for six months, which he would probably then *eat* because he is *disgusting*. If someone like Stevenson really cares about the irreversible corruption of the conditions which sustain life, he should consider deforesting less rainforest for the purpose of placardsmithing; he should move around a little less, breathe a little less, he should to less and fro less, because that wears down his soles, he should toss less and turn less, because that thins his blanket, he should shut his eyes because those suck up light, he should draw in his arms and tuck his knees up to his chest, so he takes up less space, he should be a pod, inert, starving, a non-meat, a block, a puck, a global flank, dead and self-kettled and silent as fuck. Either that or think about actually doing something worthwhile with his gifts like giving me the sucking chest wound dialectic blowjob-titwank I deserve for my poems.
Ship of Fools press Exhibition: Mesopotamia - Some pages from *Mesopotamia*, 1987. Due for re-publication. (Text is part of *Twentieth Century Blues *and also in *History or Sleep.*) *Mesopotamia* w...
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