Sunday, 29 October 2006


Let's pause, take stock at the centre-point, the fulcrum of my elegant consciousness. But there is no centre, no ghostie toasting snugly in the machine, according to Dennett and the multiple drafts theory of consciousness, where the brain just fuddles along being frantically updated by bits of itself, usually just ahead of any "conscious' decision-making process. The Archives are In a constant state of self-shredding and re-collaging. Sub-programmes write different sub-titles to our shifty sub-texts

Friday, 20 October 2006


The bland moment: all services, all surfaces are manufactured, the world's made up for me. I'm a faction, mockumenting my discursives and vocatives, my over-voices. A recent night's footage includes a greying green room with a triangulation of dormer, a pinkish bed-cover. The shadows hide crane-flies. I put a few things together with hyphens.

So that was my little lebensraum. But as you age, time contracts, space has tiny contractions. Try to calm down with bits of memoir and my coloured pencils of rhetoric.

Tuesday, 17 October 2006


Improvise over a gap year
and you grow a new person

King Tubby in deep biomass
nice creatures surround your sound

Jubbly in our cytoplasm
you and I multiply the vanities

"Consciousness is my only subject"
utters old Mikey, bull-moose of the labyrinth

Monday, 16 October 2006


Sleeping on the dangerous planet
to discharge the daily toxins
and ghost a new narrative

Into the fuzz, dream janglings
won't shut up or down
in the forsaken lavatories of embarrassment

but the senses are a front
frontal or fractal our humint
is a conjugation of weakling verbs by night

desire flared once
and ended in fuzzy logic
the time-ship is only a time-slip

Sunday, 15 October 2006


The rain bulletins open a wound
it's sticky in the comfort zone

In the desolate aisles I/we runabout foraging
sizzled by brands

All colours bleed and run
in the soaped world

Vodcasts target the dread of dreams
re the decay of breath, bad follicles

The subject sits sideways like an object
distracted by rival cars

Who is the feebled verb
In the amphitheatre of coloured rhetoric

I'd love a cone of light and music
and an opening in the atmosphere