Wormhole Labriphonic Song, Epicentric Ballad of a nomad in London

by AnonArtXinvisibleMagazine

O great Octopia Humongraal Gargantim…

London, the megalith kitchen, famished automaton…

In the continuous renewing of the continual restoration

of a bran spanking new old regime…we toil.

London embalmed in crystal meth, erasing the remains of every ancient myth.

Her saintly mannequins stare blankly at our torpid flux.

Daintily, they hold jewels, their features seized with static ecstasy,

a halo above their heads, chandeliers of the third kind,

revolve around empty sockets, plastic bodies asking for vapid sex,

high on their stilettos, sparkling, they size us up,

we the monochromatic descendants of interstellar mites.

Chorus 1

Did you read the meter?”

“I had enrolled once as anti-life molecular soldier”

I had to keep the dead in shape, indulgence of the mind,

buried almost alive in chop-chop paradise,

hijacked by a Fritz Lang maniac,

who thought I could turn a dictionary into a new mechanical planet.

I little big man, anthropomorph-anomaly,

Will watch a world of galvanised actuations

turn inside out like a star fish.

I was lucky to fall from grace, down the random escalator,

As random some would say as a slippery slope up the garden path

where the haggard passer-by must eat the aftermath

on the wet tiles of Tartarus, product of a lector,

semi real, escapee, his fluids dry and low, his high cholesterol frying on a counter,

flabby and deflated, a cheap wig on his head has slid dangerously,

like most urban crawlers, he has gone out of print, no sanctimonious ties…

Chorus 2

Who will pay for the grave? What of an epitaph?”

He used to lie back on his Seti, dreaming of ufos,

filling up with pork pies, waiting for his toaster to bake an entry sign.

Chorus 3

An entry sign to what?”

“Buzz off ‘repro’!” shouts a ‘one off’. It’ s a battle out there between rip-offs and nostalgics.

Chorus 4

It is the norm; they follow the synthetic beat

and trail blazers of body heat”

“I slipped in the spotless gap and everyone followed”

“Walk on”, stones lie low, the river will take them. They call her a serpent,

and at every corner a griffin lurks, waiting for a beggar.

The greatest of them all stands above the roofs,

a cast iron maiden, never failing the scoop.

“Open the snuff box, the hour glass in suspension!”

He was seen stuffing a bin bag with sideral hours,

hours of data, as a matter of course.

“Courses for horses”, the farmer used to say, echoing Oliver fading in a bottle.

Eurydice ascends, fairy of absentia.

Heart throb of the ‘megapolis’

We can walk forever, not a door on site, but lenses everywhere.

Bouncers stand like concrete monkeys by false windows, the sitex philosophers of ‘narcowhere’.

Chorus 5

They teach us a new way of life”

The zenith of vulgarisation on the edge of a slice.

I was wrong, here is not ‘nowhere’, it is everywhere,

and sharks swim inside one severed head,

dead white, their formaldehyde veils swaying in neon light,

all for the sake of hyper definition… of infinite sameness.

Chorus 6

This is our last holiday resort…or last resort holiday”

Walls black with flies sweat the black rot terror,

something squeals from the mortar, as we blow torch a few tail ends.

I gave up on the job, replaced immediately, by some savvy hoody.

He pulled out a baton, tenderised a few skulls, stars gazing from his palms,

Master of rhetoric, Santa of all nations, cherubs in his apron.

He intoned the verses of Plato’s Republic, a corporate anthem anointing his public.

All praises to the lord, disfigurement in fact of human origins,

A faceless moribund hungry for instant flesh.

Chorus 7

The slow delectation of synthetic body parts

The slow dereliction of prosthetic mental parts”

The camera mirror locks up; I catch my eye in the visor,

“perfect” I thought, a starting point, a slanting smile to the next X con,

“stand by”, he jumped off the cut, mind you, gutter trick.

Jump the ‘Q’,

“Yn’t, 143, o’l 41”

The musketeers, in slow motion.

I thought, “time to reverse, where’s the damn switch?”

Chorus 8

Can you mark the spot?”

He nodded, only two words could come out,

his head was spinning. Now the road opened up like a scroll,

I started scraping the ruff edge of a barrel.

“Heck, hells, bells, I’m on a roll!”

It is written in the salts, the crystals lining celluloid.

I roll, a head, down the vertiginous tunnel of entropy.

Like pastry softened by microwaves, to a meltdown rhapsody,

“That’ s my life” I thought, uncertain, in a few shoddy words.

“I am an infidel, nor do I know my name”

Sigh was of the relief of an equaliser.

For to begin I err around the equator.

Chorus 9

Errare aberrans est”

“…Not a hero my lord…”

Xman number 1 had hollowed out his face

A stark manhole in its place.

“You know that corner shop?”…”how should I?”

“Corner shops come and go, even corners don’t last”

they are a freeze frame commodity,

“like there’s no tomorrow”,

“One-less day”,

Timetable claptrap.

Chaise longues mixed into an orgy of broken limbs,

the park attendant sniffing lapses out of an ugly mug.

I too dozed off in the volutes of an exhaust…

A city, this filthy curb at the bottom of the pile.

There, not in the belly of a whale, in a shit hole,

the gut of a watch tower, lavatory level -2.

I had to find my way out, because…

Chorus 10

Is there such a thing?”

The corridors were tied in knots, R.D Laing had been there.

Stairways led to glass bays, the peninsula of Baudrillard.

No exit. “But what is the male gaze for?” “Go and conquer!”

The billboard in LED…LSD…HHD…

“How can 3D puppets float on Plexiglas?”…

I admired the view, the replicas of contentment,

orthodontic virgin snows shine out of their mouth,

scattered among plastic trees, the real ones crawling

under the weight of Christmas chains

impregnated with satellites.

Electro paradise flickered as the sky turned beef pink

like bad top lit sitting rooms, filled with mongrel sofa love,

mashed up hyper inflated upholstery hungry for grey flesh

How (could) I love that city?…

Chorus 11

The slow desecration of synthetic body parts

The slow vivisection of prosthetic mental parts”

The exploitation of lukewarm bodies amid tinsels,

cardboard still damp from the urine of flagellated piss takers,

golden showers flowing from the nadir of sky lickers,

the groans of their snivelling stomachs, as they sucked the heels

of vapid nymphs, their noses pristine marble scintillating with pride

nostrils dilation, maximum consumption, with the grace of a swan.

Lancome, Chanel, Dior, red poppies clad in the finest white sugar

Vouitton skin, Cartier, perfect time around a wrist of enamel,

Avalon of arrested decay, a king of spades up their retractable sleeve,

wolf and leopard fur caress their necks…dead to the touch,

ivory runs in their purple blood, a cloud beneath their feet…

The petrol sentient gentlemen, dirty black patent shoes

kick with the kindest intent, the muzzled up trash, chewing on yellow toads.

They ram it in, with that lethal extremity, deep in the crack of an arse

a gutter bitten suet snout bugger beggar, dirt soup extra-national

with the pomp of a toff, the vulgar gesture of a flâneur morose

the breath of the letter ‘F’ all over their composure.

The winds of perturbed digestion invade the pipeline in their chest,

their features contorted by the slurs of disdain, death rattle in their throat.

Advocate the devil and the wiles of our host…

“Getoutofmyfuckingway” as they divert their course,

“loaf, eat my shit, suck my dick, lay an egg for daddy Smith”

Schmuck, fodder, mugger, dismal intent of lower growth,

sad episode, genetic flaw, inferior strand of existence, a limping stump.

But no words need be spoken, only actions will hit the mark,

with the sweet perverse etiquette of a covert operation.

Sartre was so right, purposeless titans roam the earth for the good of man,

building heaven with garbage cans, with rotting food, with cellophane,

wrapping paper, barcode bundles, boneless chicken, half lollipops

greasy diners, leaking condoms, toiletries, newspaper cuts…

and their shadows look upon us, no found objects, puppet masters,

“told you so”, means nothing more.

“If you can’t eat it”, Shouts flyer boy, eat my flyers!”…

Bullet proof philosophy.

The stage is set, the dice are thrown, blank sheet, no lies.

The throne slips on a slope, push play, no rewind, for the hairless hamster,

bacon on a platter, eat your shite, shake my hand, play my second fiddle,

I am well placed, hanging above the ditch, a Magritte in deep space,

fifth wheel of a trailer, will get you further than all subliminal cues.

A long view protrudes between my lidless eyes, old doctor Numero.

From my niche of unfortold graces, I install the conduits of a riddle,

a cream swollen tank of treasures glides just above the skyline.

Greased up MacDonald dreams conglomerate into a monument of grime.

Chorus12

The voluptuousness of sweet grilled pain”

as the obscene Marquis de Sade would claim.

How he would have praised and worshipped her excess,

leaking from the bubonic foot suffocating the ham of a supplicant,

bending amid the Teutonic roots, fisting a faithful sycophant.

Still, I despise his conventional brutality, his pitiful self-pity.

“This is the place for you!”

“Come and scratch the surface of your emptiness”,

“Come and ejaculate in your own cochlea, and hear the tumults of an ocean of meat”.

I could have told him that, as he hanged, in the larder of a blue bottle fly,

swaying like a pendulum.

Chorus 13

No death penalty for the pope or for the libertine”

As he rides the flayed posteriors of his mares, objects of derision some say,

he passes unaware the cave of paradise, blind to irony, overwhelmed by ennui,

“What he is missing here!”

“What a turn out for the books, what a haven for the cooks!”

He would sing like many, as he suckled from the torn bosom of a virgin whore.

Chorus 14

The slow mastication of synthetic body parts

The slow amputation of prosthetic mental parts”

This was my town, the seat of market fuck, cesspool of our glory.

Born and raised to the ground, first saved from the shimmering bone wrenching

algid viscosity of the canals back end of a ruin, roofs still smoking from the lavish attention

of soulless birds, saved from the bitterness of a local flood,

running under the flatulent soles of our keepers,

ran over by the wheel of a hipster

black nailed mitts scratching the scabs of my groin,

teeth gnashing as they teased the regions of my face,

digging into my tongue to extract the nature of my act,

the split infinitives sweating out of my sores, like puss from a dead cat,

too curious to survive the box of Schrödinger, or not curious enough…

A cat wet from coal rains, once pale as the lady of Shallot.

Snakes only detect him in the dark,

one and the same we lay under the lunar shrine.

They captured the small beasts, to please a jealous god, doused in sacred oils,

quartered like criminals, in their cages of flames, Babylon effigies,

evil tricks howled in burning baskets

before an audience drunk with jubilation.

Chorus 15

Still as we speak”

Inhuman, the crowd growths with expectations, Iphigenia in every sensation,

she, as a sail let lose in the storm, rides our obsessions from one poet to another.

A remnant of a loop, an incident of light as a beam breaks through the surface of a leaf,

a leaf made of carbon and ice, sharp as a razor, finer than a laser,

inserted in the pit of double Saturnia, for thus remains the mind of Baudelaire.

I throw the towel and burn the envelope. My carcass, a cinder, floats like a bubble

carried into the flowing saliva of a cowering dog.

I travel across a rictus, my life hanging by the hair of a fugitive…

Not a dog, a city. How I loved this well-preserved example of artful taxidermy,

the dark angular crevasse of a fake childhood, where my toys linger,

sulphurous vapours in the blood bath of progress. She, laudanum,

the sacred latrine of opium eaters, the tantaliser of kitsch dreams,

cherishes our despair, encourages rancour, promotes bewilderment,

encodes our tribal screams.

How she fails to impress her soiled divinity upon the restless shores of my sphere.

The genesis of Thanatos would not stick to the protein chunks of my bones,

she will instead exceed her projections, her regents, meta-platonic dwarfs,

the workers of hypnos, insinuating promises of carnal expansions

into the circuitry of a fashionable prophet, and on his shoulders,

instead of a magnificent cranium, an altar flooded with vagrant excretions.

A bloated stain on a wall, filling gaps in the woolly brains of scavengers,

their lips foam as they gloat at a pulsating mob, a few thousand miles below deck.

The shadow of prosperity, an ever-flowing mass of tar engulfing the destiny of blind ants,

those featherless cold-blooded vacuous homunculi, tracking the coffin of Adam…

Ambulance chasing satyrs spilling hot sand in our eyes.

Chorus16

Let’ s get the best part of the feast on the flattest part of the globe

in the hottest part of the night, in the safest part of our town, let’s end this dam-charade”

all over…and over and over again”.

We step on spit and spit on creeps, we trip on gut, we split and cut.

Objects explode under the weight of our vacillating frames, like volatile molluscs

under the load of our guilt. Squandering with a stint,

squatting the edge of a precipice.

“Get a life, keep walking,

run for president, have a baby, get real, do something for your country,

stop smoking, be honest, pay your taxes, stop crying,

get a job, don’t diss the family, be reasonable, stop dreaming,

do something useful, buy a tv, sign the contract, be loyal to your company,

money isn’t everything, accept your lot, go to church, be humble,

be ambitious, be flexible, despise the weak, give to charity,

be transparent, admit defeat, work for peace, go to war,

tell us everything we need to know,

look at it another way”…

‘Reality’, I burnt my finger tips as I tried my hands on her lubricated sense of duty.

She is the city. The 3D map of a fictional apparatus, the mask of the masses.

A giant armour moved by the multitudes.

In its sockets, I see a light of great brilliance.

As I peer deeper, the light divides; small wriggling forms reflect our sun,

maggots tremble in excitement, looking out of the windows to the soul.

Chorus 17

The slow calcination of synthetic body parts

The slow dissolution of prosthetic mental parts”

The thing wants food, it bites one foot and two arms. “I can write with one leg!”

The red turns white in the scorching light. I close one eye and look on.

Surging from the spinning top of a round table,

it cuts through the torsos like a rolling blade through batter.

The axis, a spine stripped of skin, growths a vermillion bud

immediately frozen in a condensing mist of helium, the rose turns to stone.

Night falls as suddenly, leaving a trail as Leviathan revolves on itself.

What glowed as a Duchampian invention

divides beyond recognition, pre-packed occult anatomy.

New angles follow one another, and we see the evolution of our stars as in a zoetrope.

From a 45 degree angle, we are shown the closest galaxies,

the milky way lapped up by a horde of apollonian putti ,

from 90 degrees, we travel to mid heaven, passed Cygnus and further out,

there, those who have seen us ever, are only looking at a memory of us.

Then 180 degrees, and we begin to slide passed the mirror of time,

all numbers melt into an amalgamate to replicate the tooth of chaos.

Later, but before all, 390 degrees, a funnel opens and shuts perpetually,

the blind spot of the demiurge who needs us to cover his back..

But we stick a knife in and run out of sight.

“A desert rose lost in action”

Rigour mortis of the psyche, it enters the realm of the senses

as scenes of erotomania prolong the agony,

in a garden of roses

Chorus 18

And perfection at last!”

Coronation of empty days.

Black out on a screen of static illumination.

We descend from the rip of a fallen beast, the road makes a u turn,

and another…the signature of an illiterate defrocked god, a plaintive meticulous bureaucrat

A cul de sac, a sac with no cul, nothing but an arse, not even an arse.

That’s about all, to explain the sacking of the libraries of Alexandria,

the robbing of the libraries of our days, the future where pages will no longer be turned,

where we shall not feel this urge, this love of paper falling and the smell of a page

as we open a book for the first time.

“Petty civil servants, ministers, executives, kings, queens, parliamentarians, diplomats, heads of states and companies, multinationals, monopolies,

what you contribute to remove from life is that which makes life what it is.”

“Exactly!” shouts the Armenian, they sang joyfully

a bitter cry muffled from the dry outback,

such was their fear of failure.

Were the future to hold a library, all would be done to burn her children,

yet we render their ancestors sterile.

“How could intelligence survive?”

“Where did the ferret hide?”

In the nest of his victims,

eating, drinking, sleeping, inside the corpse of his prey, after entering

like a merchant of reveries, a mantle of promises covering innumerable channels

where gastric juices like torrents, rushed uncontrollably.

“What better fate for a mortal exalted in the exercise of his function?”

I slip out of the corroded shell like albumen out of a broken egg.

How did I get here, under the fake granite, the farcical mountains, their face, flat, plain

insensitive to light, to touch, to memories?

All cut into with the same tools, the same design, replacing a forest of singularities

books only can preserve.

“Exactly”! Shouted the polyglot again.

“Burn them, forbid print, to save humanity from annihilation

and above all meaning is a bringer of perdition.”

Chorus19

What a city! For is she not the world?”

Homogenous windows, walls with no history, no detail surprising the eye, no beauty.

The hollow men of Thomas Stearns Eliot, These are the hollow heads,

marching armies of steel and straw, machines of pain with burning hair

armed, electric, force saving shields, smart velvet doves on a silicon fist,

a nano heart, chemical purity, divider of words, numerical perfection,

the soldier of a new crusade, para-dice formation, a pointless deduction.

They incorporate the living like Kronos his newborn.

Chorus 20

What is a field of multicolour GM tulips if not a symbol for the celebration of difference?”

One of them a general, lets a die fall from his hand,

“There are no winners”, he murmurs, the die is white, no, it is black, no”…

A grey dice, the grey zone between two shots, one takes the liqueur, another takes a life.

Clear liquid runs towards his translucent pharynx, as blood accumulates on the tarmac.

The general feels an affinity with the tarmac. They understand one another.

“How long is the time it takes for a wheel to turn full circle?”

For the mark of its irrevocability, as it passes through the phases of the moon,

the rotations, the perihelions, the revolutions, of our selves.

“What trace will it leave on the parchment of our imperceptible body?”…

“Something out there bit more than it could chew!”

“Don’t joke with the joker”…

Not a man made joke, a real blessing in disguise, home made apocalypse, the book of life.

All in one sentence, seventeen words, three comas.

Look inside the mouth of the ogre, the Hollywood gum is on the other side.

It gets lodged in the hole where once had resided an imperial canine.

It is blown out of proportion, extending to the palate, to the larynx, to the lips.

It growths over his face, it obstructs his vision, his voice, his breath.

He loses all idea of place, all sense of direction.

I pity those tyrants who neither live nor die.

Following a current, I tread on cobbled stones, along ancient masonry,

fibres of a deeper meaning were embroidered here as I pressed on into the sanctuary.

“Thread and Needle, Bread street, Bishopsgate, Shoreditch,

Primerose, Fournier, fleur de Hanbury, Redchurch,

White Row, Wentworth, Old street, Roman,

Vernon, Parnell, Beachy, Monier, Felstead ”…

Long ago, in the land of Cheshire street, on the sidewalk of Bacon street,

The world had many faces, each still alive somewhere…

Over here, beneath the cathedral, remember the fire of 1666…

“Get used to it, don’t cry over spilt milk, get on with it,

Find that needle in the hay stack”

“what stack?” “Don’t you mean stock?”

We can change a whole sentence with a single letter.

The fate of innocence depends on it,

Yet in the final eclipse such a law will shatter.

Chorus 21

It will never happen”

happening all along”

I was once here, as another. Thousands of my steps mark the invisible layers of those roads.

Other insignia had adorned the facades, glittering in the half-light, orange shadows passed,

elbows and shoulders grinding against coaches, horses resting by wooden troughs,

water flowing from fountains lost, and much later, a population ravaged by blight.

Houses crashing under fire, people abandoning their homes…

Now we call it the past, time, faster than ever, has forgotten us.

The ghosts talked themselves out of the ditch.

“It’s a pile in there, don’t go there!”

“I know where you’re coming from”…”Do you?”

“So, where would that be, nowhere? Elsewhere? Sub-where?”

Chorus 22

Where ever…for ever where”

I ran in front of churches one night, the whole way from Saint Paul to St Bartolph.

Not finding what I was looking for, I ran more.

“Who was it?” …”who was I ?

Those days, in the East, on the banks of the city…no pun intended…

Those days were the sunrise of my life.

Deep into the entrails of Bow, In the dungeons of Miles End, the dark stinky corners of Whitechapel, the haunted Fire station on the Isle of Dogs, the summer ketamin kitchens of Clapton, the heroin bathrooms of Hackney, a love impossible to escape, battles impossible to win…broken, demolished, desecrated, demonised, humiliated, blackmailed, accused, sentenced, exiled…like a nation tormented by wars, famine and folly, each of us rose and fell, until the tides tore us asunder,

leaving no one in their place,

as it was, as we thought it should be, and never really had been.

Chorus 23

The slow delectation of synthetic body parts

The slow devastation of prosthetic mental parts”

The city is many, a legion of galvanized anti-cells, the Golgotha of artificial heaven.

“It’ s tuff in here, a jungle, people eat each other”

“If it’s not for hunger, watch that bath soap powder!”

It is my mother, starved, as she gave birth to a litter,

I, one of a few and far between, eyes open that can’t be shut,

a monstrosity of consciousness, of no choice of my own it seemed

a laughable rather than laudable state, was propelled down a wall of black onyx

at a speed that would lead me to presume myself dead…on arrival;

the epitome of Suisse punctuality in a universe of expressionless productivity.

Chorus 24

Dead right”

“Be there or be square.” “I’ll be damned”…

When I got there,

they no longer served the pills. “Children don’t like them”

Now, we can choose between

the blue ice cream and the red ice cream.

The good part is the double cornetto

in B flat, C major, A minor…or combo adagio.

She let me out, that’s a fact, with a horrifying cry.

I saw my old embryonic self hitting the ear drums

of a highly manicured cockroach who believed it could pass for a sacred beetle,

offering safe passage through the rusty water locks, desolate they were

by the rotting sheds of Fish Island, long before new world colonisation…

“How love I would a fair city….”

This was before my time, post rigor mortis of the soul.

I arrived on the scene like a cannon ball in the shop of a watchmaker.

It took a few centuries for me to get there, following Baron Munchausen’s technique.

I lacked the sweet tooth of my slow brothers, and the factual equanimity of my sisters.

Some say I denied the purpose of my species, to play dead, to be game,

“Eat the placebo” was the order I could not bring myself to obey.

It was made out of the marginal utopic fall out, out of those born still, forever,

from the stillness of the dead mother.

“Swallow lest you be swallowed”.

“Hallowed be thy hollow name”

This was not the mother of pearls, who reigns in the crystalline strata of Antarctica.

We humans are tempted to open the grotto of bountifulness

we seek, in moments of disarray, prolonged by shameless libidinous repression.

I saw succubae imitating the piety of nuns, a parody in itself

since most nuns are anything but full of piety.

They squeezed their unique tit

like a bladder, their heels, daggers piercing the bulging throats of priapic priests

reciting the Eucharist while their veins burst with the liquescence

of pure narcotic oils.

In this frenzy, enemy lines, multiplied by a common effort,

built draw bridges and catapults

to rid the land of lechery, debauchery and heretics.

Lands filled with trees, old with stories circling their roots, were burnt to naught.

The blank expression on their face, as one could see, if one would dare…

Some told a sword ruptured as it hit the skin of those men.

Helmets blinded the savage, a solar field of infernal warriors galloping without fear

to slash our heads open, like quartered oranges in one bright blue day of July.

Such mystery stilled and distilled in the velum of an under-belly.

Chorus 25

mystery or misery? velum or venom?”

Coils unravel, I hear the sound of a secret form of life,

The kind that petrifies anything it will touch, Midas,

condemned to contemplate, his thirst spilling into the air.

I saw his thin shadow forlorn, crackling in the mid day sun,

his back to a gutted church, a falcon departing from his leathery hand,

hunted, like a foal by the hounds of Spitafield.

The gallows scrape,

dragged by the chassis of theocratic bulldozers.

“There is no more ground to stand on, no more here to call home”

A lattice of digital pulses hums like a fridge, the matriarch, our saviour.

“Did she recognise you ?”

Chorus 26

Right signal, wrong number.”

I hover upon the great Panopticon like a bat, Jeremy gets too close to the light.

His clothes fall off, like oily rags revealing an appalling sight,

.my wings catch fire, covered with his wax; I oscillate in cybernet obscurity,

the joker shines again, hidden beneath an Ace of spade,

“Just going around the corner!”

A hat trick with a twist, the last will be the first.

Sharp as a magpie diving for a Sapphire, that once had landed under Madame de Récamier,

as the layers of her jupons blossomed like a flower,

lustre of drapery, hanging so languidly.

I look out of a window, glimpse a familiar shape, it looks back, it wonders.

Chorus 27

One and the same”

The lawn heats up in the valley of the city, expensive thoughts

are sent flying like doves of hope, shot down almost immediately.

Chorus 28

Time is money, time is phoney”

Black nose Cockneys, raw soled Scotties,

Bengla nerdies, Belgium salesmen, Russian buyers, Iranian clerks, French hooligans

Polish troopers, Romani chiefs, German tourists, Italian chefs, Spanish groupies,

Turk insurers, Indian teachers, Suisse curators, African bards, Icelandic press,

Cliché joggers, three hat lawyers, Chinese bakers, traffic wardens, obese drivers,

Psychometric stabilizers, ergonomic fertilisers,

Spido-file hobbies, off-shore stash lobbies,

Scam trotters, retro ghouls, footballers,

The forlorn, the Japanese artists, the magnates, the gipsy trapezists,

It keeps getting bigger.

From Moorgate to Ohama, from Brick lane to Dubai, from Big Ben to Beijing

From Waterloo to Sin City

No limits to expansion in the dead pan of fixation.

The curtains twitch, to drums, the beat, we are taken to the gallows,

The keys are thrown and break our feet.

“We shall be burnt on old hallows”

In the backyard of a Victorian semi detached,

a family of flamingos fattens the pigs,

“You old swine”, they shouted,

“By the flyover, the tannery”,

“Eat, or else the feast awaiting”

“They are not real Flamingos, you dork!” behind the crooked plasters of our fathers,

“Sing with us”, I notice a slither of doubt…

a couple of shapes evolve in reverse mode,

they spread their largess of mind over the marble cill, from the boudoirs of our gurus

while on the other side of Curtain Road, a blue monkey with a cravat

paints a door handle in a sink, the new genius of Hoxton beach.

“It’s all about balance”, “it’s not a perfect world”, “we are only human”…”if only”

“A human?…I speak thus”

Already dismantled, my bones you re-ordered for new parameters.

The paradigm, a grandiloquent project at the end of a back alley,

leading homo-exoteric to the throne of a megalo-dream,

a phantasm alike a rubber Marilyn sheathed into the marrow,

the narrow gullet of a polymer tessaract,

a micro diversion of fractal amplitude.

Chorus 29

More legions in Golgotha, mist rises above their graves”

They call it Babylon,

cyber-paradise, duplex life, relative-reality.

“How I loved that city”, “how could you?”

“how one can”

The gore, the gloss, the grim…

the ripper, the bow bells, the Brutalist exerts,

the numbers, the papers, the pomp, the clean slates,

the ravers, the pirates, the bin jobs,

the bailiffs, the records, the shrinks and the shrinking doors,

the fake witness, the good doctors, the broken eggs, the omelette,

the parish, the stinking pimps, the samples,

the vendors, the loony- crooks, the pipe piper

and his revellers, the vice vicar and his suckers, the neighbours,

the chainsaws, the snow balls with hearts of stone,

the grey walls, the grey light, the grey sky , the grey night,

I could kick-start again, die thrice.

“skip the photographs!”

Snap shot on the quiet, in bright daylight

for here no here to be, a labyrinth instead,

elephant of ether, molecular Ganesh,

absorbing every thought that lies beneath the face.

To lose is to win beyond the city-state, so the reverse is true,

“ help me dog”

Chorus 30

By the wheel and the cog”

“I will only swear on Chambers, you wasters!”

Purgatory of choice where devils fear to tread,

if there is a centre, to begin and to end, disorder of the rule…

“no breast without solid!”…”No zest for the vapid” “ no race for the rabid!”…

Walk on”, stones lie low, the river will take them. They call her a serpent,

and at every junction a griffin lurks, waiting for a beggar.

The greatest of them all stands above the roofs,

a cast iron maiden, never failing the scoop.

“Open the snuff box, the hour glass in suspension!”

He was seen stuffing a bin bag with sideral hours,

hours of data, as a matter of course.

“Courses for horses”, the farmer used to say, echoing Oliver fading in a bottle.

Eurydice ascends, fairy of absentia.

Chorus 31

The slow reconstruction of synthetic body parts

The slow immolation of prosthetic mental parts”

Voices carry a story, stories need voices.

Names.

I remember them more than I remember mine.

Stories …just tissues of lies, whistling in the wind,

Not like a nightingale, an old wind in a long subterranean tunnel,

“you can’ t sing”, “but I can fly”, stories churned up to make me right,

to give an air of mix and match, more true than truth itself.

Allegories fill my drawers,

”you look hungry, but you wont eat us, and we’ll get in for free”

The manager gob smacked, teeth red with blood, a fat bundle of cash…

Later, it came to pass,

Smoke lady dances like a snake,

“A terrifying truth!” …

Henceforth the seduction of our euphemisms.

But it was not free, for if not with money, pay you will, with yourself.

They say “nothing uncommon”, I agree, so eager for the weight of arcane a feather.

Names are stories too.

Some I call out in my dream, others I shall bury.

They can fit anywhere, like red bricks in a wall. Some call out to anon,

for the imprints I left belong to another, and many besides none.

We polish the silver ware; we lick the rim of a chalice.

When the flames are out and the water gone, ashes anoint the flank of a mortar.

Once the votes are cast adrift, we scribble an evasion.

Corporations will guide our steps to the nearest salvation,

Are we not so docile sweet slaughter Angelus?

The streets are absolutely full; “hear! not a soul in town”

Chemical white noise in our veins, acid floats via the back trap door,

a virtual snowstorm on the ruts of Black Moor.

Slow motion waves come crashing on a frail melting rock.

In the supercollider of a gland, hyper ballerinas

reshape our galaxy.

Our spectres flood Ceremonial County, searching for a ceremony.

Flammable digestible, bite size nibbles under duress.

In the deep throat of the city, we falter from the block.

Some say we are waiting to die,

On the shores of the Styx, Charon has kicked a die.

“Where did Pluto deride a demagogue?

O Babylon, where Isis lay, where your temples crumble in shrouds.

as your relics fart like old Jack,

twelve bolts and screws enter the sack.

This is the work of a mad man, our grand guignol sat on an ass,

a reign of millennia till now, from the ruins of a palace.

In the tail of a comet, I sense an epilogue.

Chorus 32

The slow putrefaction of synthetic body parts

The slow separation of prosthetic mental parts”

Now you pray to an earless Urba, now you sink into the plethora:

“I was water in your hands, I was lava at your feet,

I was raw veal in your mouth, curdled blood in your stomach,

I was a faeces in your gut, I was a pile from a heap.

the core of your apple, left by the worms that gnawed at me,

and still I live, my bones amok, a skeleton of rust and muck.

I contain the onslaught of your monotony,

I expire in your lungs of coal, the metallurgy of your breath,

old as the Earth below, coagula solva,

my body a mountain tumbles like a haystack,

I crash in your valleys yet I laugh at my death,

I dissolve in the waves of your sanctimony.

As an old fiend, a bitten fox, vanquished I scurried under path,

he as I was, scaled with no heart, the mourning hybrid of Aleph,

a dog of Alcibiades in shreds, therein, the nine drunken idols,

like a minor horse, once of Troy, fur golden mid the yellow stench.

Torn asunder in the pitch-darkened mine,

I awake suddenly muddied across a trench…

As a snail I hurried, on a glistening slab, the coldness of your weight

upon my frail carcass,

How you plundered this shell, with the claws of a crab,

sharing your little joy with constellations past.

As an ant I wriggled upon marches of sand,

Splintered by your fingers, blood and limbs undefined,

I melt in the love line of your nitrogen hand.

“Who but Cain of the pit would have known such a fate?

Who but a wretched fool would speak like a prophet?”

Chorus 33

The slow dissipation of molecular counterparts

The slow petrifiction of impenetrable hearts”

Disappeared like the mist, of memories, of loss, silent as an abyss…

You nestle in my chest, hoping for my revenge, nurturing my slumber.

Breeding melancholies in the caves of my kind,

Imago, merciless, I admire the glamour of your grand shallowness.

It is you I unlove, it is you I deny, for once, only once, now and for ever.

Satisfy my folly, devour my vitriol, enter my open mind,

Forsaken as I am, subvert the empty land with the winds of Marduk,

this vortex but a dream no waking may dissolve.

If I lie full of awe in your dismal embrace,

still never will you be a heavenly mistress,

for love needs not conquer what is already dead.

“Drowning certain I will, in a celestial bed!”

And on my humble grave for here I may perish,

brambles and buttercups will soon come to flourish.

I know you envy me, you whom I so pity,

My kingdom for a horse you cry out in fury,

Yet in all existence you learn nothing but hate,

so did your concubines, and soldiers of your state.

Pursuing an ideal of immortality, how could you comprehend soul and infinity?

Lastly, the limbs of Oz spewed out of your dumb arse.

Quid pro quo, omne mortem ex ovo,

From a swan, laid, an egg, origin of a farce,

a dragon in her place, as above so below.

Chorus 34

The slow consummation of mammal alter-parts

The slow elevation of immolated harts”

St George propels himself ahead, his lance piecing the Dome of Wick

“Mark my word”, he cries out…and spells the letter X.

Straight in the eye of the Square Mile, the clamours boil and fade,

Paltry monarchs in full pageant rattle and froth in the parade.

Four red bubbles rise as we sing.

Stars will not shine in the darkness of Spring.

Did I love this city in the smog of end times?

“Would you do it again…if not for destiny

never mind

never

The glacial firmament of sublime irony ?

Y not, why not untying the final knot?

For whom does the bell toll?

“Already done…going, going”

Gone

Copyright © Pascal Ancel Bartholdi 2015

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