These days I ain't nothing but an old life

representation of the past, tense. 

we've all grown apart and into ourselves and maybe one day the chain will be strength but for now we're all just living. 

I've fortified my gates whilst you exploded outwards, least that's what the Owl says but he's only got eyes for image. I've become a long coat wearer, pulling it round my shoulders for that alleyway stepping permanent now

Flicking through virtual polaroids comparing your present with the past that lives & breathes forever in my veins, cut off like like cauterised i've moulded memories into worlds that I carry on my shoulders.

But i'm a ring wearer, shuffling cards to trick some smiling face into fucking up so I can fuck the corpse. I ain't ambivalent, just instead i'm always bitter. 

Because i've got something to prove to every dawn that sheds its skin on the day

I've got knives to stick in stomachs of the permanently displayed

I've got crowds to kill with silence that echoes in moments like this.

Hopeless romanticist can't handle shit like fuck I'm a mess at this.

Because of footsteps falling over into graves

Because of lives lost to semblance trembling always just a little too late

Because of broken fingers scratching at the treasure of a face, perpetual digger shits it at the thought of ever being misplaced.

So i'll stand on street corners flicking ash from fingers burning bridges

An illustrious river carpet death

A shoebox bomb from your favourite fresh airmax crepes

I'm nothing but a snake who's lost is legs running from the fires of constant creeping death. 

I see now that you've changed, I hope I have too. 

I hope the sun grows new roots and plants new shoots because i'm struggling to escape addiction to the memories of you and I need to know you're not the same person lest I folly follow you forever 'til those days disintegrate like old film, stop turning my insides black & blue.

Just tell me you're not the same, tell me you've changed your name to rid yourself of it.

Tell me you choked the life fingers gripping round the very thought of it

tell me you gutted us alive and burned the bodies in a ditch

just tell me my life does not match the vision under those eyelids. 

Because any attempt at imagining our hearts beat in the same rhythm means I could sync with you, but every mile walked in those shoes would mean only progress in the tightening of a noose

Tell me you'd seen me die in a thousand different ways

Burning up too close to the sun to plummet slovenly south of heaven, resplendent in decay.

Just tell me you thought I was dead.

Merry Christmas Mum

Vile plumage. 

"….the “innovation pessimism” of certain bourgeois economists is a reflection of this: rather than seeing the slowdown in innovation as a temporary phenomenon arising from the limits of the current social relations – i.e. private ownership of the means of production – society’s lack of technological progress is painted as the inevitable result of having reached a certain level of development, of having “picked all the low-hanging fruit”. But this innovation slowdown is only “inevitable” within the confines of capitalism, which, having reached a certain level in the development of the productive forces, is no longer able to utilise these very same forces that it has created."

Lay stoned on the first night back, happy right to the eyeballs that I'm back here. What keeps spinning is the phrase 'we adapt. We change. We grow'

There is no void, we simply go with the tide all permanent like  and battle each obstacle as it pops up. go with yourself. 

A pinical of inner peace descents, I must move and accept the open Dawn no matter how invisible the promise of future payment is, we must accept the sun is hot and walk on through the desert. She has burned me deep, so far down it feels like the very thing that generates my ever changing flesh was a product of hers. So when it broke I sat hemorrhaging her voice, spasming wildly from shock. My machine had no continuity anymore. 

But my future has changed, it is the straight edge of a colourful letter on a desolate wall. ascending back to grace, my house is falling down but my home is safe.  we adapt, we change we grow. 

i'll miss you. 

The Church of Satan owes me money. 

-

Jorge Louis Borges. 

Two English Poems 

1934.

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
      corner; I have outlived the night.
   Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
      laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
      things unlikely and desirable.

Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
      of things half given away, half withheld,
      of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
      that way, I tell you.

  The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds
      and odd ends: some hated friends to chat
      with, music for dreams, and the smoking of
      bitter ashes.  The things my hungry heart
      has no use for.
   The big wave brought you.

Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily
      and incessantly beautiful.  We talked and you
      have forgotten the words.

 The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street
      of my city.

 Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to
      make your name, the lilt of your laughter:
      these are the illustrious toys you have left me.

I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find
      them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and
      to the few stray stars of the dawn.
   Your dark rich life ... 

 I must get at you, somehow; I put away those 
      illustrious toys you have left me, I want your
      hidden look, your real smile -- that lonely,
      mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II

 What can I hold you with?
   I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
      moon of the jagged suburbs.
   I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
      long and long at the lonely moon.

 I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
      that living men have honoured in bronze:
      my father's father killed in the frontier of
      Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
      bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in
      the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather
      --just twentyfour-- heading a charge of
      three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on
      vanished horses.

   I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, 
      whatever manliness or humour my life.
   I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never
      been loyal.
   I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,
      somehow --the central heart that deals not
      in words, traffics not with dreams, and is
      untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
   I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at
      sunset, years before you were born.

I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
      yourself, authentic and surprising news of 
      yourself.
   I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the
      hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you 
      with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

"..the first test of any work of art is survival" 

- George Orwell.

You'll be taken as far as your confidence lets, the adventure as strong as the amount of steps that you prove

breath deep, breath deep and hold your heart in your hand, stay strong and slip your knowledge into every cunning plan

because the abyss will gaze long into you

it has your history on its side and it knows what you do

the exact weight of your world

every second and repair

itll sink in, to the caves of your being

sat heavy as stone for however long it finds appealing

it will snarl its teeth and wait, sleep sound inside your ribcage

you will be taken as far as your confidence lets you

you men made of stone steady rusting your metal

hey Achilles hows the ankle? 

is Hercules still hobbling afraid of his back still?

you immortals, you proud men of bars

does what you perceive make sense to you? does your reality fit the price tag attatched to your shoes? 

you swing low enough as far as youre concerned, that sweet chariot conquered now waiting to be burned

is Sisyphus still pushing that rock up the hill?

you're looking lusty love, wanna come for a pint and a fuck down the pub?

you immortals, you men of plenty

untouchables sporting desire offensive. 

brick a brack brains and lack of perspective 

oh faith of men, how secure and strict you are to your hours of sunlight

how tight and rigid your movement have become

you must learn madness and you must face the night, bold as it approaches and takes with any life left in acquaintance of the day. No forms, no memories just a sleak silken mystery that birthes horror and wonder in equal measure. 

You must learn to face the night. 

Graffiti without danger is just Art.
Exploration without illegality is circular.

An Art which is defined by the illegality of its nature finds its exuberance, freedom & overall longevity in the way that it goes about perpetuating itself. Outside of the aesthetic it has been said to have found in its primary visual form Graffiti opens up the world in the writers constant need to explore his surroundings in order to continue producing his work.

Without our Art we are mere urban explorers, but within its legal framework we begin to deconstruct the myths that encapsulate the economic (& some might say there the entire) system which define how to view our environment, which then in part govern the way in which we view our lives. 

"There is a world waiting for us to live in it"