lady day... by II0IID

Koﬁ Boamah

lady day... Koﬁ Boamah

death

lady day... a painting in words

Kofi Boamah

'Jonah was very much himself in the belly of the whale.' — R.D. Laing, The Divided Self 'But the main thing was, I was born dead.' — Marc Chagall, My Life

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'And in that atmosphere, Herschel ventured the opinion that history was the self-knowledge of the mind.' —William H. Gass, The Tunnel Wired Thoughts on Mare Street ...

...the reflections glisten in the afternoon light, where most eyes are jutting about the concrete metropolis, the plastic bag handles dangling from bodies moving with eyes side to side... bristling in the feint discord, whilst Melania argues about the price of green... distillations of disloyalty summoned over the cattle of an otherwise ordinary lunch time... rose tinted illusions of catastrophe unveiled to reveal a seizure of memories enfolding in front of eyes, dilated, steeped in stupor with the floor turning a burgundy red, the sky a strange brown with oily remnants of clouds, now folds of pinkish skin around strange bodies floating there within... the sounds of Medusa, Prometheus calling from the 9

void, filled with concrete, filled with a heartbeat of dazed filament still burning... ...the yelling rises around the streets, and also within those jutting by: thinking of a dead kitten, just fallen sausage rolls, Argentine neighbours attracting spouses, time away in exile without the tropisms of tedium... a winged head gripping at lips extended towards the sky with the ornament of insanity herding gesticulations now circumventing another body, at odds to will...

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BATTERY LOW ...an old Turkish lady holding long shards of breads in a black plastic bag moves by, anxiously trying not to pay attention to what is occurring, where else a man against the railings close to Melania is eating Baklava, just watching as if at a screen; eyes quietly peering and then at a lady with a large pair of breasts sitting in a burgundy blouse practically jogs past as the taste of lemon hits the back of the throat, and simmers over the anger, deceit, melancholy... the oceans of bodies swell with disparate persuasions mostly censored, mostly cut short... a woman wearing a bright red jacket walks by speaking of a trip to Hackney Baths, where a leering man can't get enough of her supple body... ...an old lady, a Grandma perhaps, peers from within a flat above a near empty Coffee shop, scowling, until she moves out to the small balcony, half watching, half drinking from a cup... the creases in her neck fold like a chicken's, hung 10

in the cold air with thoughts just as frigid perhaps calling out to her partner sat staring at the phosphorus emanating another world not theirs, and more comfortable therein... before she falls off the balcony whilst screaming incomprehensible words:

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...the mutton tip toe dissolved... ...the inquest begins early after the ambulance arrives, but soon ends... the death simply a fall, neck broken, back in two and the last words just as one last episode of senile dementia, filling marks on a page written of, along with misdemeanors from random IC3s: one Tryon Bagly spray painted DEATH is Gorgeous, apparently in large red letters outside an off licence near Bethnal, to then be confronted with an arrest... though Melania is stood at Broadway Market upset, reenacting how she could have reacted... the unreality of existence is that most of what occurs transpires in the soul / the mind where the thought persists: the imagination merely a perspective... she feels slighted and is unable to accept what she refers to as Amnesia... the lo fi melody of death pulsates when a car drives by and nearly hits her, unawares, death stares whilst holding a doughnut, as hers pierce the sky, her arms move languidly like an old 11

record the dusty sounds of nostalgia had in present time, evened out by the car driving off without a suggestion of acknowledgment... a Priest walks by... even though I am dead, I managed to buy you flowers, the hollow prayers of thoughts mostly distracted by the constant remembrance of the body, the foils of skin, bones, liquid matter where wants and needs soon seem a tragic system filled with no real hope of this heaven: a place with no wet tears, and clouds draped around desires quenched, commotion of nothingness, or a searing space of no time... the Priest's eye jut around the road, pavement, then the allure... quiet glances at Melania's body... the Bible in his right hand, squeezed like a gun, six bullets in the chamber, where are you? ...there's CCTV in this heart... ... xxx... ...Melania arrived back from India, having spent most of her time in Varanasi, deciphering thoughts on life and death, eating warm Paratha, wondering if she were a Poet or a Poem, a Singer or a Song, in itself, with no calculations on how to mute a disturbed heart the Indian sun beamed against her whilst a stupor enlivened her, orange clothed Saddhu's walking by smoking Ganja, she said... I saw the seasons in her face, her outgrown hair, sun kissed skin talking of fourteen hour train journeys, long nights lurking around a burning Ghat with bodies sweltering in heat, as bodies moved about drinking tea, selling Samosas and boat trips along the Ganges, yelling of sweet chai... ... 14

...the world seems so barbaric since arriving back, said Melania... hanging meats inside shopfronts, everything sold by big commerce, with the machine oily and slick, leftover pieces of heart dashed like dust funneling out into the atmosphere where she soon takes to watching over at Mrs Lucelle, the older lady living across the street... Mrs Lucelle leaves things around for her husband and then hides them in cupboards, where she then picks arguments that often results in Mrs Lucelle having rough sex, Melania would often watch like clock-work these fatal happenings of strange realities, twisted in night airs... ...seagulls spiraled above the road outside the flat, nosily rattling freedoms of living in the sky... ....heavy rain at dawn... ...death thoughts over hot soup... ...a few pills of mescaline scattered against the bathroom floor, right up against Melania's purple lace underwear... ...against windowsill in bathroom is a bottle of Teacher's Whiskey, mostly half drunk, with a few papers with writings by Melania next to it... writing one seamless pursuit as if a serenade the water rinsed off this wet pussy that God wants to lick Miró's drawings more honest 15

...she smokes the weed in an angst ridden mess, the coils of smoke sifting into the living room, nestling against the paintings, the foreign ornaments, the photographs, the sculptures mostly by Claudia, who the day before mentioned she would be arriving back from Rome the next day... three kisses xxx ...it's not always the case of loving someone you marry, as it's not a prerequisite of being with someone sometimes, explained Melania as to why Claudia, recently divorced, had broken up with her Italian husband, Ralph... she twitched the opened curtains, and then took a sip of her glass of red wine, an old Merlot the neighbour had given her one day when leaving for a Ski trip... this wine tastes like God is dead... ... ...she rests against the heart like a lamp, posted ...the light seeping out, whilst ...the cage in her right eye settles ...right by the bird flying through sheaths of clouds ....that also look like coffee foam... ...a dollop of sleep in the eye, along with a radiant disorder too, watching Mrs Lucelle orgasm, manhandled on the double bed, apricot duvet, calmly taking sips as her song plays a mischevious sound she can't specify as a heaven or hell... Dante with breasts... ...pulling at her orange blouse, bare areola now tear dropped into the living room, she starts to make up a word game... 18

...dream after sleep... ...drunk after drink... ....cum after sex... ...wet after water... ...soil after death ....kisses before deceit... ...as she spoke these last words, still peering through the window, I felt a wind simmer through the Kitchen window, the taste of whiskey coursing through the neck, and the taste of deathly romance... the sky as wine... ...the taste of death soothes, until it doesn't... where the sounds of the neighbour knocking molests the night time happenings... writing two veiled the screen penetrates the marrow yelling into the stars yellow, i mean into the stars eyes, looking from out of marrow a calm festering of life at odds... i am deathly within this skin of Medusa's head, hair astray daylight between sense, sanity a cattle pulled towards grass feigning interest in following along heavy as bunched feathers...

...Melania hated when i spoke of Pica, at these times the words sickened her physically, she said, trailing off like death... the crevices in her thighs now doused with spilt red wine, drizzling down soft skin, Jane Birkin's Simply Story playing in the background... if you lay down with a dream, you'll wake up lonely... ...the taste of moist lips more a memory as it's happening, less a feeling absorbed in the now, the current of water swelled towards the shore and then back into the abyss of all these footprints on our hearts, in the mirror is Picasso's Weeping Woman, a large print put up on the wall by Claudia, the trees behind Mrs Lucelle's flat swayed violently in the London darkness, as night noises speak their own poetry... ...get your meat curtains in the car... ...i'd love a cigarette from that guy... ...it's late, let's get there quickly... ...where are we? ...the voices spring from without inwards, though the wonder often summons the idea that they're more in than out, these voices... screams that smell of Roses, whiskeys, as eyes adorn the precipice of Bauldelaire's aphrorisms turned solid... with flowers growing out towards the sky smelling of alcohol... like petals falling out of mouths, red, purple petals now sitting on a bed of discord, casually attempting to renounce beauty over death, but soon failing... the day before she decided that instead of writing Poetry, that she was a Poem, her very existence, she said with two hands against a steamy hot bowl, cyclically pouring in the Lentil

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soup, she often explained was taught to cook by her Aunt who was also a known Witch in Malaga, or what she often mentions as a Soothsayer with answers to such things as curses, Fata Morganas, gypsy folklore... OSMOSIS OF PEOPLE ...her woolly hats left by her knickers, purple, red lace with her shoes at the bottom of the stairs, or next to the record player, where she would often leave the record playing...some Serge Gainsbourg, some Jane Birkin, some Funk record Claudia bought back from a trip to Peru... ...always with a bowl left on the coffee table, wine glass empty, with the sky a purplish colour, off blue / black... the smell of pussy like the price of sugar, the desire or need raised to a level of blows to the heart like a casket... ...cum on a casket, or an old pair of knickers, rather than the good pair... an old pair with green lilies on them... childish affiliations turned on their head... ...asunder in the rain of sex, where virtue and want rarely collide... ...everything permitted, everything in lieu of it all being too short... ...and parodoxically too long, a melting clock, as she would often start with words from the days newspaper, murders, salacious gossip, political satires, illusions of distractions, illusions pivoting the axis upside down, often cattycorner too... ...a rainbow behind a chalk outline of a body... 23

...a bird sat on the windowsill, and coooed for her to then break the monotony with a smile, gesturing the sign of the cross with eyes now peering at naked cock, and then back at the cooing bird... Picasso still staring down at us from next to the window... i feel wounded, she sighed with one hand on the edge of the newspaper, TURN the Page...

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We're In The Sky ...the day before Claudia arrived, Melania died, the romance of it relinquished the pain of being alive, with Goya's engravings at the edge of the awaiting casket, and her speaking of Vegan bread until the next day arrived, and Claudia knocked at the door... her first words being: ...the glimmer of experiencing beauty is worth the madness, right? and all in one Melania is reduced to a bird floating in the sun, which she soon mentions as where we are, in actuality, reemphasising her words in repetition and with her hands too, as Claudia gets more comfortable in the sofa's cushions to then elaborate on lost loves, divorce papers, new sculpture, strange occurrences in Palermo... '...my grandmother's big balls...' Pablo Picasso ...the burial of bodies always leaves the eye most alive, the whites still there speaking of the faded glamour of what the pupils can see? ...shadows formed in nightmares turned into a pool of flowers, well the mind's eye is also 26

an eye, and more importantly, the only eye, really... though sight catches glimpses of heavens: supple breasts, green eyes perched over glass of whiskey, swaying hips into and out of hell, lips... the burial of God attended by the masses, where the Doors were left unattended, those that enter into the radiant hue... ...at the funeral Melania speaks of the Uncle as the ridiculous one of the family, the painter, of course... a youth spent drawing and looking up girls skirts turns into small infamy in Buenos Aires, before a fated decision to arrive to London with numerous stints in legal and illegal forms of gathering monies: ice cream truck driver, pyramid scheme manager, death insurance finagler, a one time potential hitman faltered: unable to gather a gun with correct bullets, apparently... though, the tears still fall, his long time girlfriend, loudly speaks in Italian a poem, whispered Melania, a poem her Uncle would recite whilst painting: ...the wounds never heal in the canvas of all this... ...our colours repeat, until a new hue arrives at dawn... ...Melania seems annoyed that these words were spoken so loudly and right up next to the casket by a woman all the family considered his Mistress, with her Mother nicknaming her La Whore — the red dress tightly fitted against breasts, grey hair long and bewitching as if a shadow of a giraffe, burning in the linger of the Priest speaking words of good news... before the eulogy disrupted by old rotund Argentinian

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women mumbling words as: whore, witch, philistine... the nocturnal sounds of the black orchestrate a boredom: Melania attending to an Aunt, more so, for how she treated her when she was so young, where strange asides, although prohibited, were investigated... as by the time Melania was fifteen, and had a boyfriend, she found the whole assertion of ordinary life a formality... waking up, going to bed, eating, sex seemed all manner of strange... Thursday's would mean her Aunt would take care of a young boy with Downs Syndrome, she would soon call, Paella... Paella would mostly be interested in toys, sugar, play often alleviating all his clothes and running around the house... though she soon would watch him, play with herself, as he grunted and stuttered around the living room naked, for his member was large, thick and ravenous to her imagination: watching this young boy run around naked... Paella's disability was inherently debilitating: most days he could do nothing more than sleep, eat, play... cruelly, this caused an ideal sensation within Melania, of the use of this thick member that could be used anyway she could think of, in her mind... licking, rubbing in exchange for sweets... games where Melania soon taught Paella how to wade inside her up next to the toy box with him grunting incomprehensible words... the sounds of Children's cartoons on in the background... Paella didn't know much of what was occurring, though often called what they would do, Bullicio... his Mother would often casually inquire why when she would exit the

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shower he would often shout about some sort of Bullicio, some game, where once boisterously he grabbed hold of her right breast... Melania knew however, but said nothing, until her Aunt, this Aunt sat crying about her Brother, caught her riding a roped Paella, eating a cake, a few days before her sixteenth Birthday... the confrontation ill at odds, sordid and resulted to those two years spent at that Convent / Nunnery, of course... ...Melania's Aunt accosts the conversation with wonderings of how I was treating her Little Cake, which was her nickname for Melania... her woman flower left to ease into the atmosphere... the daylight of her fascination creeping into the morbid atmosphere of subterfuge, coerced pleasantries, artificial realism gone wrong... Ludwig seemed to enter into the fray as if there all along... Melania found her younger cousin interesting enough to forgo ignoring another member of her family, which in honesty really only stretched to her Aunt, though Ludwig was arriving to Europe to stay in London to study, said another Aunt with beady eyes... they were staring into Melania's face asking if Ludwig could stay with us for a time, in order to save money... she had only interacted with Ludwig infrequently, but when she did she had no problems with him, he even seems effeminate, said Melania of Ludwig, who was long and thin, perhaps predisposed to studying Philosophy by the pensive looks he would give to most questions... mostly relating to what he wanted to do... write a thesis that, ultimately, discusses all of life's logical propositions... 31

Hedonism As Our Only 'Meaning' 'But deep inside me there’s a perpetual seething, like the bottom of a geyser, and I keep on hoping that things will come to an eruption once and for all, so that I can turn into a different person.' — Wittgenstein, Correspondence

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...a man places right hand against fire, the fire burns in his eyes, the red of the illustration of heat no more a depiction, but now a more objective feeling, Man One soon removes hand from the firmament... for the fire has produced a feeling of pain within him that is acknowledged as unwanted... however Man Two leaves his hand there, perhaps, here, the reasons could range from: stupidity, curiosity, stubborn assertions, absurdity... the experience in hindsight, when contrasted, can seem logical on one hand and illogical on the other... but the second man, Man Two, is rather advanced now, in terms of experience he has gone beyond Man One's notions of what is, he has interacted with the Gods, in a way, as most will accept that Man One is correct, and that they would do the same... our Hedonism begins early, in some regards, it isolates our desires into neat categories: painful, not painful, pleasurable, indifferent... but Man Two only has the right to truly delve into the eruptions of emotions or what can be called the true nature of the thinking-man... the need to accept amounts of pain in order to discover what is beyond there, if there is a beyond in this 32

sense... this notion could be exemplified in that of a more pleasurable experience... the depth of enjoying a thing, an experience, is most sagacious in the throes of discovery... the deeper the more it becomes what it truly is... the taste, the texture... Heaven pronounces itself, by way of probing this thing, experience... though our Heaven is still orchestrated by the simple tropisms of Hedonism, it can be said, because without this pursuance, or need of a motion towards, there is an inability to truly gain the true ingredients of what it is that is occurring...

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§§§ ...Ludwig seemed quiet, on arrival, but would leave his manuscript around, Hedonism As Our Only Meaning, though often came across an aesthete, a disciple of some sort to a reckoning of some order... Melania would quickly enjoy their conversations, her one hand holding a glass of red wine, the other twirling in the air like a cloud... ...particles bunched into potential rain drops, white against blue some days, moving in our sky, and maybe or maybe not there when not looking, these clouds... ...a warm piece of bread hot out of the oven, produces a question: what am I to this piece of bread? ...a walk along Victoria Park with lingering doubts of achieving sanity... ...the threat of death staring down from the window of a Tower Block next to Broadway 33

Market... ...the funk of being someone else, with the onus on the thought that who is anyone, who is we? ...the taste of everything doused in the fabric of language... ...Ludwig heard the last sentence and started to think, I could tell, his eyes went big and then narrow, cloistered into the centre of his face with his soft hands touching the right side of his head... ...Claudia had then rented a flat in Dalston, though explained that she had problems finding a studio, she said to us in the living room holding a sculpture she mentioned was for us... it's a bit Giacometti-esque, isn't it? she said, rhetorically whilst i stared at it... the indentations of the spherical part of it, which was made of bronze, and then the folds upwards suggested a feminine beauty more so, in comparison to the spherical part... she called it La Femme before placing it next to the bookshelf near the balcony door...

writing three a couple of days with hand inside lips, dry with your hand God.. you're disturbing these, dishwater notions God... did Mary orgasm that night? the water gets wet God... in the shadows of warm disorder does anything truly exist there? God... are you art? or simple instructions God..?

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...Ludwig took to walking through Victoria Park languidly musing, and ultimately doubting sanity, instead deeming it sanities, being that to him there were innumerable and too plentiful to specify in a whole, as the word sanity often misinformed... as if writing a letter to sanity: Lighting a bridge with footsteps damp with violent sensations: eruptions at the absurdity of it all over fallen pieces of glazed chicken, the toils of the night spring from the matter of windy trees where teeth soon fill four walls, gums yelling quietly the ordeal of knowing, the blunt ashes of lucidity... watermelon dripping onto casket, sugar all over lips... caught in the sugar jar... ...although Paradise seemed an ordeal, the ideal, Claudia enlivened a certain way, a certain mood, atmosphere... Melania a deep dive into the ocean, Claudia a swim in a pool... Claudia, mostly, delighted in what she saw: ...a single burgundy red candle on the edge of a curb near Dalston... ....two pigeons sharing a discarded piece of brown bread... ...a young girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, and conclusively a virgin, asking her embarrassed Mother if she could go for Jordan's erection the next day after school... ...the wind blowing against a used pack of blue condoms spoke of an eventful night somewhere, someplace... ...the structure of an embarrassed silence between two meeting persons outside the Art shop, the unintended poetics of Performance Artistry, body poetics... 42

...the wry smile of a man that missed his bus, compared to the belligerent swear words of a corpulent Chinese man, coarsely shouting into the afternoon with the lingering smell of duck and plum sauce emanating... ..age occurring in thighs, with slight cellulite... ...the contours of freckles around pubic hair, soon shaved... ...again, Claudia emerges from out of the darkness, light yellow dress under a long hooded jacket, arpicot coloured, where she is now sat on the sofa speaking of eternity as if a walk through Dalston Market... an Argentine man with a caged blue throated macaw buys seeds before boarding a Bus in Stratford towards Romford... two women, Polish and Russian, decide to quit their jobs as Lawyer and Shop assistant, respectively, to become strippers... a breast outside Bethnal Green Tube Station is vehemently grabbed with sandwich meats residue caressing the nipple, before the hand is pulled away and the lady moves off hastily down towards Hackney Road... three candles are purchased by a junky for a crack den near Queensbridge Road with coins stolen from a Muslim man, that moonlights as a pimp on the week days, mostly Thursdays after Eastenders... four discarded sheets of off white wood panel lay on the ground, having been placed there by Claudia's landlord, who she comments of as, absurdly misogynist for reasons she fails to disclose... though Melania can fail to pin point what she is supposed to feel? how she is supposed

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to be? the daydream of her ways unpunctuated by days spent drunk around the flat, casually walking around, sometimes wearing just a bra, sometimes just purple lace knickers, even amongst Ludwig... the writings continue, all stuttering around thoughts on the sky... Melania at the window, overlooking Mrs Lucelle putting away a pair of brown boots, that soon has her shaking her head about in ignorance of, and then the consequent occurrence Claudia deems something we should perhaps call someone about, though Melania concludes this as none of our business, whilst she cooks Paella... fish, chicken, rice, desires and their memories wafting a certain perfume, an aroma... ...close after open... ...life after soils... ...tree after wood... ...catch after fall... ...Valentine after Funeral... ...Forgiveness after Judgement... ...Sex after Death... ...at once Melania seemed to probe around the idea that giving herself, and she kept repeating the words, giving herself, was just too much to bare... arguments with her weed dealer, shop keepers, and even Ludwig sat on the sofa with her stood in just her purple bra, pussy dangling as if meaningless... the alternate view being allure, the pragmatic view, being trouble...

...apricot coloured memories xxx 44

the foreshadows of Jung ...the coils of our ways spiral, and ricochet off the debris of our interactions under the sun, the murky water of animal spirit, as Nietzsche often mentioned is that which goes unnoticed too often... our problem is that we sense it is there, this darkness, but do little about it, or worse, ignore it, claiming it's non existence... the antics of our nature is indebted to this very darkness, Jung investigated also... we see the perils of our moods blowing in the wind, but really these darknesses are part of our being: flights of fancy, ideas more angry, death...

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'That line about Beauty, serenely disdains to destroy us?' — William Gaddis, The Recogntions ...Pica gripped at the photograph, fingers against the oily front of it with time elapsed inside the still... two men stood, one muscular, she called Beryl, outside in front of a tree with a young girl riding by on her bright red bicycle... I couldn't understand what to say to her, as we had met in an absurd fashion that mostly culminates in a trip to a Homerton Hospital Mental Ward where she sat in those long hallways staring into the abyss, the lemon light of the Hospital protruding into her poetry that was quick to summon... I'm a singer, not some piece of wet meat for these cunts to stare at, it's a song in here, she said staring right into these eyes causing a tropical wonder, her hands 45

shoved around her small Cypriot frame, her short hair scraggly, her eyes wild, the left a little higher than the right, slight tears in them... Pica had spent a month at the Hospital, mostly because she was an addict, the loveless marriage of addiction is tragic sometimes, it dismounts a person from reality, they then live in this constant flux, that is not boring, but too eventful, too wickedly skewed towards some other being, she called the Ugly Spirit, quite aptly, though Pica was far from Melania, not near Claudia, she was mostly uneducated in the old fashion sense: a few GCSE's, perhaps three at best, and short lived attendance on a few courses, Hair, Typing, which seemed a strange thing to study in this day and age, I thought, but there were such places, she comments, it was near Finsbury Park, I'd take the 276 up there and this teacher, this guy would teach us Typing or how to Type quick, but he was always really trying to get off with the students, she added, he was always trying to get his end away, shag me over the desk... she displayed an honesty that was at once devious, but childlike too... i let him fuck me once, she mumbled in the Park across the road from the Hospital one afternoon... dissonance, suicide and Wittgenstein were not in her line of thinking, but she had this coyness I found framed in a picture I believed to be beauty... this idea floats in and makes decisions... ...drugs after High ...high after Prayer ...sex after Violence ....clouds after Rain ...laughter after Teeth 48

...death after Knowing? ...walking through Mare Steet speaking of her Aunt, her dead body moving along outside fast food joint, lips parting to words of sticking to whiskey, staying off the B... the green sifting into the street, a Sikh man passes by... the future happening in the past...

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writing four celestial candles sing fire breaths gravity pulled up into air winged by nature which breaks the wall behind is a Greek God..? the same one pulling then pushing the moon Helios lonely after a night's work the sky taking all the credit the wind adorned with this blood now... ...the blood seeped off the page more than the words, finger printed mostly next to the words Helios lonely, the claret a Picasso, a masterpiece, unframed, unmuseumed, unadorned with the orchestration of putting things in order... the words sung from without the little frame, My Funny Valentine... though not for long, the bottle picked up and water burning beneath foils... 49

earlier spending the day baking bread, wiping flour from chin when a knock goes against the door... Jehovah's Witness to a young lady at the door, naked, asking if this is really what God wants, her naked at the door... the Man at the door stutters around words tripping over where to look, as laughter springs from a face that comes to life: arresting her features, closing the door and declaring without words this thing that wills our interactions, [eternal return] our laughter liberates her into this thing that wills our interactions, and seems so uncomplicated and lo fi, but audacious... soon singing into the flat a nice melody, the same rendition, My Funny Valentine, a record I had... You make me smile in my heart...

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...nightmares arrest mostly from dreams, often the latter is so close to the former that it's not discerned, even in REM sleep... secretly Pica would remember words and check a dictionary, she wasn't ignorant in that sense, she just accepted she didn't know, her desire pronounced an elegance she didn't even notice, one leg up in the kitchen against the wall looking through a dictionary, where she would sometimes add a few extra words to her vocabulary and humorously drop them into conversations... you've got to appease the feeling to drink, i was feeling disconcerted in a good way... she put effort in: her 50

green eyes peering into her own skull from the end of her nose, the rattle of a passing car blaring the Radio... ... ... ... ... ...dusty recorded sounds, over dry whiskeys, the nights merging into days, like vanities... not knowing between either... the latter into the former, the former into the latter...

...the rain drops... ...smell sinewy and fat...

...the fatal

...where black thoughts... ...takeover after...

OVERDOSE...

... ...Malevich's Black Sqaure... ...lived out in real time... ... 51

...

La chanson de Prévert ...how to explain to yourself, the cold remnants of their socks left on the landing, the pink-ish red frills pleading into the mire of drink slipping down the throat, like another is pouring it, the darkness creeping around every corner, in front of eyes, and even more so behind closed eyes, the the cans multiply as do the memories more vivid in distance, they pronounce poetry unseen in the moment... her food fallen on the floor, her sighs brood only momentarily, before she walks in holding an unfallen plate of food without a thought of herself... she wanted to do something nice, is how she described it, but not remotely as Poetry... her violence at times humorous, now a eulogy, for a spirit... flying off the handle on Kingsland Raod over the eyes casting, apparent gazes at a passing woman's chest... ...D Cups of a Paradise soon lost... ... ...you find her cut up pages of magazines that Tristan Tzara would have been proud of, that she passes off as just killing time... ...the cut upped magazines have scrawled lines Melania asks about, tugging at purple lace bra... looking at photographs of Kate Moss grasping against pieces of paper... ...notes of scribbled schemes of making money, with an assortment of asides, as 'Griselda', the smell of memory all chewy and wet in the proximity of these artifacts that mean more than words can explain... ...eyes adorn the past with tragic lulls... ...animated, distorted colours eschew... ... 54

Bed Of Flowers ...gums red rose tinted wild, Claudia speaks about Ralph, imitating his figure of speech when suggesting anal sex, with a Dildo he had bought from Modena the day before... she fails to take his speech serious, which is predominantly of everyone needing their fantasies realised, particularly expressed by the animated kitsch hot-pink Dildo he holds in his hands, of which she only eventually uses in a fit of anger, months later, where she ties Ralph up, and buggered him, with him hiding his glee with pronouncements of anger for the aggressiveness of her ways, though Melania is upstairs in the bed under dark sky blue duvet covers, complaining of jealousy of the birds, Plato, Socrates, Death, a Supermarket assistant selling her the wrong flowers.. are any flowers wrong? I asked to her sullen face, before Claudia arrived... ...Melania had also taken to drawing, what looked a sketch, or a doodle, but, it in actuality took her all of one week, slowly working on the lines, she reluctantly described as her perspective of one of her meanings of life only able to be ascertained by the investigations of this sketch, that had numerous squiggly lines that suggested some sort of face, though i said very little of these thoughts, as our interactions were descending into: ...only one cup of coffee made... ...hoarding ideas, deemed too precious to share... ...is there such a thing as virtue in arousal? perhaps not, as these happenings are mostly in the

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gutter, though sometimes looking up into the stars, missionary as if a Priest knocking door to door... these sexual escapades get more and more violent than sensual, screams of harder and harder simmer down the stairs where Ludwig is sat, studying the creases of the back of his right hand...and then a fly that arrived through the open Kitchen window...

. . . ex i s t e

n ce

non —

...is the sun not looking..? 60

s i x e -

e c n e t

there when

? 61

xxx

'Others say, however, that the dead are whatever can be reconstituted in the memories (assuming they remember) of people who knew them, if only for a moment.' — Jacques Roubaud, the loop 63

...Pica's dead body stirs a black metal pot.. with a wooden spoon... the ingredients: tomatoes peppers chopped onions asparagus slices of Chicken breasts salt paprika olive oil chopped potatoes garlic tumeric sugar innocence 65

...she soon moves the pot, further to oneside to capture the fullness of the heat, but is soon staring down at all the ingredients that were boiling now splattered against the Kitchen floor, her small frame enraptured by an anger unable to be contained... amounting to forays into swear words, a plate thrown against wall, a cup against floor... the ordeal is only calmed by the burial, the soils... ...she appeared out the haze of days gone by, whiskey on breath, a cold air penetrates the dark night, where she is stood staring, looking around, apparently, after stopping to ask if she were fine, looking around for a friend that has told her to wait on Kingsland Road, she said... black night moves a mask upon sleep, the incense of dreams falling into the night, voices spring... insensate... the usual chasm between... ...her friend failed to arrive, so we walked along taken by the night... arriving to Queensbridge Road after discussing ideas related to Grapefruits, the misconception of what constitutes reality, a local Madman we both knew called Ralphie... stood staring out into the eyes cold, the hue of wind in eyes seizing the sky between us, the taste of lips soon less vital than the words, acts as we started to delve into our worlds... where it had slowly, after a week or two, become our game... our game consisted of feint disclosures... some violences... sex a game of who will come cum first, with a scoreboard pinned up on the wall, and her promise to adhere to telling the truth, accepting that i couldn't do likewise, though competitive we both remained... and after a week she had been winning

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by five, whilst we went further into eachother's pysches: deeming them a world we also called Candelebra, where the structure of our every thought under attack by a character we agreed to call Ordog... at the edge of the bed, with the Saturday dawn simmering around us, she describes elements of exile... there being no need to sleep in order to dream... the taste... we go into the night thinking about thoughts had behind closed eyes... and fail to sleep for a week, fully accepting this as urgent... everything we are taught, she said, is forced on us from the very start, the sun could be a candle, lit on a loop... ...showed around by Ordog, the facilities were primed and ready for total mind control through waves sent out from the Division Room, marked Green Room, eyes tend to be always greenly looking elsewhere Ordog muttered opening the door to a series of Servers that were sat against pristine white walls, with a lone figure sat in front of a machine lightbox with a skull like head, sockets, barely any eyes, of which Ordog mentions as the way things go, adding that this man was found in Girona playing Spanish Guitar with a mental cocaine imparted, explained Ordog, mostly delivered through the parting of the butt cheeks, where two fingers probe the character and a secret serum is placed there within... though this is only in extreme cases of dealing with a problem individual that is unable to be controlled via Calebra... ...Ordog stops outside a room, marked Red Primary, which has four rows of beds on each side

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of the room with three emaciated looking men laid down on grass green sheets, with two nurses, one with red hair, applying Compositions that involve a period of dream torture, maybe solitude, casually said Ordog with a flap of the hatch, and sometimes fellatio... she spoke in staccato sentences whilst licking the erect connective tool, she had deemed it the day before... propositions of deception... writing of Candelebra in our Dream Book, our Dreams began to configure around the same happenings, often over lapping, sometimes identical... hence the days spent without sleeping, the music a stupor beat... ...the Devil's Saxophone... ...the sun wasn't there when we weren't looking not for Melania's philosophical edge, but for days spent with curtains drawn, drifting into astrays that cyclically become important and then unimportant, shuffling into spirals of time unconstrained by the clock, until Ordog reared his head, appearing as real as anything, nothing dividing between realities... ...apricot after seeds... ...prison after walls... ...sun after moon... ...bloodshot after tension... ...ejaculation after oppression... ...the curtains twitching, Mrs Lucelle going about her usual fussing... paying dues to masochisms with a beef supper on the stove... Claudia is in the Kitchen closing the window, for a breeze, talking of a flamenco song that sounds like raw strawberry, melting snow... 70

Mask Your Soul? ...slave morality [Nietzsche] exudes in the bridge between day to day occurrences and the ideal which is saturated in language creations that often prohibit expansive thoughts, due to the allegiance of predisposed systems of thinking, which are predominantly set up one against another, like dominos, they fall against eachother to declare certain constricted methods imposed on us from birth... monogamy, god, and evil, honesty... ...Ludwig had taken to late night walks now, soaking in the black expanse of London

vicissitudes with swelling thoughts of how to be: starting conversations, sometimes with Melania that would end in rhetorical questions... what is the point of it all? over the sounds of Werner Herzog films playing in the background... I am at these times asleep, upstairs, listening to Lutoslavski... Melania complains of being unable to dream for the weed has stupored her dream life, and these words flaunt melodies of time... ...ink before books... ...cow before beef... ...sanity before crazy... ...dawn before dusk... ...fumes before arson... ...water before island... ...chrysalis before butterfly... ...gravity before fall... 71

writing five i want to be violent specifically to you god, aren't you... wanting to react the deadlight of sensations hovers, haloed around and the sky swells like that over the Earth as if Genesis, the full brim filled air light kisses at death milky thoughts bare areola suggesting god wants to taste the drip of sweat but it will never be so which means complaints brain waves oiled chances of fissure... ...with a slow emergence of illusion? contracting the concrete...

...Ordog moves briskly now [Dream Book, Entry November 21st 21:51] the long hallway further than the eye can see, hollow white walls, separated by Doors an assortment of colours... Ordog's shadow, horn rimmed, with long white lab coat... his voice shrill but punchy: he rarely rests on a syllable, it's all quick sentences, matter-of-facts... where we pass a room, as daylight seeped from without her eyes, the white-ish yellow sun like and radiant... she is alone on a telephone speaking to God? the black dial up telephone is sat in the centre of the room attached to a long cord, as if a Helmut Newton photograph come to life in front of eyes where she is staring at the window in the door... oh, that's Claudia, we don't go in there, that's for those we reluctantly deem in communication with God, this higher power, said Ordog, we ought not to defile ourselves with people that are mystics, they distract us from the work, and often turn against us after a period of working for us here, deny what they themselves have also created, as Estrella did... when he spoke her name a telephone rang, perhaps god? ......dial tone...... ...Ordog continues to explain the telephone room, he calls it, where basically after a routine dosage of time, let's say months, we allow a person a telephone call, we answer, sometimes we don't and we feel it acts as a thought experiment into what people want, and of course they often don't agree with many things, but the subjects are tremendously engaging and written down here inside these folders... Ordog touches bright yellow folders marked: Attache, Red Room I, Emergency Deaths 69, Dream Killing 079.... albeit what

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occurred the Buddhist sign, the ol' Nazi's used is quite a bit of branding... ...a speck of dust moves about the air, a gospel of disorder... we move into the night speculating on what to do? humorously Ludwig says it's all a big to-do, and then sat back down on the sofa... to then verbatim quote the words of a man called James, written of by R.D. Laing: I am only a response to other people, I have no identity of my own... the clock ticks a bit more loudly in the mirror, said Pica without a thought of the Ginsberg flavour to what she was literally referring to but trailed off the words: I can see it, as she stared at the time through the glass positioned at the end of the bed... she then added that it would be great if there were two guns on her chest instead of these breasts, she said with a laughter showing gum, teeth, combing her hair...

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...Sky as Wine... ...in the room called, The Gym, [Dream Book, Entry December 11th 22:04] Ordog opens wide doors, expressively marked, 'Guilties Until Proven Innocent Observation Unit 06'... and soon we see scattered bodies undulated in the frosty yellow light as if a scene as Van Gogh's Night Cafe... ...a milky skinned man without decipherable teeth moves towards Ordog before being obstructed by two faceless Amazonian men in Orange suits... O you're probably wondering about his teeth, i can assume, but it's all above board, 78

when he is done finishing his training he'll receive his teeth back and that will be that, teeth are very arbitrary things in most mouths... an alarm sounds and a tannoy calls for Ordog's attention before he exits The Gym, leaving her staring out at the trees flutting in the night air, purply black with one hand on her naked right butt cheek and another on a cup of pepper mint tea, i can see the bird in her eye up next to the cage when she turns to look, and the Picasso on the wall next to the window looks down at us... the smell of pepper mint oscillates around her now on the end of the bed in a yoga position... ...after explaining that he would be interviewing philosophy Professor Michelada the next day, including that he was nervous to speak to someone so revered, Ludwig picks up a glass coaster, that soon falls out of his hands as he speaks the words: ...shattered the eternal return, though as clumsy as it all is, it'll probably happen again...this... here we are... Melania's voice is croaky and love is beyond the point, really, her hair is scraggly and she spends longer at the window, twitching the curtains voicelessly watching Mrs Lucelle, sometimes with whispered words as dramatic: no don't do that... or he's gonna really hit you hard tonight... the antics televisual... a full stop in one of her writings has caused her a week of anxiety unpunctuated... she crosses out words, that eventually become the same words... 79

instructions on diverting 'Dream Death' 01 ...a formality of escaping into dream is a clarity of an ideal able to be brought about at will... suggestive of space, not forcibly, related to time such as an Island, another's soul...

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...old jars of mustard can be used to store saliva in case of induced Amnesia... ...tropes passed down from LSD junkies as remembering a key element, as a cat or a coloured piece of clothing often can help distinguish happenings... ... interview with Professor Michelada [transcription one, February 28th] ...of course you often want to ask death, like it's a joke, knock knock, is it you? but often the words don't come, mostly because of distraction, though they float somewhere around the frontal lobe, and sing a sort of hummed melody, or ditty of a tune... like the song of a consistent madman: at the coffee table pouring its contents down the throat, you wonder knock knock? walking along a bridge, sat to the Tate Modern, you wonder knock knock? chewing some meats, you wonder if this will be your last chew..? though the day rests up against the night, and you go about your way, moving through the streets where bodies are mostly walking 80

here and there, most dead, but they seem the last to know... outside Churches people gathering to go home after time spent listening to interesting stories about Adam and Even as if more important than Helen or Troy, The Odyssey, of which gnaws at the idea that principally we want delusion, lucidity is nothing more than some Series we don't want to watch full of characters that don't appeal to the masses, where the real hysteria is occurring without them knowing, and time goes on at any rate fingering us, with the only heaven being these little heavens, these women, who often convolute our needs, our desires... it seems, of course, though to promise seventy two virgins seems wholly endemic of this idea, but we are subdued walking through streets motionless, devoid of the taste achieving this Paradise that is rumoured of as the after life, when we are simply deferring, it's simply a heaven deferred, not nearly the quench people speak of...seven billion into a hundred and forty four thousand doesn't fit at all, it's not nearly able to work, but it remains the talk on many lips smeared with green eyed notions, jealousies, identical to their god's, these ideas that behave as if not being able to catch a cold in heaven is a desire, granted, i'd like a few of these virgins, one or two, perhaps seventy two will be awful for the back... even one a day would take some time to arbritarily go through them, and you'd want to perhaps enjoy the moments, maybe a bite here and there, but it's all secluded these questions and answers, people call philosophy, but it is more akin to reason... we ought to fully seek reasons because without them we're

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merely barbaric, throwing those big stones at one another, so we go on, but if anything at all is sacrilegious it is this very perspective of even wondering whether knowing is better than not knowing... ignorance is a form of idolatry these days [for the purpose of the recording there is a knock at the door, 15:36]

writing six ...the incidents of words... mosaic... now Mary is taking it with Joseph asking if he's as good compared... ...the quiet hysteria of codes... ...secret histories displayed openly... ...tired exasperated mania without any semblance of politic, justice a yuppy dip in a hot tea, without acknowledgment of this very biscuit, reality, tea bagged like some bitch... lopsided trailing through days sat in coffee shops with the same people with different faces... ...flowers bitten off insects, all scurrying for a peace, of beauty with whorish charms... with incidents calling of Fuego, heat hitting with Corashe... i can hear the streets of Buenos Aires now, right here and melons sold for pesos held in old wrinkly hands, subjected to you God... without a doubt in shadow of your ways suggestive of why you would need a shadow, knowing even disbelief functions the acceptance that you are there: if you were not wouldn't we need to invent you anyway, to stop the barbarians getting in? ...i ask, but i of course know, because these hands are tied behind a back with legs waiting for the throb beyond the throb, the eternal throb where i sit in the sky after the soils, amongst the Roses spiraling into the eternity i prefer as opposed to your stipulations... ...xxx

...after a month apart, dead Pica rests on the bed after a week, she merely mentions of as a little crazy... moving from junky Queensbridge den to corner to retrieve a hit, and back again like a cycle... redemption after an Episode of Eastenders, then re run on Sunday... she admits to fucking about seven or eight guys as she needed the money, and that she could think of nothing but us, she sighed, with visions of her swinging breasts like conkers... I feel brutish but say very little... her misspelled letter still pronouncing a sweetness, she is attempting to defile, but i then ask if she thinks the drugs will kill her one day, and she says, maybe... ...i take a sip at the Whiskey... ...oil before fried... ...time before perfection...

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interview with Professor Michelada [transcription two, February 28th] ...of course you wonder if he's there, and if he is there he's probably on the shitter because he is like us, but really i doubt he knows what it's like to have the runs whilst on the run, perhaps on a commute to some cubicle with some manager complaining of forms, mistakes in spreadsheet a thousand and sixty six, we all know this man in the sky wouldn't truly know how that feels, he wouldn't truly be able to emphasize with the delights of diarrhea, as he is sitting on a cloud assuming, apparently, but of course, philosophy accepts others beliefs, it's a grandiose tale of mostly formulating some sort of pragmatism, some 85

understanding of what it is that all this actually amounts to, what it is that this actually is in need of cultivating... though the misanthropy calls, ring ring, is it you..? [for the purpose of the recording the interview is again interrupted by another knock at the door] Q: How do you feel about philosophies relationship with sex? O that is a loaded question, very loaded, as I can't deny the truth of this matter, in a sense it is taboo to mention such issues as this, with one hand on your cock and another holding a book by Wittgenstein, who is more distinguished than even Nietzsche, the fans favourite, as Wittgenstein's ideas were more concerned with the edge, the corner of the sheet of paper most don't even look at, they're more concerned with the big questions, the length of a piece of string, free will and so on, but Wittgenstein who rarely mentioned anything of sex had this crucial thing called lust for life, which resembled sex, it pulsates, though Tractutus is mostly ridiculous until about the last pages, he is still very much important in the way life should be lived, which is very relative to sex too, in some senses it is the secret crux of reality... all we are really here for, and more obviously why? i loved Mother but I can be sure she was very acquainted with the cock, i'm sure it was not such an absurd thing she would often deem immoral, if done wrong... but virtue in these issues is a fallacy... [for the purpose of the recording the telephone rings interrupting the interview] ...xxxxxx 88

...Melania has taken to also watching Serge Gainsbourg's 'Gloomy Sunday' as if post irony, post suicide, without actually leaving for the sky...

...in Ordog's absence, like North Korea, the antics go on as if instructions were provided... and the faces at once seem mundane: former Bus Drivers, surly waiters, delivery men, butchers, Piano teachers... though they're only this way on the surface, beneath there's bodies moving without teeth, a man screaming with a smiling face... interview with Professor Michelada [transcription three, February 28th] ...of course, we know more of fallacy than truth, especially so when those we deem Holy, worthy of special attention, deceived us... people as Mr Orwell, where you read this long novel, 1984, you read about all the rather dark machinations of things that actually soon occur, like a warning, o thank you Mr Orwell a clever person thinks, thank you for warning of what is done to our mind's, this Big Brother is very much not a figment of a fictive imagination but really a way to process our ways, move us around in unquestionable ways, and then he has the audacity to write: He loved Big Brother... how can you do this, these words are an affront Mr Orwell to everything you warned us about, and I'm surprised more people are not disgusted by this... this idea that regardless of the illogical fallacy of sterilized thought, mostly of control there is no real escape, there's this hanky panky of acceptance... i feel an anger erupt when i think that this is the ideal perception of the intelligentsia... it's absurd how we must sit through such ordeals of deceptions that are rarely mentioned, and when they are then swept under a rather dirty rug... 90

...in many ways, she said after placing the Dream Book on the window sill, we're not obligated to many of the ways we're told to think... we just assume, though the expansive is more than the linear... and Candelebra had become the basis of all our conversation, ferrying to gather food, usually late at night talking about an island in our souls, ignoring the world out there... her line drawing made with pen sprinkled around the flat that had become our universe...

...drawing by Allen Ginsberg...

...Melania had taken to obsessing over a drawing made by Allen Ginsberg, constantly staring at it in wonderment, eyes transfixed venturing into all its slight meanings... taking long amounts of time now to write woman down with drawings to go with it, differing from spaces inside the soul... every where i turn, the words: ...woman dies... ....woman dies... ...woman dies...

...a moment of clarity swollen with subterfuge... ...xxx... 93

writing seven ...i don't want to go into the night without a kiss on the lips of sanity... ...i'd like to take a last bow before professing any beliefs stroll along to depart and never see again ...monotony of forms of sanity, bleeding from this pen / pussy sounds that also taste Icarus' wings nestle into the sky birds of a feather alone, with not a single sorry on this lipskiss...

Kant Cums ...on these lips slightly parted, she attempts to walk into The Gym, we had both accepted this place Ordog referred to as The Gym, though our ideas on the next occurrences differed... she divulged into a neurotic breakdown of wondering if time a mere non factor... would you assassinate Hitler? the words formed into the room, that had become ridiculous, we knew, but with only brief spells away from our universe it was our ridiculous... and truly disconcerting of a thought for her... ...Ludwig accuses, with the idea that all of all these women, these ladies, now have merged as one, and not what they really are, which is separate distinguishable beings, all different but now only one memory, one mood now, one idea... which i call an affront with a raised voice that has him sigh and mention buying some mate from Buen Ayre later that day, after he has written of Kant in the last parts of his manuscript that i secretly read, of course... ...pussy after wet... ...sweet after sour... ...hard after gentle... ...will to deathly antics with the curtain twitching, bare bottom with right hand, eyes still over towards Mrs Lucelle, and then muttering about something to do with his chubby finger and poking him in his chubby finger... our best episodes before death voyeuristic... though Claudia calls, picked up after the phone rings, she suggests

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that if it is God than he should call back later... ...though Claudia speaks of the room, where she is the smell is poignant, and she receives calls from Him... ...we walk fast down the long stretch of hallway, fatalistic ideals tighten around the mass of unspoken words elected towards the frontal lobe, the voices sound before passing the room with her sat inside on the phone, now joined by a flamingo... its pink glowing in the scream of lonely figure on the shiny black phone...receiver held with mouth opened wide... MOUTHS

...like a real poem Pica has scrawled a series of words on an envelope perhaps to Dictionary later... ...taxidermist... ...rhododendrons... ...nympho... ...undulations... ...mastodons... ...masticate... ...caboose... ...demiurge... ...unknowingly to her, these were her very last words written, and the skin of not truly acknowledging the true meaning of so many words is moreso swelling by the last word, which is another word for god, i thought, though we never ventured onto the subject... there our naked soul lays, i muttered, staring at the piece of paper... 99

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instructions on diverting 'Dream Death' 02

...xxx God moves censoring our deathss....

...dream intruders are most prevalent in saturations of blue, tint most averse to invasion..

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...realise early all the voices cultivated become us... ...Claudia arrived after another phone call, in the mind she floats in with ideas on fixing us a cocktail called Michelada... she explained that she got the recipe from a trip to Mexico City, where she looked for Poetess Candela who had ties with the Infrarealists, and grew infamous from time spent sculpting a physical poem, that Claudia only has a grainy photograph but of which has still arrested her to investigate deep in Mexico City, between palm trees and the voices... soon hearing, No sé la, said in repeat, with the night drowning the hot day's sun, she moves to a Bar where a corpulent Bartender offers her a free drink, calling her Estrella, and soon speaking of a Peruvian wife that he secretly thinks loves another man, a Columbian Ballet Dancer, Quievero... Claudia then learns how to make this drink he had made for her... Melania moves from twitching curtains towards the sofa before dolloping into the cushions a cloud of matter perspiring with hair astray and little concern putting on clothes, wearing just her red laced knickers and nothing else... you've got you try it, Claudia hands over a glass whilst explaining the ingredients...beer, lime juice, assorted sauces, 102

spices, tomato juice, and chili peppers.... and, look, it has salt on the rim... Melania sips slowly, a little dripping on her right breast before saying: ...Jesus, put everything possible in one drink, why don't you? leopard skin, salt, eggs, beer, ridiculous... too demure to retort Claudia just ignored this episode of Melania's increasing dark humour and began riffing of the fatalism of finding Poetess Candela, reciting a few scratchy lines of Poems she had remembered from a small book she lost in the outer regions of Verona... everywhere i went they said and i never saw her again... i hoped to find her so badly... Melania had placed the near full glass on the coffee table, next to Ludwig's writings, and said: Hope is an affliction... and beauty is a whore... before waddling up the stairs with one hand rubbing her left butt cheek...

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Jung Over Jizz ...the game had become more important than the act, the seaman a mere spectacle to the dues of winning, whispering as many dirty thoughts into the ears as fathomable... little secrets only spoken of in passing mentioned within the ear, her cumming that one time to her Dad coming out of the shower when she was twelve, twisted foilage producing a win, orgasmic into the room, our universe of little to no sleep... Candelebra the island our only true idea... disjointed reckonings of an Anshram in the outer regions of Rishikesh, a small secluded area in distant Peru... the nearness too far... with her hand in my brain she asked for a rematch, with slight oulipo restrictions whilst 103

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taking off her green panties... writing eight it would have been better, cleaner, if Jesus was a woman, tidy breasts out and about with much more organised thought than a turning one loaf of bread into what is less than lipstick the red glow of lips wrapped around allure before it gets away to never revisit again like a thief in the night you would say it's gone like a thief in the night life's most important essence allure quenched...

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i, Claudia ...she answers the phone after the sixth ring, the bell of elsewhere chiming closer as if the call to prayers at Jamla El fna, and hears the voice speak, reciting verses from Poetess Candela, with hypnotic sadness that comes across sensual: ...in the night Candela cries, in the daytime she is much too busy... she spends most afternoons cleaning Hotels, and makes instructions for other cleaners... suggesting tips as cleaning more so behind the sofa, which she has experienced as the first place a person looks to see if clean... ...she smiles at night after she finishes crying, the last few drops of tears time to reflect, like a child crying you wonder whether to cry a little bit more or go for a sandwich or that sweet left in between the sofa cushions, but by the time you have reached the sweets you're drowning in them and apparently dead... signs of life ...flying through the air the dead bird is at the window sill overlooking Mrs Lucelle, where Melania has said that her book of Poetry will be published by small publisher Italiapa... their Spanish editor concluding them as suffocated in a Whiskeyed up Wittgemstein type of way... 107

...and she moves about detailing that she needs to leave, before intercepting her own words with how much she needs to stay, before again speaking of how much she needs to go... I sip the whiskey straight... king whiskey... Whiskey king... the night before she had been reciting poetry over sex... Virgina Woolf, Walt Whitman, Baldwin, her own, Wilde, Cum...

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Leased Souls ...casually Ordog arrives back [Dream Book, Entry March 3rd 23:16] into the hallway as if we weren't trying to escape, and carries on hypnotically... speaking about the procession of the nights... Giovanni here is the assistant, and a connoisseur in dream disorder... where we usually deliver the medications we develop and sell, though I do say prevention is better than the cure, but there's no money in prevention, you've got to put in the disease, the wound or else people lose jobs, economies suffer under this type of uncondoned system, where accept we ought to continue to work with the federal or police system to allow our ways to prevail... it's much easier that we can locate a man in Chicago or East London, Modena with delivering medications, usually GPs play along... a sleeping pill given to a lady has elements of more dopamine and our serum which produces an addiction that fuels this game we need to play... this system... a headache tablet constantly bought in Brownsville soon replaced with a little cocaine, not too much, but just enough to allow for the person to go back, and us to pick him one night... said Ordog 108

walking us into a room with a lady spread legs open, to then place a bright flamingo pink pill into the wet cunt, with a matter of fact lick on the edge lips, before we leave the room, to enter back into the long hallway further than death itself... the sounds of the hatch, dah dum... dah dum... ...we spend a lot of time making notations of the dreams of criminals... these are our people, in a sense, said Ordog... they mostly dream of palm trees, fleeing revenge soaked murders, you know the usual pie in the sky... these systems know everything now, of course they let a murder here a murder there go, if they think the dead is of no real use... ...all that was left was the belated suffix of confirmation, since she had said goodbye in her heart's only poem months before... time is only now... ...Pica had started to dabble with Brown more and more, and less with white, for the quickness... the high faster, even with the use of a bottle, water fireed up fumes inhaled through pierced foils, gaze soon tranquilized, but little spoken of the reality of the high, this game she plays... the first time being really the altar, the specific feeling being chased, and perhap a few other times rival this Holy first time, but the rest is all chase, no give... though now she is out of the arms of B's belladonna and sat on the floor naked putting on red shoes speaking of needing to get to Dalston to get those cookies... it's five fifty six am... the Town sleeps with the lady's red shoes slowly wrestling onto tiny girly feet... she soon falls over into a deep ponderous sleep... 109

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love is camaraderie with a punch | | | Claudia dipped words into the brain like warm soup...

...we never felt the need to begin the procession of cliche... she comments that she's barely worn her knickers...the big I Am... the grumpy pin stripped knickers left on the radiator.. the numb ...the residual fuzz of the clear blue sky, tickling without an ounce of reaction... speeding slowly by voices outside getting in meaning nothing, voices inside meaning more but still not very much... the hum of black covering all over the surface of dream / life, neither distant to one another, but calling on the receiver, Jean Cocteau speaks of transmissions, beauty... the coarse liquid slithers through the veins with pallid skin now sweating and shivering with the voice springing out the milieu a dazed honey of nothing... the abyss, momentarily sweet, but more violent and edgy towards the precipice of squalid black touches at the nape of neck, she sings lady day, lady day... owing to being little else but that which is in another's eyes, i pray... 112

writing eight my pussy died but God you don't care about that Cat rather you're gynecology is fingering lips not in the least bit wet not nearly so for the water must get wet who wet the water before the water got wet? childish games attempt to lure away the cold tax of you the truth through a child's eyes... ***rainy*** §§§

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Je suis venu te dire que je m'en vais ...she had been gone physically a week, though arrived back, as I thought that her departure were enough of a goodbye, her absence her decision, she came back to stare out in our eyes, which through our fucking had become siamese like, when she looked out at Mrs Lucelle, I saw too, when she looked in this abyss that I accepted had long taken her, I saw too... she explained that her book, she held in her hand seemed like an aside to what she was trying to get at, with a poem her Spanish editor had complained of for a comma and a dash, as not quite right, the time bomb exploded into the sky, Estrella... it's about all those years at that convent, sent away, to then be fucked by a young Priest who wanted to marry her... her cum over Bible pages, rosaries reduced to a comma and a dash... she said she was in pain, and that she was leaving for Buenos Aires in the night, away through the sky... i just need to get away, get away, she said with one hand placing the book on to the coffee table, next to Ludwig's purple lighter... I couldn't escape the thought: wherefore we cannot speak therefore we remain silent... she crept away into the night, as a fluffy cloud from out of your periphery... chubby in the now vapid air, her head bobbing along down the street, uncombed... ...her poems, two hundred and twenty eight pages were searing, and sprinkled with humour... her words sprung as if reading them in a whisper in our ears... you can never own a beautiful woman, you can merely have her attention for a period of time... 114

Italiapa publishings

Melania Estrella poems in the key of death, tickling rainbows chubby clouds...

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...notations from the black, one... i can barely get out of bed whiskey bottles sprawled everywhere along with clear sanity cotton mouth

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...notations from the black, two... ...diving into rims of whiskey bottles king of the night...

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notations from the black, three ...i'm disappearing not but a constellation of birds feathers, chicken wings bought from the chip shop, blackened stars with edge notes fifty fifty chance of death...

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notations from the black, four ... i am nothing but highly strung guitar strings pulling into a tongue scream propelling into dry notations ... neon sisyphus ...

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Candelebra ...the distance between our bodies a misconception of conspiracy passed down, the deep recesses of pieces of spirit, heavy as Russian Vodka, though the tongue kiss of insanity ...as she moved around the coffee table she suspended arms now deemed mouths, mouths twirling into the room, as the light went out, we had called the book shelf spacial region of heaven, which meant her eating pages of paper on the top shelf reaching in the dark, with mutterings of the Book of Dreams, and then Molly's monologue of Joyce she starts reciting off head... ending with the words Yes! as she took off her shirt, bra, knickers and ran downstairs outside screaming: the hills have eyes... the ambulance seemed to arrive like they were watching... they took her away, with her yelling: ...can we escape from the hooliganism of our desire, naked! ...Ordog pens notes against a purple binder held close to his chest, red pen in hand, peering over glasses towards man spread eagled butt cheeks like ivy... quietly sliding in a bright red pill, and then squeezing the man's cheeks together, goods as new, said Ordog... 124

...Pica Paradise... ...Pica is on the end of the bed staring childishly at some drawings of Leonardo, and some cars... red, vein purple, green... her drug smell a jamais vu sifting out of her, before she starts at an idea: it would would be great if men displayed their ball sacks more, she said riff like, no don't laugh it's fashon, like balls are really cool, they're all chewy and soft, even the saggy parts of the balls look funny, don't you think? she asked, unironic, to then pick up a pen and draw what she meant, with arrows towards each ball just in case i hadn't caught on...

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III 'I've a dream of my own. My one dream. A dream of dreams.' — Slyvia Plath, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams

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notations from the black, five ...cryptic messages from god, coming on defensive, and all shirty, something about Jesus never having an erection because he'd been too busy with all the bread and wine... to soon reluctantly accept that Mary got it good though, Mary took it like a boss, said god drifting into further explanation over the twirl cloud smoke, big smoke, circling into the air...

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...Letter From Estrella... ...she started to write letters, without an address and no identification of knowing where she was, just these words...

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...Dear Us, ...I spent last night, close to Buenos Aires, near an Aunt's, close by to Alfredo the man that was a Priest in those years I spent when I was sent away over Paella, and overlooking the night sky I crave your touch, i do, but even with jealousies, I can't pour ice over us... pieces of your soul are always transferred in this manner, whether we like it or not... only the hippocrates would deny this... and they seem so plentiful here, as Italiapa published the novel here too, a few weeks ago, so people speak of the words like ironing boards, house kittens, there is barely any violence in them for these people that read them, not nearly as much as i'd like to call it... though i can't call it... ...there is a small ginger kitten where i'm staying, called Chancie, it's always asleep, more than it is awake, it's asleep or trying to finding somewhere to get some more sleep, a local girl said Chancie was once fat, but had slimmed down the previous summer... ...i can barely stomach anything at all, and mostly vouch for the sky... the sudden eruptions, tectonic... and especially so when Alfredo explained what happened to the girl I once would call my best friend... Alejandra spent most of her time secretly 136

reading Cortazar and praying... i never disturbed her, the centrefold of her main lust was to become a painter... she held this higher than anything... so anything was secondary to her... she mostly spent time drawing, late into the night the lantern lit light on her desk went on bright as she sketched and drew... ...she had a firm hand, though these works were mostly ethereal... though after Alfredo told me the news, that she was in the sky with Mary and them, I felt a twinge... it's calling us so loud, so feverishly... i thought of you and your mugsy face (i tease)... skin?

...are we notihng more than bones, ...still Your Estrella

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Little Red RiDick Hood ...in the early evening i would see her moving from Broadway Market... this day she held a purple vase with water in it with a large bouquet of flowers, perhaps Lilies, some Roses, sparsely Tulips... she walked slowly concentrating on her steps ahead, with a hooded red coat on like little red riding hood, moving towards Queensbridge Road, as I walked the opposite way... I watched her carefully, trying not to disturb the flowers, the water within the vase... but it starts to rain, as if a piece of performance art unrecorded she carried on walking, the onset of a slight flash flood, the delights of London weather, failed to disturb her whilst walking along the street, at the corner of the street where she turned left, i saw the rain water tap against the flower in her hair, still in intact... ...it was the fourth time seeing her doing something similar, albeit the high point of that rain drenched early evening, that i spoke... the black had been so lucid at this time: no real desire in the expanse of melancholy... you treat those flowers like pieces of poetry, or a painting... i said... a Rembrandt! she said with big eyes... she said her name was Claudia, and we discussed perhaps getting a coffee one of these days, before asking if i had time the next afternoon... i hadn't seen the day light for a time, and caressed the night's curb mostly, so i mentioned six or seven ish... she explained that the children's story industry was hard to endure and continue to write stories, and i pulled sock over feet, clean clothes on and began

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anew... one sentence at a time, i concealed all notions of lady days, or days spent amongst those soul within... ...i'd quickly call her little red riding hood... she had a lighthearted spirit: she found Charlie Chaplin to be the height of comedy, spending days on end watching sketches... she sat against the bed rest where she starts smiling at a made up story... But what a big meat stick you have, she said, i joked... all the better to juice you with, said the wolf... a quiver of a laughter punctuates, but feels cold after this, all the memories wafting now feeling less realised... less true... a rose-white chalk outline around this body... where things were falling out of the sky...

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Ordog [Big Brother] ...mentioning how the things falling out the sky were messages, and that an old man they had recently taken in had spent most of his time picking these things up, and placing inside a skip, that one day was tipped out into the street by some unknown person's for him to straighten the skip from onto its side, and continue to fill it up with the falling things... [transcription sixty seven] ...kettle, manna, cats, pussy... i cry at night, because i'm too busy during the day... but if i cry in the day, i have to find some time during the night while i clean the hotels to cry a little for a time if i miss a little during the day, but mostly i try to manage, though sometimes i fall short, yes i fall short, and i forget to cry during the evening 141

and the night and have to make up for it on the weekends, spending a little time during the early evening...

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...Claudia dipped into the room with the key i had given her letting herself in, to see this naked body sprawled on the bed, with the curtains, strangely, she said, opened... Mrs Lucelle getting buggered without an audience, Alain Robbe-Grillet without our Voyeur to enthrall the mundane drama with the sensuality of the artist... though she rested against the phone and propped another hand against her chin, elbow on desk... with little or no scent of God, the broad too busy in the kitchen he would assume, i wonder, and you can deny this all you want, all that it may mean to you... i'm careful with my words, so so careful, they practically creep around the ear lobe into the ear towards the frontal lobe waiting for an eruption, a quiet storm... WHY? ...

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...your dead body, one version of she, sits on the bed of flowers in the mind i share, the distortion so vanity, blue... where your naked breasts can play with the lonely sun, and the stars yellow teeth can enjoy the night without appearing to need, a brush with teeth now clear to see and red gums laughting out into the void, now filled... she sleeps now, with one hand on The Book Of Dreams, our dreams drowning before now swimming amongst birds in a sky-wine blues, wet with the taste of diving into the deepest end...

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...Ordog speaks about the tight end now, drawing comparisons with communicating through mouths, adding that mouths can no sooner than tight ends become corrupted, where as messages sent through the tight end are more direct... a direct line to Papi in the sky... Papillon a butterfly before the cage flying around the observation centre and the beady eyes of the ever present Ordog, which he jokes has the words god if not back to front... notations from the black, six ...it is better to be alone with yourself than alone in company of others... i read these words the day after Ludwig decided it was too awkward not to leave... although he admitted he found it difficult, being that suicide seemed so close, although he used the words, doing myself off, Estrella style... reminded of Melania explanation of a series of suicides running in the family, madnesses as birds on the wire... messages through time sat on ice, cool on fire... i quickly miss Ludwig's writings, and their continuous updates... Melania had taken to jotting down more and more of Mrs Lucelle's ways... the red polka dot bath robe after research was discontinued a few months before last December, and the pills on the counter have only a month left before going out of date, though the Man ignores this, along with time, everything important is happening now, nothing crucial happened yesterday and tomorrow is merely a relic before it has come... Mrs Lucelle's violently cums at exactly 19:21 — 22 minutes later than the day before because of the traffic on the M25.... 149

writing nine in the theatre of the mind / the world can we really see past our own soul / mind slash too many slashes? here, regardless I Am, and the big I Am King Pussy God... Me!

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...i answer the phone only to her...

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...Dream Book, Entry March 21st 18:36]] we spend our nights with merely any regard do we, as Ordog spoke from two way mirror the words sent a deathly romance down the spine, as i've known a lot about your decision for this Candelebra... palm trees, an island o, let me guess, a little Chomsky before a lite lunch? a dip in the mango juice filled pool over looking a sunshine yellow sandy beach, chocolate cake by the ton, hours spending time lodged entwined in genitals smelling of ocean water salt, a papaya tree above your head with music playing, Ravel, Bolero Ravel I can imagine, backgammon... o I've heard your sordid desire to get off the grid, as you put it, and it won't happen... these teeth in this mouth won't protrude into the sky like birds, to escape some sort of laughter of escape from under our control, meds and feds, our system of order... it's high time we distance you from what you think this is... the cool breath practically reached the end of this nose sniffing in the aroma of his lust for mischievous deeds... as I woke to a strapped up chair, where I now am, a man in his final hour on the death row with a board held up with Ordog asking what i wanted for the final meal... a drink of Michelada, i said, which Ordog writes with a smile, muttering o lovely that'd go down well with the death... ...hot chicken soup... ...tomato stew with paprika... ...a slice of salmon with a sprinkle of pepper... ...potatoes... Ordog's features move into the middle of his box, you'd like them boiled, i can imagine, as a man as you are... no grilled, i said... o how disappointing, sighed Ordog, i expected more...

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and perhaps i'd have half a lemon... o like Kafka! you have seeped ol' Ordog out of the pits of that little grilled hell and transported me to a a little paradise, i may even you with the half lemon and the salmon, which is interesting for a pisces to be eating this last fish... not that i believe in this, of course, i speak to the man in the sky often and he rarely mentions any of that as meaningful beyond slander, though he has to take a lot of calls from Prometheus at the moment, and a few Voodoo spirits have really moved up the stock exchange ladder of attention, i should say... but yes salmon, medium rare, not too chewy, as if it breaks off into your mouth wet and with a little bite... o what a little death we have here, this little death... ...the black reaches around the neck, cue the curtain, drawn over the acts of life... i try not the break the fourth wall and mostly decipher words into images, images into satisfactions.... ...death before resurrection... ... street before pharmacy... ...chaos before order... ...perfection before casual-mess ...Candelebra before Pica... ...hell before she, her...

...her She..

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Prayer to Angels ...Ordog opened a jar, red top, and spoke: o this is a simple jar of brain, though you'd assume a spectrum of deception in the production of a simple jar of brain, human, of course, but you'd be wrong... these brains are the best minds of generations, we have pulped down to a butter, spreading a little on his tongue released far into the lair of the four cornered room, empty but with a few chairs and a desk with a skull perched towards his face savage with TEETHY smile... it's the endorphins that make it taste so good, and so we usually cut them down in the throes of a dramatic high, sent a whore in to kill after a fuck, a gigolo... it make it tastes so good.. the buttery brown dripped around his mouth wide open with all the beauty of the mouth on show... gums, tongue, teeth, tonsils, uvula, a few discloured canines, definitely premolars, barely any molars... he fails to wipe the brain, which is unlike Ordog, as usually it's all neat, with purt lips closed after mentioning having to force an incident with a particular tight end... his teeth drip into words about loving the quench her taste buds with mouth twisted and then one hand on breasts hanging into the expanse of the closeknit four walls, Picass still on walls, as she asks about the fat ghost we wrote of in the Dream Book [Entry 72] and I go into the mind the find pieces of sky... before a naked piggy bank over Bolero... with Pica's ghost breast slipping out... 160

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notations of from the black, seven "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent." (Tractatus 7) Wittengstein ...a Priest of disorder, waking up with the wet dream a mutiny, an erection hot with verses from Luke... i then hear the voices of neon lights switched off, sisyphus blues singing here alone, since Ludwig decided to also leave with the phone ringing, Ordog or Claudia? the taste of her, her her...

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'Floats calm as a cloud.' — Slyvia Plath, Collected Poems [Heavy Women, 26 February]

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writing ten there's an allure so voluptuous God? is it you? i'm sure it's not as you'd assume Mary wanted it, on the phone to your planet leaders talking of Mary gettin' this work tonight she wipes Your bottom Jesus, don't you remember when your wanted to play with your ties toys and offerings descend into the only heaven that i true rainbow un femme un femme smoking God's clouds spiraling around Man's TEETH... in Varanasi i am twirling in a Ghat like a Kebab with an a drum beat all heavy... twisting by your hand God closer to you, but so far away from your godjizz... 181

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VARANASI[time 6:66 date: 29/02]

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the beginning CREDITS. purple. [naked pictures of God] INT. naked woman and man as if Adam & Eve are stood, molecule against atoms, hands against eachother but away from one another, until man sat alone on sofa hears a knock at the door...

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CUT TO. the lady moves between the day in the mind and out of the mind they are walking towards THE DOORS, where she mutters of the world being all but a stage... Lavoe

SOUNDTRACK. Boléro, Ravel or Aguanile,

...US. we speak from one mouth, us, with tears falling out of both eyes as the door opens for four eyes to delve into one body [depicted simply with illusion masking the reality of magic] and words in from the abyss that was but is now himher or shehe, as in one dual component of body speaking and throwing the ball now, at mercy of the altar is the slow release, that you came all the way from Buenos Aires for? that i came from Buenos Aires for... CUT TO. [God breaks the fourth wall now, with questions, rhetorical of being here and not being here] INT. the door closes shut, against the night. ...US. bodies together, speaking of days 188

apart, with melody of the intensity of such a highly strung situation... do you forgive me, [her, she, this lady moves towards] they sat down one in another, two minutes in and it's cutting it close don't you think? we depart into eachother never to return the same again, this taste called love...

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CUT TO. Narrator / God [illustrated with a simple convulsive Soundtrack development] ...they have little else to do but find each other closer through lips, skin, penetrated by memories that become present and move into the future, as a phone now rings... CUT TO. [CLOSE UP of shiny black telephone, with just eyes appearing in the periphery of sight, with words] Un femme. Un femme... Claudia... no, yes... ...it's the line which is bad, what with God on the line too... it's always busy these transmissions [juddered close up of a book by Jean Cocteau] but the sex of joy, our secret visits to [inaudible sounds] of this Cunt, this Cunt that you make wet, undone with the painting of our unreliably narrated soul, which is now doused in you, i am speaking to you from within our soul... Machelada sipped with dusty record player heating our numbed hearts thawed by melodies of voices that sound through this receiver... CUT TO. [Ordog sits with wide open mouth laughing hysterically and stuttering repeated words 189

- juddered shots at a book entitled: Jung's Shadow] ...o i tell you behind immortality's tongue is the realisation that the dark is needed but is merely reduced to the detritus of heavens bin... [audible sound of choral choir] as open mouths fail to get fed señor coroner, or as you said you'd liked to be called Pica?

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CUT TO. A PAINTING OF WIRED VOICES... ...here we are, it seems said Orpheus, in the melody as a few minutes before he had dreamt a song still playing eversince, or until... as the light whiskey coloured lamp-post draws down onto the now empty street, where soon a woman walks by wearing a frilly burgundy dress under a long black fur jacket with mango yellow finger nails with the start of a twirl of a dark brown henna tattoo curling from the tip of her ring-fingered index down to the tip of her elbow... when a Spanish man drives by perhaps noticing the Catalan flag stitched into to the shoulder of her long fur jacket... when into the night the voice goes: Verlo desnudo es recordar la Tierra... the Federico García Lorca line [...to see you naked is to remember the Earth] where the stage's has a middle finger introduced, and then propelled into the conclusive act of that particular play... as a wet puddle is stepped in to douse a pair of bright peach coloured hi heels... as layers of smoke congeal around a black spoon soon treated like the last utensil to exist on the face of the planet... the aroma of a woman just naked from a bath 190

lingers a strawberry hue... the nestle of a tongue against an ice cream causing mango flavoured brain freeze... Silenus silently sips still revered... the elevation of a never ending story only known in oral form in a remote village of Quintana Rue... a painting of bodies, unrestricted by binary, smeared into eyelids from the back of abyss, where weird languages soak into an emerald planet reflecting the same lonely Sun Ra, prayed to by a lady from Alexandria that earlier from this very moment sold pearl earrings for a gallon of milk uddered from a Cow with a bum leg... a bouquet of roses for Nefertiti's just passed son... whilst Dalí's persitence of memory receives its last paintstrokes: first the melting cloak, and then, ever more delicately, the eye lashes... ...as the words utter a multiplicity of universe but go unsaid... replaced by words formed by actions of lips on lips... lady day lady lady day... eternal day, even in the black, lady day...

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end notes: front cover artwork interpolates drawings images: front: 'untitled (two models)', c. 1985 back: Helmut Newton: evie and her mercedes, Beverly Hills, 1996 drawings co directed and executed by Kofi Boamah & Urda Heidi Alösa

paraphrased quotes: 'Beauty is a whore.' — Michael Cunningham, The Hours 'a man resembles god and god resembles the world' — Daniil Kharms, Today I Wrote Nothing

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