Star Wars

Star Wars makes me feel a lot of things which are hard to put into words, maybe it’s most crudely put, and revealingly put when I say ‘I want to be Star Wars’ because if I try and flesh it out with – ‘I want to be x in Star Wars’ I can never find the true sentence, when I try and concretely work it out, as I don’t want to act in it, I don’t want to design it, I don’t want to film it, I don’t want to direct it, although it’s possible that I want to write it, rather I want to be absorbed by the complex continuum of elements which make up Star Wars, which, if it is a consistent whole, is a crazy object which includes zones affected by thousands of people, the writers and directors, thousands of designers and concept artists and many thousands of manifold experiences I have had as a child and young adult, and the structural relations of the story and other stories and myths and emotions, and the complex expectations which I have of Star Wars as I watch it (governed by hundreds of other films I have seen, and stories I have read, people I have known) which combine and create a strange almost ‘sublime’ overload which is like an upwelling of strong lines of emotional affects, of enjoyment and agreement with the message and being of the multiple works of art that Star Wars is, which is bound up with a kind of attraction, a call to meditation, an enjoyment of and towards the thing – like a rough sea which pulls you towards its beauty and you lose yourself in it…

Basically I need to stop being selfish and not trying to create because I can’t create all of an idealised thing which is actually the record of a hard to define or impossible community, and stop being afraid of trying, if that’s what it is (it’s definitely one way of saying it) and though it’s hard to remember it in heat, there are other, worthy ‘stories’ to let go, but the feeling of being a part of something is hard to shake or replace.

The Poet and Some Logic of Poetry

Our world is getting prude again
It’s all the drink
There’s no more edge to straighten
It’s all centre.
Drink more and write – break
the literary rules
The advertisible rules –
and all is so.

from the origin –
they are sent out, spiralling
on the universe wing, to write
and fight, and to reverse
the strange path, strong force,
that saw them soar forth,
a configuration of angels
only to have their wings
snapped by a passing aeroplane
from the west.
The poets’ guest. Movement.

– –

My brain machine is configured
and the pencil marks start, the art
that is the particular sort,
of dark induced thought, the poet
and the pen and paper machine,
play catch up with the neuron – neuroses –
the thought patterns rise
and are surfed.

with all the expectant noise
one would expect, by now
at least the sound of coming crowd
of the deep works of the apocalypse
spread out on the world, like nutella on toast.

– – –

How can I be trapped? How?
In a body owned from time immemorial
and weary even in the calmest morning
my strong brain menacing me, grinning,
until my teeth fall out
and I die a granite heart.

My body makes me moveable,
it frees me from my bed, for the world –
why does it also confine?
I return to the same places each day –
not thinking, reading
and buying.

I need a muse, gleaming hot of soul
to calm me and entice to urge
and join me on the page.

– – – –

my complicity in the trick
loudly proclaimed by my conscience
lets out no solidarity, and
framing each problem alone in the dark
God leaves us unknown.
Whence authority comes,
from where society’s run
the dancing rats cannot see,
1 2 3 tongues up – and the death penalty.
Waiting, watching each is bored
before the modern horror store.
I need a love, not a scared heart in a bar.


I went out for the last time
from the white gate with peeling paint
with no more reason to stay
each having been laid aside quietly, slowly
until nothing more bound me to the place
I went out the white gate.

And pushing my pack across the back streets
the ways learned over many journeys
now to be laid aside quietly, slowly
each in its own time, unlearned
and forgotten in a space of weeks
as I push my pack across the streets.

And as I come to a road I’ve known,
though not very well, it must be said
I am joined at once with my selves from all ages
each treading a lonely path away
for the last time,
from some situated equilibrium –
and in our solidarity, though it is a shock
we march together, breathless.

The People’s Innocent Blood

Can you hear it?
Gushing out of each TV?
It’s the people’s innocent blood.
Out of the collars of crisp suits
pouring down the streets.

Parting around the cenotaph
and meeting again the other side
the gurgling, murmering, tide of blood
drowns patiently the shoots
and budding flowers of peace.

And the gears of war begin to laugh
as the blood returns their grinning noise
the dark, unwitting, furious and dull
use their teeth and tongues to supply
hecatombs of glorious red grease.

And in exhausted disappointment, stand
the faded dead, in memory’s faded land,
and the blood brings with it the visions they saw
when murder wore the mask of law;
“will it always be made to wear it once more?”

but how can the dapper war-mongers,
with their cartoons of liberation,
reading blood soaked scripts
be blamed? It’s not down to them.
They can’t see names that were never written in their papers.

Names not flown home in once-folded flags,
names with no glory, who win no honours,
names of the peaceful, who would not kill,
names that flow by, submerged in blood,
and the latest civilian death figures.

They can’t be blamed for death,
it would happen anyway – what were they to do?
And miles and miles away, too – let them have their fun.
Doing Their Job. And blood continues to pour
out of each victorian, or cut glass door.

“They have no care for human life.
And will attack women and children
our bombs are lying fallow,
why else do we have them?
One life or two are no cost, to a civilised nation.”

(Art by Akram Zaatari, Centre Georges Pompidou)

Song of Days

there is an underground calm in our air
where ‘decay’ should give so much cause
for anxious collapse, a stone frozen shattering
why no one speaks, says so much
concerning the endlessly turning
return of the day?
in a ripping piercing singular instant
I lay quiet as my eyes are screamed
from their sockets.
O God, you joker, you git.
what in your name were you thinking
my hands warm, my feet dying of frost
thousands of tamed and blinking*
rectangular souls, standing aloft

Why now do I shiver?
hecatombs of days await me,
precarious hecatombs piled behind
but all is quiescent, only aroused
by a passing glance out the window at dusk.
and a careful light.

(*see Zarathustra’s Prologue)

Becoming Political

We are anarchists:
we all imagine.
But why not use that imagination?
It would save us all some trouble.

We are democrats:
we all care.
But we do not care too much.
For that can cause some trouble.

We are communists:
we work for each other.
But why not work by each other also?
It would save us all some trouble.

We are anarchists:
we give gifts.
But why not make life a gift?
It would save us all some trouble.

We are democrats:
we talk to each other.
But why not talk to each other more often?
It would save us all some trouble.

We are communists:
we do not threaten.
Only the scared are threatened.
If by ‘threatened’, you mean ‘scared’.

We are all already anarchists.
So why not become anarchist?

We are all already democrats.
So why not become democratic?

We are all already communists.
So why not become communist?

(The graffiti says “property does not feel pain”)