Watching Scraps – Nightcrawler

1 – A business school manual grew legs, and eyes, and became Lou Bloom. This means that somewhere in the world there is someone who saw this movie and thought that Lou Bloom was an American hero. A manic capitalist.

2 – The moment when Lou Bloom first reaches into the accident-event to change things, improving the shot, the frame of the film itself gives a small shake, bringing the second, invisible camera operator into the world of the film. It nudges you into realising that your titillation is the aim of this film, just as Lou Bloom’s footage aims to titillate the viewers of the Los Angeles early morning news. You are the ones making all this possible.

3 – Lou Bloom is part of the fourth, neoliberal, emergency service – those who capture the image and pin it onto the wall with its red thread. Who arrive after the accident and try to sell it.

4 – The shot of Riz Ahmed’s (Rick’s) profile, lying on the road looking up, and then the fade to the cityscape of Los Angeles. He lies dead over the city, making the symbol of the society that sacrificed him; a good, and desperate man. This business mindset is to blame, and he should haunt them above the horizon as the clouds of wildfire smoke do.

5 – We end with the big expensive watch, the eternal desire of the business guy. The watch, a sign of having made it. I have the big watch, the metal wrist. Tick tick tick. Look at my watch, it doesn’t care about you. And with the induction speech for the internship, the boss=psychopath identification is complete.

6 – Does the film want us to interpret it materialistically? It shows us the broadcast towers again and again, as if it wants to say – this is what is wrought by these metal towers. An almost Lynchian feeling. But that is obviously too simple. As the vans of the new business drive off, into the sustained American nightmare.

On Death Note (Spoilers)


Why, shinigami – you are sending L around the damn bend
he can’t see you – realm of the gods of death.

Things are going mad – the laws of death spin in a great car crash
of contingency – unending pile-up.

How were you to know – thinking you were bright – but god-of-death-dark
sinks petty brain glow in the deep, red, eyes.

Shinigami – red apple of memory – how death will not be
caught so easily – ‘according to plan’

[x x x x x] [x x x x x] [x x x x x]
[x x x x x] [x x x x x]


Careful what you do – cos god is watching your every move –
but why aspire to be gods – when you are one?

I hear the bell – yes unusually – come in out of rain
don’t believe my words. Life is nonsense now.

Humans are not truth not perfect – they lie – I have no reasons
I could spell out now – I just know you are

Diabolical. I wash your feet – you who I know will end
this life – I will die but I will win – how?

I resurrect now in the sympathy, absolute, I have
with the life process which will avenge me.


I cry over my own funeral when – bored and walking home –
there is no device with a battery.

I imagine all tears, fallen and sounds in the dark chapel
of my grandma’s church. My grandpa cries too.

I hate death more than I hate any evil – for it underpins
all evil with means – with time, wrongs would end.

Empathy in a pathetic empty soul, glories in the
image of honour, in lieu of acting.

It’s when light kills L – he shows his weakness. True gods spurn revenge.
In Light, good’s hollow echoes, emptily.

L [You will pay for what you’ve done]

The absence of law as concept from the series of Death Note
vitiates Light’s view – Nature of justice

being an absent thing signifying, thus the complete eclipse
of morality in puritan sin.

The haute bourgeoisie reign supreme in realms of life and sharp-death;
a new god is, well, on the up and up.

This god is the class of young male and rich with supernature
on their side via writings of pure name;

a tall bureaucrat of the spirit realm – if you break his line,
the line twists around – and tantrums hang you.

New Year ’17

The tv counts down to a slight delay –
the sun’s condensing hammer
and the earth’s revolving bourse
sinking us like concrete pillars
into the wet earth, grey and flaking.
For one multiplying second of time,
some billions of times, this second
takes its place amongst the others,
crumbling under our thoughts.
Each swollen moment by these alchohol lives
is chorused with hoarse voices;
Burn’s words cut them with a layer of flake-gold,
gathering in tear-ducts, perhaps
to fall, or not to fall, and rest there aching;
Perhaps the year rang out loss
echoing through the companionable air
Dulling and blunting,
’til the whole resembled the part.
Perhaps you were uncomfortable.
Now metal-faced staring at the past to forget
though it may be argued
the latter year bore little pain
beyond the tearings of news-paper,
to our routine streets at least.
Tonight some of us take upon ourselves
the wrongs and sorrows of the earth
as if they were our flesh and blood –
and they are.
So too are the vast outnumbering joys
from time to time to time
each year which guide us
and a creeping enjoyment –
I permit you to dwell on them.
And we can muddle
’til the morning, and the year fall
in their clothes
onto the bed and black out