1.
Lucian lashed against a ruinous slab, hard rain, traffic blinking out in deep lateral grains, tremors under velveteen dark, rushing the day’s end out past the more desolate parts of the city. Rain comes down, lashing the tryst in chiarascuras of trellis light, pylonesques of white noise fade-in against the screaming, earbite, skin toarse, pulling closer, angling in jet white on her chest, the light coming before or after, faint q marginal
the Lucian Sink or the Lucian Sinewave, faint q marginal.
Lucille is leaning on a roof-ledge, pad on hand, a moon caught deep turning up the sinewy river, barge lean light caught in the wicker of monitor light, a cold wind is blowing over tonight, projector thrumming steadily, a resonance patois with her breathing, drawing out the 35mm wartime De Vry lensing in on the corpse strewn funereal on the couch, droolglimmer, awhile deep at the base of the highrise, car alarm, viddied juts of time, 3am, her nerves are splayed, looking out for Herr lucian, come arun, over arabesques of Marshall plan sinewaves, radio Lux limitfade, interlacing with the Goon Show, doctor who’s there, no its not doctor who its me! bombsprints through alabaster, gargoyle nights, flowing faces into faces, gargling faces thighs in faces, spinning Henriettaguns, gadunkgadunk, lunaratic, a sink. The sink. Secret cracking thunderous spurts of roman aquifer, humming, climb in, sez Lucifer.
Filmic, morning light wakes the scene when she levitates down soho into the OSS underground, where Roy Cubins is fighting Awall Ackson over the Palestinian pudding public announcement system, good eveni – check 1, 2, good eve-ni, canvasing applauds from the ramparts of openpipe hiss in – herr good day mzz Lucille – ravenous splitchecks of eyeballs printing, PORNO CINE CLUB 35MM, tits – Alavoil Amacarindo, (Alavoil A.) the Chilean is inside, splicing up a map of London by some slothropic cord of psychokinesis, pin-works thru an alabaster shore of V-enetic antegrade rubble.
There’s a visiting conductor (he sez, toreodor tonguechileic the ter), bombed out and up flew the ugly sixties hotel, the Saint George’s Hotel, a polytechnic, concrete… – a glimmer beat – ‘But you’d love Los Angeles Ala!’ Eye patois. Ala’s endocrine is ashimmer, out of spine reaching into the camera equipment lain stretchered on the canvas, sleeping pills, ina bottleshook dalliance of invective light, candles with a click sudden float in across the void and they’re slumped, watching the deep aberattions of mortar pipe, fires dappled by raidlight, streets sinkblown to a sunderous interface with – dogs, pavlovianas running toward the lens, breakering, darkblip, eyeshuttered sudetenclik, and they’re hurtled back antegrade splintforward into some weimarian dream sequence, swing bebop dalliancing, Lucille blinking, alaba hisss-olvnig into the cut, high brutal concrete, the sound is amplitude modular of alabaster blown/grown through a gap in time, this could be – trailing – ‘now’ she blinks, dust apparitive out of bombsink sennagrade, brutalista highrise, Eyes ablow full Orion discs, with the darkness enclosing, ‘mesmeric’ – ‘atmosferic’ – dancing behind retinas, the city moves in morning light, remote to this blowout of cinematic masonry underground, and she’s dragging her sense backward through the door, screaming out for the clear air, the light of day with Alaba gleaming right through her like the alabaster is hers.
2.
The k on the Ocean Sink Surrealists fell off, viddied by a teddyboy kristalnacht assault of goodsesne blownin over, Ocean Sin, to the latenight, sunrisen brighton pier trysts viddied, sun burn the backlegs, roar Tommygun expresses, blond leg thigh aris, CI-581 1962, dissociative anesthessalonikita kruscheva
Dematerialise Our City Kunt! Films Under Collective Kabal (DOCK FUCK) opening night, fortifying ceiling light, a trail of firework, smearing flutes, alaba front row animating through twin gargoyles inover the atlantic, the patient in Vienna is the very city itself, ‘ah’ ‘yeas- ‘dematerialised psychological flows, striating, shearing diverging parts’, tearing at a canapé of resonant dust – ‘sentiment, concrete, dream, pulling apart, ripping their eyeballs out under the monitor’ Under the effects of amphetamine psychosis had Nina fitzroved to the idea that We is dopplers in the radiowaves, phwooosh, basilisk trail deep earth Richter cracc, up there, pointing in their eyebals: We is speck, take a droogi, zloop up into B24, no U2 plane…70,000 feet- lucian glides past in trails of trellislight terraforming through a dressdoor on an orgy of limbs carapesced, open sky anxilia, Berlin calling, fire light blowing,
Laing and Troptree an early surgeon of French new wave onacouch, OCEAN SINK SURREALISM is anti Kitchen Sink Surrealism, anti-realism inaway, francophonic, the wave is large, tu vois? Tuba-leaning facespitton … we experience also war, waste, shanty, docks, warehouse, girder, iron, blownapart, so vous stroll, ramble through pure optical sonarous, shear-zone, so ze images fracture, shatter, location iss blurry, camera speeds thru fears – Ludovico, an Italian neorealist apparates out of the limbnami, mussolini! mussolini! Mussels vwher? There dapplering off into corrugated lunar double of the dock water, sheen, DOCK FUCK, with the shots broken open, obliteratas of spatial indeterminacy, godardesques, straubian amorphas, deepening stratas of emptying, empting light canisters, fassbinderen schmideten fear, city-deserts, mirrors, proliferating points of view with no connection, violenca. A suit out past the makeshift bar jetties, succubus-whispers, German officer visits Picasso in Paris, bombs phwop phudding, and he sees Guernica, agawp revulsed at the modernist chaos sez to Picasso, did you do this? And you know what he says – beat – no, you did this! Guffaws, wineblows Crescenda Piliptout overzeala flying ona martini jet toward the li-
Umberto Boccioni, and the futurismo are there, and the gyroscope kid, kenosha, Giacomo balla, street light study of light (https://medium.com/signifier/the-failure-of-the-futurists-4789d9be23e9) dynamism of a dog on a leash… As Cubists showed subjects from multiple viewpoints, the Futurists often showed subjects in multiple moments. In the same way that we know a 3D object from different angles, so we also see things in motion. Attempting to show movement and the dynamism of forms was thought to be more real, and revealing, than the familiar photo-real ‘freeze-frame’ style painting. This approach also led to Futurist experiments with photography, using multiple exposures and blurring of movement…Here we are presented with a fragmented view of a street as seen from inside a fast car as it rounds a bend. At the same time we see aspects of the vehicle itself as if we are a slow pedestrian watching it speed past. This fusion of street and car is painted in bands that imply the compression of sound known as the Doppler Effect. The excitement of speeding through a city requires more than just the car, there also has to be the infrastructure of the city and the road…The Intonarumori were ‘noise machines’ and were used to perform specially composed music to express the ‘Art of Noises’. Each box contained different mechanisms for making and controlling sound and were showcased in concert at the London Coliseum in 1914. The set-up looked like a cubist sculptural installation and in combining this with sound composition, sound-sculpture found its early Modern from.
3.
INTONARUMORI FUTURISTA!
Someone shouting the phosphorourization of the metropole (Nomadic air currents, the war machine…Deleuze Guattari… white phosphorous… WHERE VIRILIO WAS WRONG… WAS THE VOID…. THE GAP IN DISTANCE REDUCTION.. IN SPEED… Arabia was coming closer across the channel the northsea…. It was Lawrence of arabia riding a horseback of future light…. All blueshifting… the lie of the Suez crisis… that islamata found a new channel transient as the starscape… kinematas …got the feel for oil, the black sun… from the northsea…want more.. 2020…a bible group…canning town…a south korean sermon giver from the church of shincheonji preaches…a plot…. Information leaping futurial …. Info futurial.. A MOTIF A VIGNETTE FROM THE CZECHOSLOVAKIAN FACTORY… THE LSD LINK…. TRANSFERENCE… TRANSMISSION…. A character who collects suns in their pockets… each night…. Opens them says look I have all the suns here… you want one? Nuclear explosions plucked… into a pocket. ATLANTIS, THULE.
Laing drags a sovietal of wood light, cast ina dreamscape of tarkovskian forest, sentinel white retinal dream-like clears of terror to hammer his own: there are, two waves, this wave, mirroral awareness wave of oneself by onseself, and this wave, awareness of oneself as an object of someone else’s observation. Two sinewaves, bipolarities of an individual… sometimes resonating, sometimes – laingeyes bulge shear, torn! Audible gasp s awhile from the pantry taper in, a man lathered in butter, now flying through the room trailing slips, falls, screams, This means that, ultimately, the status of the Real is purely parallactic and, as such, non- substantial: is has no substantial density in itself, it is just a gap between two points of perspective, perceptible only in the shift from the one to the other. The parallax Real is thus opposed to the standard (Lacanian) notion of the Real as that which “always returns to its place”—as that which remains the same in all possible (symbolic) uni- verses: the parallax Real is, rather, that which accounts for the very multiplicity of ap- pearances of the same underlying Real—it is not the hard core which persists as the Same, but the hard bone of contention which pulverizes the sameness into the multi- tude of appearances. In a first move, the Real is the impossible hard core which we can- not confront directly, but only through the lenses of a multitude of symbolic fictions, virtual formations. In a second move, this very hard core is purely virtual, actually non- existent, an X which can be reconstructed only retroactively, from the multitude of symbolic formations which are “all that there actually is.”
zloop, edgefula scrapa vlomchok europe bigbloon, framgnet island shorncoast, like comet fragment, treailing, the hulk on collision with west coast, see why they angry – an IRA sedgefulscrapa A CLOCKWORK ORANGE… ANTHONY BURGESS TRAVELLING TO RUSSIA IN ’61 having written the first half…. Tilbury Docks…. VIOLENCE… LUDOVICO TECHNIQUE… PAVLOVIAN CONDITIONING SYSTEMIC.. AVERSION THERAPY…. ELECTROCONVULSIVE SHOCK THERAPY…. HARSH GUTTURAL K LANGUAGE, RUSSO-ANGLIA…. Coldwar kineticz TAKES A DROOGI… ZLOOPS UP INTO A B24 NO U2 PLANE… 70,000FT STARING DOWN AT SPECK-DOT BRITAIN, edgefulscrapea vlomchok europe… fragment island Ireland shorncoast, like comet fragments trailing the hulk on collision with west coast… BRING IN J.F. // BRING IN J.F.K / bring in Ireland/US spinoff / IRA episode… shorn off spittlezone frag of war, wardeep hole gravity suck, suck boom, explosion of interstellar stardust, by logic tension, explosionism, the dialectic method was nuclear…. Humming…. tidalectics…siniy goluboy resonances… a cold smear of sun… brenschluss point…. Where the brain stop and elysia drop down tunnellng hurtling through depthcord exposure plate, secret clandestine missile siloes. Flashing, porton down, Porton down, LSD, tripwire, thunderous roar of oceanic city turning over to angeleian modernistico vision of programmatic behaviour, pavlovian skyscrape community – ballardian billiardowork-play-sleep-repeat…. Fried
DOCK FUCK is here tonight on the edge of the depthling, lost sinewaves of a cold isle dog dock, tonight in a delusion from the war, a whole ionospheric conspiracy of localised waves, subplots, tendrils of light, gonegoes of dark germanic p-waves, Hans and freids, rivers of film, contorting, refracting, byeshadowous of the inter-z of – he can’t finger, loose his drawers over the sink out pantrypast corridor, this Ninadaughter, head flown back, fuc king beelt- whiplashing katabatic troptree on the chimney, gabling mussels from under the empty dockfreight, – Ala awhile voiling deeper inward, staring at the gargoyles nowblown open on chaisse, a lung in the piano, heartcords ablunting chandelierous that They should chase a clip of the ocean void of human coordinates… filming on a frigate in bering-like cold channel, white visitation bright against the dover cliff…. A story of love and schizophrenia an oil man falls in love with a mer-woman named Goebbelina… the anti-kitchen sink, OSS, sem acronym as the Office of Strategic Services 70 Grosvenor Street, asking a B24, no U2 special op crowd to fly a camera crew over channel, Manifesto 121 algerique spootter, riding wave of tradecurrentz – time juts, the wave begins gathering backward, vialas moving the butterscape to buddhalin pillows afloor, light dropping, monitor clicking abak lighting a door light upon the wall to a silence of 59
4.
Hiroshima mon amour, chiarascuro of wet ampouler arms caressing, paining, limbs atouch slow piano to oboe, You saw nothing in Hiroshima. Nothing. I saw Everything. I saw the hospital – I’m sure of it. The hospital in Hiroshima exists. How could I not have seen it? Gliding through a corridor of elysia, Japanese woman-nurses, sliding violins, entering the room where she lies, transferences of eye-camera holding, holding notes. You didnt see the hospital in Hiroshima. You saw nothing in Hiroshima. Four times at the museum. What museum in Hiroshima? (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ZwrCOXLrIA) stairs, caverns, brutalist alleys, infralight concrete heat capacities, spinning orbic lightstrings
resonata, discoball resonatas. Four times at the museum in Hiroshima. I saw people walking around. People walk around, lost in thought, among the photographs, the reconstructions for lack of anything else. The photographs. The photographs, the reconstructions for anything else. The explanations for lack of anything else, a hanging jet liner, concrete pillory statefluxal, a model destructa of city-bomb less the corpuscules of cloudlight, the mist, the chanceturn of a B24, Four times at the museum in Hiroshima. I watched the people. I myself lost in thought, looked at the scorched metal. The twisted metal. Metal made as vulnerable as flesh. I saw the bouquet of bottle caps. Whou would have thought? Human flesh, suspended as if still alive, its agony still flesh. Stones. Charred stones. Shattered stones. Anonymous masses of hair. Oedipa Maas and the paranoids. The Crying of Lot Hiroshima. That the women of Hiroshima pon waking in the morning, would find had fallen out. Turning gyring, the centre cannot hold, the light must out, against the – I was hot in peace square, a bold burnt scalp the shape of a country, sears, 10000 degrees in Peace Square, inertias of light, stored in the B24hull strafe of the eyes creeping toward the radar of a concrete-hangarful screen, the temperature of the sun in Peace Square, a car, How could you not know it? The grass. It’s quite simple. You saw nothing in Hiroshima. Nothing. A square. Sear felt as dome, two persons, empty. Hands touching shoulder, sole oboe. Voiceovers float, messages pass, were you really there? So much, gone-shot laced out past the ocean sink surrealists new wave of oldlight dissipata…
Troptree idles forlorn, by the black mussel-less lake, drags the water with the tip of his balletic shoe, a voice cuts him up off balance: ‘it’s wun great current, squinting at a boatswain’s figure on the yacht H. Drax, Troptree stepping into the lunar hold, Wimpole Street psychiatrist Eric Strauss is cowering inacorner, diastemic fingerholes I.F. Ian Fleming, I.F. InFernal machine, Drax real name Hugo von der Drache, his face pock raked like a moon by a wartime bomb – blast turns the engines dalliancing out into midstyx, where to, Dover, to meet Propellant Silo, revolutions of torque enginingout, the musselim.
The soiree breaks off into minor wrestlings, Ralph Rummney and the brushworks are casing the joint for liquid paints, pollockian scribs, abstracting semolina marks on the dock-canvas, tachismic smogaloid pissalating in the cramped working conditions of the pantry, sez Butterman Blow, transpires hub to Sandra Blow the abstractist, ‘is not a concious imitation of Pollock but a pragmatic solution to the conditions of the pantry,’ pav-loava stuffed in a deep tunnel of face that keeps lolapaloozing into the passing stream of traffic and bak aslinky so starts a spontaneous filmwork threading the thermonuclear umbrella as pollockian gu-spatter, antification of humanity under – half the hall are dead dead, half alive dead dying of leukeamias of soul, limbslopping off eyes splaying souljuice over the canvas, rolling machine-lenses zummeling up the flesheels, redundant alivedeads diving into dock water, emerging with soulshards peeling, distending, early cybernetic debaconizing eru-plasure to the night, launching in 3 – 2 – wan-jiging thru the crowd is Lucian achase of lorna kitty, who meninsky is oiling in the third filmchamber now a smoky train of derangus Arab drumming, Gysin prancing about a stage splaying a huge corpse of canvas slop radio staticizing on a deep Midwestern drawl, and russki kopchekik light, bareels past limbs, screaming kitty, joinedby Sinclair Beiles out of the ramparts, Beiles plural! gu-footstepping a sea of Arab oildrums into a northseascape of liners poising after kitty, lost catkitten Masolinda, lost during the war in a rubble-sized Manhattana of bombstrew – clipping, heeling through to the static rite of axel light, bleeds, thru the stainglass, weeping, It’s a chapel? A chapel? Whaat? turings of cryptlace over the black mantle-drill of sonarlis. alphas gammas, amix in docksoup flesheel (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31CcclqEiZw), Brenschluss Begun, the germano-israeli setman kibbutzas full camagear asinai souping gleeface toward Apiede Nuar in the drax-wake ofa skiffleboat, swaingon, moonface hesez eh, moonface
– fireworks, outanowhereus deep booomkaabitza, phwuush, pop, eyez poppingouta sockets of docklake, woooei, In this technologically triumphant age, when the rockets begin to scream towards the moon but the human mind seems at an even greater distance, anger has a limited use. Love has a wider application, and it is that which needs describing wherever it can be found so that we may all recognise it and learn its use.
In days of yore, at a World Science Fiction Convention in Boston, a Harvard graduate student polished his reputation as a brilliant mad scientist by roaming the convention halls, brandishing what at first glance appeared to be a rather peculiar steel bowling ball. Portholes perforated its surface, providing a glimpse of electronic hardware inside; tangled wires sprouted from the same holes, and a gear train surrounded the mysterious object’s equator. “What’s that?” I asked him. “It’s the gyro platform for an intercontinental ballistic missile,” he replied. “If you put it on a Titan rocket, it will fly to Kiev.” “How do you know?” “It’s an inertial guidance system, stupid. It knows where Kiev is.” “I know how inertial guidance systems work, but how do you know it knows where Kiev is?” “Oh, that. It was stamped on the box.” This sorcerer’s apprentice had discovered that for $900 you could buy a surplus intercontinental ballistic missile, 10 years before the electronics were declassified. His Titan was delivered on two railway cars, “Kiev Titan Missile” stamped on the crates. He junked the body, donated the engines to an art museum, and saved the electronics for his research. A tall tale? Sounds like one, but the gyro platform was there for all to see. I didn’t understand it, nor did my mad interlocutor, and anyone who claims otherwise is not being entirely honest. Despite a gyroscope’s utter simplicit
5.
Wimpole Rumpole. Dancing in rain, wideeyed Laing 21 Wimpole, mescaline horizon blurring with the highrise dogeating, Marylebonus, sky white retinal, hi sez Mina Semyon, he’s peeling orange, she’s peeling-hanging her family, looming over largewall, evenetic grain siloes, laundryline whispers calling through coaliron fog, anticylonic eyeface transmissions bounding off bright planetial eyes, dreaming afuk over Scandinavian pressurefront, she drawing cold continental winds from her Tatarhood, curled up in a little ball in a damp cold room in the Tartar Republic, Laing moves the diluted glass from the small round innocuous room Rumpole, rocking with Mina in a rockchair rain patios sciving windows, ‘my father is dead, my mother is lying in bed with covers over her head crying’ ‘And the Tartar landlady?’ ‘whose son was just killed in the war, was lying behind the Russian oven wailing. I am sitting with shoulders hunched, sandwiched between their grief, my dress feels cold and damp, almost standing up, I am feeling a nobody, not considered, beaten down by life and abandoned.” Panda crossings outside Wimpole complexly sequenced, pulse and flash lights confusing drivers and pedestrians, smashing rainlate pedestals, the little girl imagining the atom bomb was in her stomach. 12 European countries form the European Space Agency, the Irish Republican Army calls off its border campaign in northern ireand, Pampas underground nuclear tests, panda crossing, another heavy smog developing over London. It comes from Czechoslovakia, the LSD in the solution, permitted by British estab MI5,6,7 to adminster, the 6hour sessions, better than years of orthodox psychoanalysis, ignoring Mont daugen who catatonized into couch, enhance consiousness, psychic energising, creaping back out into the tranquilising night of the city, eyes alit as V-dock alabaster crystals
He’s [Stalin] put that into my mind, my subconscious mind – that I can’t be trusted, and I’ll always be – you know – the big bad wolf spider will come after me – the world is full of big bad wolf spiders – he’s got that impregnated into my brain in some way, into my subconscious mind. And occasionally it seems to come to the surface all the time, you know – that the world is full of big bad wolf spiders. A lamp, a vase, a cut out extract of Kennan: “It was here, in the London City, that the great abhorrent spider of monopoly capital was believed to have his hidden lair. It was from here that he spun his invisible webs of economic bondage, which only the genius of Marx had been able to per¬ ceive and to expose. It was from here that he flung these webs out over the distant continents, to snare the helpless peoples, to en¬ slave them in the silken strait jacket of financial dependence. Finally, it was here, in the great country houses of England, that he consumed, in arrogant luxury, the stolen products of other people’s toil…that ghastly scene that had been enacted on a July night in 1918 in the cellar of the Ipatyev house in Ekaterinburg, in the Urals, when the imperial family of Russia — the Tsarina, the daughters, the family retainers, and the Tsar himself, the cousin of the English king, bearing his young sick son in his arms — had stood there in their helplessness, guilty primarily only of the accident of birth, to be mowed down with automatic rifles from a distance of six feet — and their bodies then to be dragged out into the forest on peasant carts and burned in an evil yellow conflagration that illu¬ minated the whole night sky.
Minagoes, under the table, Laing finding a drainhole of scotch, climbing into a darkspace, dappled out of inkworn, discussing his doppler the Czechoslovakian supplychain of LSD, the dilution rate of dosage, the big bad wolf spiders, The madman often can be to us, Even through his profound wretchedness and disintegration – panda crossed – panda crossed, the hierophant of the sacred, An exile from the scene of being as we know it – an alien – a stranger, signalling to us from the void in which he is foundering, a void which may be peopled by presences that we do not even dream of.
Soundlakes ripple from a crash past marlybone curb, curses, arabesques, They used to be called demons and spirits, and they used to be known and named. He has lost his sense of self, his feelings, his place in the world as we know it. He tells us he is dead. But we are distracted from our cosy security by this mad ghost that haunts us with his visions and voices that seem so senseless and of which we feel impelled to rid him, cleanse him, cure him. In the multidimensions of streetlight, knocking on a door, a door that leads to, to the PM, Macmillan, yes, I am sleeping with the Soviet embassy building, come to Czechoslovakia, puzzlement, with me, dissolving into aether, grouse hunt to Netley rain, wild electrical vircators of arterial resupply, wartremors, fuck fronts, grounding psych-unit, fakeschizo pensionfraudee catch-22 undershocked across an insulin sky, Tavistock Monday, an explosion of doubledecker light, the outside falling in on a forest retreat, a calm above layers of tube tunnel, anxious screaming, electroconsulvive thalamotic, shock of light through the sill, still AM, Rehborn Ovah real name Ignatius Crutchley, MV windrush, identity card side-pocketed, next permanent residence ANOTHER PART OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE, 5 Carlisle Mansions, Carlisle Place, SW5, London, case the police aksme, Piccadilly Circus- that circus have a magnet for him, that circus represent life, that circus is the beginning and the ending of the world, nods off coffeecup – Out in the distance, out past the void, glistening, Glissant waves of electrical light nearly touch at the edge of the evening, often forever, without knowing it, past the door of no return, an emptiness deep and endless
6.
The North Sea Reich Plot
– Edith, naked again, Whitechapel Station carrying umbrella. Edith: I’ve no tongue. I’ve a tongue but it’s not my actual tongue. LAING: You have a tongue in your mouth anyway. EDITH: Yes, I’ve a tongue in my mouth, but it’s not my actual tongue. I’ve no actual tongue. (I was a bit lost at this point.? Tongue = nipple (= penis). Tongue = nipple seemed from yesterday to be more important. She had apparently lost her “tongue” hence “couldn’t speak.” Had she been weaned? Bitten off and swallowed nipple? How lost it? Castrated?) but what level of regression to work on?) LAING Well I’m glad to hear that in a way. One tongue in your mouth is enough for anyone. EDITH I’ve a tongue in my mouth. (It peeks out from between her teeth rather coyly.) LAING You won’t lose that tongue. The other tongue never really belonged to you anyway. You must have pinched it from somewhere … You’ve at least ten nipples anyway. EDITH I was married. LAING To your father? EDITH To Dr Laing … Dr Laing cut out my tongue in Africa. (I had previously suggested that her mother had cut out her tongue for marrying me in Africa—when she said “Dr Laing cut out…” I was completely taken by surprise … silence for some time.) […] LAING I came here to see you but you were out with your mother and I had to go away. (reassurance) EDITH Yes. They told me there was a hole in the ground. They are going to take my brains out. I have beautiful teeth. LAING And no one is going to take a razor to them. EDITH I’ve no teeth. LAING It’s a terrible thing for a baby to dash her gums against granite breasts. EDITH Yes, it’s a terrible thing. I was born in Poland this morning. LAING If only you could have pinched your father’s pole. You’re a baby piper. EDITH My father gave me a kilt. LAING And the bone under the kilt?
Seismata, on her palms and feet, Ilse Thalassa-Braun, enters Tavistock, with her mother, Rehborn-turned, they are seismic prospecting in the north sea of her uterus….
The Electric Aretha Franklin comes out in March, The Tender the Moving, the Swinging Aretha Franklin in August, with the Irving Berlin 1930s radiohit, creeping arpegiattic piano haunting abrasions of string and soul, Ilse’s soul staring out at Canning Town townhall, horror-come, canarygirl mother hammering on door, tea-ilse, stepping out into raingauze of traffic, pea-coal smog lacing to barrier, screaming, cometh light, air-raid shelters, tea-ilse- tea up up tippidy boo, jazzhanding, transmission stations, blitz-sirens, decommissioned deep, register jackripples of Germanic plot razorwave, vinelines with sea daemons, strange lights, black solarine spurts, seaweedwet pavements, black sootseet, passing ship foghorns, a naked girl by the barrier under moon, dopplers into control tower, comeascream, Aretha, protectorate of the English thames arteria against the black sunreich plot, bromine shelf of echoes, faint germanic, thuleians, storm troopers, depth breathers drowning east London, how deep is the ocean, up at the radiotower eyetoeye calming till the sirens come, blitz-, no blue-red, ambulatic pitched up, sectioned strings swooning, bare bossom feet kicking at policeman knows her mother, blinking rain, father strapped in an electric chair, magnetic currents looks like Bacon’s Study after Velazquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X, disintegrating, transference, transmitting to deathward oblivion, the V with his name on it, his calling, the Vat in the Can, Velazquezian horror, an interface of thunder… magnetic magenta bursts
How much do I love you?
Oh, I’ll tell you no lie
How deep is the ocean?
How high is the sky?
How many, how many, how many
How many times a day do I think of you?
And how, how many rosebuds
Are sprinkled with dew?
Oh, yeah, how far, how far would I travel
Just to be where you are?
Oh, can anyone tell me how far
Is the journey from here to a star?
Oh, oh, right now and if I
If I ever lost you, ever lost you
Tell me how much would I cry?
Oh yeah, yeah
How deep, how deep is the ocean?
How high is the sky? Oh yeah
Aretha of the English Northsea Deep Reich Plot, cuts her teeth staring at the ITN reports of Nigel Ryan, real name Herman Quandt, halfson of nazi deepsea propagandist Goebbels, coded messages, humming power lines, strange surges, outages, 5am creeping spirits entering into Canning Town with bodies in the water, bodies in the water, black fogs, night days, Nigel, at the east German side of the Berlin barbed wire, in a room of German voices, pinhole eyes of the Ahnenerbe, August 23rd 1961.
Jun 14th 1961 Nigel Ryan in Yugoslavia
Jun 28th 1961 Nigel Ryan in Dalmatian Journey – Yugoslavia’s tourist coastline
Aug 23rd 1961 Nigel Ryan with Crisis in Berlin- the East German erection of a barbed wire barricade on Aug 13th
Aug 30th 1961 Nigel Ryan with Lebanese Holiday. Camera: Stan Crockett. Sound: John Collings. (originally planned for Aug 16th)
Oct 19th 1961 Nigel Ryan in Singapore at the Crossroads
Nov 2nd 1961 Nigel Ryan in Malaya (http://www.78rpm.co.uk/itn.htm)
Wirth claimed that the Aryans had evolved in an Arctic homeland two million years ago, before establishing their advanced society on a land in the North Atlantic which had since sunken into the sea, giving rise to the stories about Atlantis, How deep is the ocean, looking for Atlantis, she finds an A adds it to his surname, Aryan, it’s SS resonance imaging, SS, Schutzstaffel, mapdrawers of seismic registers – Sub-Salt imaging, salt sheets, Sub-Surface, payments into the crust of obscure sympathetic subterrain, plotting, growing secret spectras, they are looking for the Schwarze Sonne, the Black Sun, spurts of black light. Thule Society, the Hyperborean Ocean, Ptolemy (Geographia, 2.21).