I know I promised artwork with going back to university, but at the present moment I just have no way to record it! I have been busy though, don't you worry.
So, here's some writing stuff, first, a new tumblr which I will hopefully update semi-regularly: Descriptions of Heavy Metal Videos. The concept is extremely simple: I describe exactly what happens during the course of Heavy Metal videos in prose ranging between dry and sarcastic. I hope I do not have to explain why this is funny!
Now I got some poems what I have been writing. Actually the first one I wrote like a year ago, but hey ho. First two short ones, then a whopper. No one reads this shit anyway!
After the Clocks Stop
There will be singing and laughter
There will be fires and dogs
There will be strange vortices
And black dust
And our fingers will be wreathed in silver
After the clocks stop
There will be revolution
There will be great upheavals
There will be embers
There will be flags
There will be fucking in the streets
And our bodies too will undergo many changes
After the clocks stop
Black Metal For Life
How I miss purity of intent
How I miss certainty of purpose
Photographs taken at night
Leather studded with nails
And clothes that have been buried
The happiest moment of my life:
Held aloft above a crowd
In a German field
Drunk, sunstruck, bruised and hoarse
With unfiltered cigarettes
And screaming for Christian blood
I Saw the End of the World on Bournemouth Beach
I saw the end of the world on Bournemouth Beach
Just earlier this evening
And I thought I might as well write something down about it
I was in my room
It was about half ten in the evening
I did not fancy sleep just yet
(I could not achieve sleep)
I rolled three small joints and two cigarettes
I put them in my tin
I filled a bottle with water
I had an mp3 walkman
Loaded with Looking For Europe,
A selection from Current 93,
Andrew King’s The Amfortas Wound,
Much of In Gowan Ring,
Some Sieben, Down in June,
Ulver, Laibach and
The Legendary Pink Dots.
Poets music, alright
For a certain sort of poet
I had spent the evening reading Lovecraft
I suppose you’re getting some idea
Of how these thoughts come about.
Some people go looking for trouble:
I go looking for some insular, bleak experience
I have looked for it on the hills and woods of my native island
I have looked for it on streets, on mountains
And found it a few times.
I think I found it yesterday evening
(for midnight has now passed)
When I saw the end of the world on Bournemouth beach
Two men had built a fire in a pit
They were Polish, or somewhere east of there
Incredibly well prepared
Bottles of vodka
Stools to sit on
Charcoal for the fire
(The younger’s hands were black)
They were singing some raucous, melancholic song
And making frequent toasts
From behind, standing on the promenade
Only the finest orange trace of their outlines is visible
And beyond them there is
You see, the beach of my mind
Is the beach on the north coast of the Isle of Wight
Where we used to drink and smoke when I was a teen
There the sea is narrow and expensive
A definite northern horizon in the lights of Portsmouth and Southampton
(Sometimes the fog or rain came down
And it became a ribbon of soft light
In a grey haze)
But here, there is no horizon
On one side the stubby, half-hearted pier
Projects out, it’s decking pulsing with coloured light
To starboard, the beach curves round, comes to a point
Then dips back toward Poole
Between these two points one cannot, at this hour
Discern the boundary between the sea and sky
Just an inchoate darkness
With a strip of surf across the bottom and
Far above, constantly being obscured by shifting clouds
Some of the brighter stars
Polaris maybe, Sirius, Algol…
I always mean to learn astronomy properly.
And I remembered once some years before
I might have been sixteen, seventeen.
(I think it was the summer before my first trip to Germany)
All my friends had gone to the Festival
But it did not interest me, and I hadn’t bothered finding tickets
It was a beautiful day I remember
Shimmering with heat
And I had gone down to Ryde on my own
To those rocks on the sea-break at the end of the harbour wall,
With an eighth, some 20x, amyl butyrate and 35cl of the red label
With a vague idea to achieve some sort of
Strange shamanic state
And I had seen what I can only describe
As some pretty weird shit
I saw the Spinnaker towers lights shake and begin swaying
Swinging as if on the end of vast marching arms
And suddenly it took human shape
And it wrestled its legs from the ground
And began to slide around the Pompey skyline
Till I looked away
And it was just the tower again.
So I concentrated on the repeat show:
Once it disappeared entirely
Once a passing oil tanker cut under its feet
And it was suddenly on top of it
In the middle of the Solent
(It sank through the deck)
And one time it even did a sort of dance
Assuming an almost human shape
But by that time I was pretty far away
I got out a thick permanent black pen
And drew the scene from the harbour entrance
On the actual rock
And then I wandered off and did some graffiti
In the shelters on the sea wall up by Appley
Skulls smoking cigarettes, rainbow spitting
Devil women with fucked up eyes
Symbols from Thelema and Wicca, Asatru,
For back then I still had some vague belief
That there was something beyond ordinary life
(Though I’ve since realised that, thankfully,
But despite that digression, I don’t want you to think
That the drugs really had anything to do with my
Apocalyptic fancies on Bournemouth Beach
I had no true hallucinogens,
And it was only three very small joints
They were not visions
The sky did not crack
Angels did not unfurl their wings like
Six dead crows in a blender
And fling forth turquoise hellfire.
And nothing rose out of the sea,
Euclidean or not,
And the dead stayed in their tombs
As they inevitably will
For all of time to come
It was just a feeling.
One of the men got up laughing,
And went to piss in the sea
Not even that strong a feeling.
I had a religious experience once,
Me who believes in no gods, no souls.
And I do not discount it.
I was on the curtain wall of an old castle
And I looked out upon the countryside
And I looked along the wall, and there was a flower
Growing inbetween two stones
And I got to thinking of the men who had built this castle
Or rather, ordered it built.
Cruel men, powerful men,
Right bastards probably.
And how barely anyone now remembers their names
Except the old dear in the castle museum
And how their mighty, oppressive fortress
Crumbles gently into flowers.
And I felt infinitely small,
Adrift in oceans of time and space.
And yet I felt valuable,
Essential, a crucial component in a vast
Completely at peace with the world
And in that one moment,
I could have gladly accepted death.
Off to one side a group on the promenade in shadows
Illicit teen drinkers I think
I remember their lot well
Big bottles of cider, tiny bottles of vodka
Injury, sickness, embarrassment,
Desperate furtive sex
Ill advised experiments
With some of the harder drugs
A desperate, pugnacious longing
To be adults and to be free
(Not knowing yet that freedom
Is just something they made up to sell perfume).
And doubtless down along this coast there are other groups
And perhaps other men round even other fires,
North in the town proper the panda cars circle like vultures
As the first round of fighting begins
And perhaps there are even others like me.
A bearded oddity finishing his last cigarette
Flinching from the searchlight stabs of the teens camera flashes
And desperately wishing he’d bought his sketchbook.
So that he could note down his vague impressions.
Of the end of the world on Bournemouth beach
The drugs are just a poetic metaphor, mum and dad. Honests. I am a good boy.