Saturday, April 28, 2007

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Room 35

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Room 34













out or was he where he was he when - exterminated into the music that questionmarked the edges, whose triumph was to











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Room 33












































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Room 32




























































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Room 31





























































































This heart pain is not a medicine.
































































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Sunday, April 22, 2007

Room 30


Birth From Earth


In the slosh the slush of consciousness

And from the mud of blood:

Order from slime and sparks from dark

Did fire this flesh:

And when the brain began to thump

O gone by god was God, thus spake.


And when the black began to pump

Then were we alone alone:

We spun and shuddered in our ecstasy

Upon this bloody stone.

Crafting hearts do wait in wombs

And Death laughs out:

He clatters like the Tin Drum Man

The world up downs; but it don’t mind.

A thousand clapping clowns gyrate,

They have no heads, for it is birth from earth

That they do celebrate. Ho! Ho! Ho!


Silence laughs, and grins, and leers and sneers:

Or so we apperceive.... the subtle snake, the gecko, or the crocodile....


O you smile you smile you mathic son of man!


But crickets green in coats of gold are busy munching up:

They sing the numbers of the world,

And girls with violins

Are just like they. Bibles burn! Burn!


The hand that holds a pen

Is as subtle as a billion flies.



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Friday, April 20, 2007

Room ..... ??



He


He died out or was he where he was he when - exterminated into the

music that questionmarked the edges, whose triumph was to be


precedent



to a glowing failure as of, say. a mad re run of The Charge of The

Light Brigade or some such other Tennysonian echoes still leaving the

forests of god—faced television sets wrench—wracked and abandoned


with


their smashed screens and dead-faced fuckedness that brings in the

iron turbans of sperm and delicately treasured regrettedness. This

kind of thing whose over-adjectived conceitedness would be enough


to


make yu’ sell up for a Kroner if you knew which country had Kroners,

or Deutschmarks.


And it tallys, doesn’t it, how Richard Prebble’s
related to Goebbels – its the sort of negative positivity that leads
to the viper pits of toothless guesture. But you play the game, silly
old you, knowing that Xmas can always be interchanged with


Easter and Labour Day with Anzac


etc etc etc etc etc etc so perhaps you become

Obsessed with Louise Bourgeois or information theory or taking up

swimming inside a question mark water tank,


or masturbate with your

infuriating silly grin onto a blank photograph.


Something like that.


You might well object as well I you might at all this negative

postivity leaking out of my right ear that is really made of teflon

how God, for example, is trapped inside a theorem by Godel with the

umlaut or Gauss or Whitehead-its better perhaps to take in a hooker

and fuck the bitch against the wall and listen to her simulated

screams of animal ecstasy.


Or am I wrong as usual?


I want to fail over and over again, but only in the normative sense of that wiley word. Perhaps I should mention Marlowe or something about another harbour bridge at this point. Perhaps nothing should have said at all - after all there’s not much to say really except maybe I’ll go I cant go.


You


live in a sunken steamboat and only occasionally is your hand espied,
waving whitely above the whitecaps – so presumably the roar of 5000
rugby maniacs is really justified, and their joy is yours, even if you
cant see the game: or do you dream only of the empty book, complete with uncompleteness, ready to clasp you in its leaves of what they said, so you limp to the dairy, only to buy a useless piece of soap because you felt for it, and it you, both of you stuck inbeing and the impossible quagmire of clarification because x=y or it did last Monday.





Room .....













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He leaned closer. Perhaps there wasn’t much hope in him.

























The crosses, the rows and rows,



the ordered dead: the endlessly dead;



the white,




the crosses,




the dead,




the dazzling,






the white rows.”
































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Room 21


One day, years ago, 1969 or 1970, I was in Queen Street, I think there’d been an antiwar demonstration, and I met this old fellow of 70 or 80 or so. I was young then,

but I liked talking to old people about the old days. We had a coffee at Coffee Time, a place I loved, in Wellesley Street I think it was. I loved having a coffee (filter), and sausages, eggs and toast, and maybe tomatoes. (I would very often sit there alone – I love to sit alone in coffee bars.) He talked of why he had become a communist – as I suppose I might have a communist, too, in those days, or something close to a communist.

He told me of the First World War, the horror of it, and the effect on his mind of seeing the cemeteries in Belgium or wherever the dead are laid. “The dead”, he said.

The rows and rows of the dead. And the crosses. The endless crosses. The crosses in endless rows or diagonals, like white bones. The dead, the unending dead, the rows and rows and rows of all those dead. All that life. All that once life. The dead. I couldn’t bear it. The dead, the dead, the dead, the dead. The waste, the absolute waste: the total futility, the loss.” He had some coffee. I was glad he could speak this immensity to me. I was young, and it was what I wanted to hear. Yes, there had to have been some better way.


He leaned closer. Perhaps there wasn’t much hope in him.


The crosses, the rows and rows, the ordered dead: the endlessly dead; the white, the crosses, the dead, the dazzling, the white rows.”

Room 20

War Crimes

A report on United States

War Crimes against Iraq


by Ramsey Clarke and others

Report to the Commission of Inquiry for the
International War Crimes Tribunal
Maisonneuve Press, 1992


Facts are blunt things, easy to cite and substantiate This is a study
based on a factual analysis of unfolding events. But facts area thin
reed when there are great material interests at stake.
The oil-rich Gulf region is the largest concentration of natural wealth
on the planet today. Yet it is a looted region of wrenching poverty.
Facts or defenseless humans seem to matter little in the struggle over
who dominates and controls this essential resource.
Seventy-five years ago in the midst of World War I those who opposed
the war, claiming that it was a struggle to re-divide and carve up the
world markets, had far fewer facts to prove their point. In the heat of
a war that cost 20 million lives, the very charge was treated as treason.

Today, any high school history book will describe World War I

as

a


war


Of horrific and stupid slaughter – a struggle for power amongst the major
Imperialist nations. Fought by murderers – soldiers. And for the benefit of
gangsters.


THE FIRST GULF WAR – THE US CONNED SADDAM HUSSEIN
AND DELIBERATLEY PROVOKED A MURDEROUS WAR CAUSING
THE DEATHS OF THOUSANDS – THIS LEAD TO THE PRESENT
MURDEROUS WAR OF 2007 WHICH HAS KILLED AT LEAST
300,000 MEN WOMEN AND CHILDREN IN IRAQ


NOW IN 2007 PEOPLE DIE EVERY DAY BECAUSE OF THE MURDEROUS

US INVASION OF THE SOVEREIGN NATION OF IRAQ






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Room 16




There is you know sometimes a solid darkness so near impenetrable we have to eat our way through. It is essential for morale. Certain soldiers dream of eyes to stab, or, at the last, of avoiding. But we are enjoined from the dark and neo-natural engines of our past, and – well – quite frankly – we have to eat the wall. Those black and bassile waves come at us. Heads and horribles all gorgon with eyes come at us. We hate, yet need, this darkness. Perhaps it’s a Northern thing. Or it’s (just?) us? We, or some of us. Sometimes. And some times – like ants on the flax-flower whose weird white and purple spikes break to the sky so bitter and remote, yet, oh how so blue and gold-filled, like, well, like a set of magic teeth. And things. Things we’d never suspected, horrid and gentle things. These emerge, and come at us. And do we eat through? Eh? Do we? Is this thus our victory? Toward what? By whom? Is The Great One watching?

These questions curl inside a dead leaf mass of erotic sadness until the light is everywhere in the dawn. And we, we are held high. So high, eyes cannot see: yet we are naked pink and vast.





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Room 14