23. Gone onhive

The metaphor has shifted. The hive mind will be responsible for future Elaboration. Thank you.

17. Hope My Hope

Hope my hope is there in time, in time to change me change me.
Movement moved what movement could; it could be something more something.
Projects project on screened screens.
Does this just mean what the mean means?

Hope my hope is there in time, in time to change me change me.
Love my love (O, that my Other would!); it would make something more something.
This dreamer dreams what the meme means,
Unseen, unseen, scene after scene.

16. Hmmm

Haha.

Imagine if every DJ was an action-film fan:

What I mean is DANCE YOU FUCKERS. HAHAHA. IT'S GOOD FOR YOU. I KNOW BECAUSE I AM A DJ.

There is more than one emotion to mixing, I think.
Or should I just pay no attention?

'Wake from your sleep.'

If you played this, I might beat you up.

Simon says, 'The drying of your sneers.'

Haha.

I'm wanking myself to sleep tonight.

I'm thinking of you dancing.

15. Our Waxing Promise

Gods, I need you!
Does our waxing promise wane?
Buried in shit is the spit-
mark of a verdant growth;
not just for me but for my Other.

Let green disguise throw up ulterior moves
while circuitous circusing festivities loom;
fire and smoke are half the joke,
what gets drummed gets drummed gets our use.

14. Sits For A Bit

Newnest descended, shiny new hope of alivedead explores. Geometry foreground more prominent. Rhythm inherent - white diesel noise lulls in the dark.

Peace around abounds. Sits for a bit. Does the washing. Houselifewife better no where she's going...

To movement!

12. ASDFGHJKL

Superfluous shades of stygian sex
(flagrant, flaunted, foolish and furious)
describe dementia decanted and dosed.

Giggling gurus guide with guile
(juggling jugs with jellies and jests)
avid attendant auxiliary angsts.

Looseness leads listlessly leeward
(Kids! Kiss and kink, KK?);
here's hoping healing helps howling homeward.

11. Lot Forty-Nine

"Who will buy? Who will love?

"Found alone, this masturbating wretch with handmade armour of shells and wood, of plastic, satin and lycra. A unique specimen, untouched by bargepoles, curled up in rock this last millennium.

"Entertainment guaranteed! A wonderful pet or ornament! A great talking-point at parties! Equally suited to ladies or gentlemen!

"May I start the bidding at one heart?"

10. Old Motives

As a turn of narrative, it drifted overhead like the worried summertime cloudships of a misspent rural youth in ghettos of bracken and brambles. The resonances are felt to this day; aren't all our summers now shaded by those oldneweverlasting redwood dreams?

Let those thingers feel out the hidden recesses and holy places we spoke of in whisper that once. The heavy solar energy runs latent and energising over us. Can I bear the awesome lightness of your lashes refracted into rainbows by the sun? And there's the warm space between your cheek and mine, where new ventures and old motives are played out in delicious slow-motion heat-haze replay for kicks; a great long-lost protagonist-antagonist nerve ending symphony of touch.

xxx.

9. Isn't She Pretty?

What resistance may the greying officers offer? To catch me, you'll have to see me first - I'm that blur that just passed you in the street in third-hand rags of impossible colour. I'm CCTV-see-through and I can't be pinned down at all. An untriangulable FM broadcaster. A surveilled-transparent blind-spot lingerer.

Have you explored this town's alleyways in the alivedead dark before dawn? Pay special attention to your pathway's acoustics, to the rectilinear playgrounds left deserted by scaffolders, to the humming elephant-machines kept (unprotesting but melancholic) in pens to serve man's needs, to the tiny scribbled nonsensical ravings of lonely men and women found between the cracks of the tiles in a freshly painted subway under an abandoned roundabout which lends silently sliding inertia to the nearby architecture. These things might be important.

A dance in the park before home as the world wakes up.

As I undress myself for bed, I feel like a music-box ballerina at the end of her twirl. There's sprites at play in everything, you know, if you look the right way.

8. Drift

The emotional-historical resonances of this sprawling conurbation create spacetimes unsensed but as real as memory. Cut-ups and fold-ins on architectural scales transport me to forgotten fields (the skeletons of as-yet-unbuilt, long-since-abandoned warehouses hang ghostly and pale) whilst towerblocks abyssed by pirates topple and crash down about my ears (experienced verdancy undertakes experiments veering toward verticality). The dizzying diurnal discs of the sun and moon rise and set, rise and set.

7. Checkoneto

Priestechs, priestechs, how have dey intafaded to blacknest, estars unithought woods o' evershine?

Atlas, countriesons unmapped lie between us, ourparentheticselves.

6. Odometer

My creations already created, as if broadcasting on FM in my sleeping hours through choice and not by haphazard dreamed accident.

Finding myself in an industrial estate on the edge of town, beauty revealed where beauty (it might be thought) would fear to tread. The psychogeography of space remodelled on the fantasies of children. The everlasting beat, tuned into momentarily by percussive heartbeats, vocal chords, and the mechanical detritus of modernity. A willed favela. Battery-powered shopping trolley soundsystems. The dawn of a new age at an arbitrarily defined non-moment keeps the odometer ticking over.

In that non-existent time there was hope. I saw it flash before my eyes, on and off at alpha-wave frequency, inducing hallucinations of fulfillment and prosperity.

I don't want your money; I want my soul.

5. Swamp

He was naked in the swamp. Filthy and writhing, moonlit and camouflaged. I found him by following the screams - of agony? of ecstacy?

His hair was dark and dank like thick strands of algae. I was taken over by an irresistable urge to kiss him. He bit me, very hard, a little under my right ear. It felt like leeches, or as if I had decayed very quickly under layers of mulch and brackish slime. It was painful and exquisite.

I have often wondered about localised...well, spirits doesn't seem quite the right word...more elemental aspects of places. My friend had become the swamp, the stream, the leaves and roots and bark of this place.

I backed away, to watch and to learn. He was trying to climb the river bank. He stopped to grip and furiously rub a root that was extruding from the bank. I know masturbation when I see it.

I left for a while. I wandered, in deep reflection. I was struck by the crystalline perfection of the trees in the surrounding area. I was drawn back by the same ambiguous screaming.

He had dirt in every orifice. As I knelt a short distance from his head I could hear that he was ranting, almost chanting, near-incoherently under his breath. As I leant nearer, his vocalisations resolved into intelligible words - "the toothless, nameless desire under the feet of everyone". It seemed like the litany of the non-human world; the aspirations and thwarted desires of the swamp itself; its transmuted feelings of repression and neglect.

4. Creation

Creation?
He doesn't know the meaning of The Word.


>
The Learned are in great Perplexity.