TABLES TABLES TABLES : Owl Peel

 

TABLES TABLES TABLES 

Grindr, the sex/desire machine- a letter to Henry.

 

 

Look Henry,

 

You’re here the same reason I’m here, but before you show me your cock, I want you to think. Does it line up with your/our anarchist/leftist principles?

 

Consider a forty-year-old who still remembers the first brick through his window. Try not to consider him as concept or function, for both of our sakes, do not consider him metaphor. Most likely he has talked to you, or more likely, he has spoken to you- you have not replied. I am guilty of the same non-action, the same passivity feeding his constant (let’s say proactive) nature.

 

No face, no (real) name. A command, or request as signifier instead. Verbiage replacing a proper-noun and the signified itself is also obscured. The empty portrait, the group identity that his signifier points to. Itself another layer of abstraction. This produces your/our non-differentiation to this: Subject: Person: A forty-year-old who still remembers the first brick through his window.

 

None of these are names. We are not given the tools to produce names. Also, we do not bother to produce a name. “Each organ-machine interprets the entire world from the perspective of its own flux”, for me and you is this the thumb, the brain, the cock, or the eye?

 

Your cock doesn’t bother to name him I bet. It is, at least, this organ-machine through which the others flow for the purposes of operating this desire/sex-machine.

 

He is a table to you. I am a table you. You are clearly tables to me. Of course, table here may be replaced by dildo. Table is, however, less confrontational and dildo may be confused as it is a metaphor which stands too directly close to its subject matter.

 

Henry, your/our anarchist/leftist principles will have noticed what I am saying to you. I’m burying the lead to produce distance, but regardless you know what I’m saying. We’ve talked politics, then (obviously) you have shown me your cock. We have bemoaned the state of the left, and then (doubtlessly) you have asked to fuck me. You expressed your fears of fascism; we picked out places for all the right bricks. Then (par for the course) you wanted my cock in your mouth.

 

Consider the forty-year-old who still remembers the first brick through his window. He would also like to fuck us. Maybe at the same time, one of us (alternatively) could watch and masturbate in the corner. Neither of us will, not you nor I desire it. We however desire each-other. The organ-machine through which this flows, sees only this end point. I fashion you into a table. Saw off the excess, sand down the surface, lacquer the wood grain. This is what your/our desire produces. Tables fucking and sucking and biting.

 

An endless catalogue stretches out before us both of nameless tables. An object with a discrete function. You and I do not desire the forty-year-old who still remembers the first brick through his window. As he and I and you, have all been fashioned down sawn, sanded, bolted, painted- he does not serve the same discrete function to our organ-machines. He, therefore, does not exist.

 

You and I are complicit in his non-existence. He is aware of his non-existence. He desperately wishes to escape his non-existence. He is an ontological dead-end. I asked you not to think of him as symbol or metaphor. I would like to ask you to fully realise the depth of his pain. His hate. His humiliation. You, however, cannot. He does not exist. He cannot be realised by those who must realise him most.

 

You were aware of this space of non-being. Somewhere in the back of your brain (or perhaps your cock) is recognition of the fact you face being shunted into the same space. This is, of course, true of me.

 

You see what’s happened here? Now you are desperate to be fashioned into a table, to have your value as use recognised. This sex-desire machine we operate via the organ-machine “interprets the entire world from the perspective of its own flux”. Everyone in need of a quick fuck is fashioned into a table and in turn sees only tables.

 

It's a kind of self-policing, an interior fascist who’s fascist tendencies arise from desiring like-minded fascists. Again, I ask of this system: Does it line up with your/our anarchist/leftist principles? Is it worth it for a shag?

 

Think back to the menial conversations always preamble to our primary uses. They follow strict codes, simple social conventions which are ironclad:

 

 “Hi, hru, looking for?, wuu2?, Hi, hru, gd thanks, wbu?, looking for?”

 

It’s a plastic simulacrum. Look at its poverty of expression:

 

“Wuu2?, hey, up to much?, looking for?, t or b?, hru, hi, wbu”

 

Deviation from this norm is met with shock. A general feeling of offence that we are now forced to engage in unscripted conversation to receive what the organ-machine desires. Why should I have to work to feed my sex?

 

Whittled down, now so much even your expressions are afterthoughts to operating the sex/desire machine at optimum efficiency. No one is real in this space; no-one truly exists as more than fuck-table in this space.

Henry, I will not refuse to see your cock. That is the whole teleology through which this machine operates (you also have a good cock).

 

This is to show you my anger at being so sickeningly optimised in this pursuit. And to point out what it is taking from us (and from him).

 

 

bon'yari shita fuan : Owl Peel

bon'yari shita fuan.

waiting for a phone to charge,  

to purchase a ten-pack of salvation

thumbing clumsily at the port-

pitiful dependence on

my better h-half.

 

i think of a cancerless tomorrow

and all the boredom of a,

stomach without its tumours.

 

as an exercise, I collapse myself

in your fashion.

walking in your flat feet.

i purchase veronal by the gallon

(or possibly shiraz)

 

there’s a river in the back of

the ‘big tesco’, rushing

vividly

 

a fetish for clerks looking at me funny.

or at least I pretend to fetishise

cos’ I can’t do anything else.

But faux-bite away a grimace

(you see-) he looked at me funny

 

If now. I pretend.   MODERNIST NOVEL

like form and disco ‘n’ junction

.that’s not even                            a play on words.

there’s no such thing.

          I used to be better;:

 

veronal in an australian bottle

if I’m the novel I can’t die.

,, so so I crowbar in the sentiment-

between hasty gulps

 

this one’s about:

 

              MODERNIST NOVEL

says his wife in the river.

but the forms already bleeding out.

           “Can you see my ‘eye’?”

 

wrestling with the impact

really kicking

the

fucker’s head-in

looking for a-an arc to hang my coat to.

it doesn’t go down:   smooth

 

it tastes like neat vinegar

         discursive in my stomach-

disco cursive         

                              .also doesn’t work

trying

    

       

 there was a point there

       here

                           don’t remember,,

 

but i got back to my bed.

(you,, can’t take. that from me))

precis of the.

I say

  

                         humming

        fridges

vomiting in r.p                

THE SCHIZOPHRENIC SCOTTISH MIND

yeah, that.

say, it’s about th. That,

                                                         its commentary

                                        i’m s,scared.d

of freedom.

 my free lips

on the bottle of- y,,our kindness 

 

     diction   

ffall apart!

 

             fetish for

chargedphones,,,

     nobasistoholdmetoegtherbutachargedphone

 

does t

h at cou

nt?

                    resolution

 

br.reak             

  ing.  upwillingly:

 

 

for

i i have       a                MODERNIST NOVEL

                Lukacs 

       something wry about

lukacs

           

        i i

 

  i have sswallowed

 

about a. g

   a l

 l  o   

  n       of veronal

            

                forgive me for

the((w

e

a

k.   commentary

 

l  e

  s

s

 

l  e

 s. s

 

     .and

i

 

a

m.

    

less

 

i

loved once: 

 

i

 

i

 

i

 

.

spit and hope

Angela Rayner has scrapped any criteria of beauty standard in the new houses the labour government will build. Angela reyner is making a serious philosophical attempt to deny the concept of death. 1. A dynamic idea of religion is the four times you have to register your key card before entering your own space. 2. A bus announcement will tell you what to buy in the way it slurs the words to churches. 3. The acceptance of billboards in any area where you live should make you sick. 4. Architecture leads you in, and when you are at the centre it breathes you out again. 5. If there were tides they would be made of noise. 6. The west is held together with spit and hope. 7. The labour government's plans for newbuilds will be mockeries of gods. 8. They will not conform to any intuition of space. 9. “Beauty means nothing really”. 10. banal impossibility is easiest to stomach in schematics. 11. The houses will be in 4 dimensions. The steps will be in 7/8. 12. A consideration of beauty is how a consciousness constructs most space. 13. The figure is a holy concept. 14. The house angela built will numb the mind completely. 15 (ref. 14). The tautological statement that I cannot die. 16 (ref. 15). No longer a statement and therefore undefined.

Antisyzygy

The apostrophe is self censorship.

The synthetic scots are dead

’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’.

Further your own means

become the poet of the nation

They will give you the kelpies.

Change your name and live in the lowlands.

The space between words is all other words.

The space between letters is boiled to kill feeling, it is the apostrophe-

Negative definition of dependency:

The drool you filter standard english through, or “The ‘land”

Music is defined as a beginning and end and 4’33” between.

Lyrics and the muzzle are handed to those who can read.

“Tell me what music is in about five minutes - In english”

—”Wheesht! It’s for the guid o’ your soul.”

Close lyric. Bring the sentence back several thousand years.

There is a cave in Ardeche to hold all we couldn’t carry. The paintings had their hands in religion and the invention of barbiturates.

If you layer enough coal it will simulate movement.

All words are between the mouth and the mouth. Chauvet cave is moving. The rest of the body is silent.

The mouth needs the interior

The mouth does not like this.

I fantasise about space’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’I do not.

The mouth finds the vowels of the previous line hard

It claims space to do so.

The lyric 

Starts

Ends with the house of lords veto.

You have become the poet of the nation.

You hae become the baird o the nation

Tha thu bàrd de nàisean

Unify the sentence. Make it beg. For the good of your soul.

Hypersion : Owl Peel

Hypersion

I’ve got this thing, for a thing 

for castration-

- and instantaneous messaging

Hyperion is locked out of the apartment 

Keys lost in, his father’s, abdomen 

I’ve got this thing for fishing 

In an old man’s guts. 

I don’t believe in double-entendre 

Not your friend, don’t do half-nods 

I put penknife through pancreas 

anyway. about castration.

He called up a locksmith:

‘Mathew, Luke, John’. 

(from last year’s cladding job)

It happens so quickly.

Like a tele-telepathy 

Can sear thought into 

your head; out the other end 

but I’ve this thing for, 

quick and easy 

(the blood streamed down:

his chest, his chest)

                             Of course, I fucked Hyperion too.

                                     -once 

                                                         -twice 

                 -shoddy locksmith 

I did it                                               on his weeping 

              dad. 

When they’re that. Old

skin taught (not) as it is 

 

Caught a bite in,

:unlocked door, 

quick fuck.

Text message, 

should ((piss in a cup, drink it

and: foul fairer) than love, 

could.

-4/4 first great dancer 

looking on in Disco flairs; 

flares, cut, bloody, cut

cut the fashion in, with a penknife 

blamed you for the pancreas job.

Told you. already- but 

you haven’t checked your phone 

“See it’s too quick”

             -to go to war for a shag- 

a Titan needs a locksmith 

like a. like a. (a) 

father needs his children