For the survey launder nothing phlegmatic.
Foam flourishing out the mouth douses ice,
corners it, isolates it it puts
it out mutes it. A burnt question is nailed on.
Is this written too soon, should there be
more time for hatred to wane first,
for mourning to be allocated, to stop at
all where directed, re-own our desire to breathe
children beneath rock. But I won't
stop I lust like a sickened invert
gluey teeth sprout in this, is meted-out
platter of faces on a screenshot,
held like treasures of the deep contempt
for death which asphyxiates air, death
which way next, to extort from the vacant
sky a smash-up and roll into
the barrack mall, the next rational bout.
The next choice switch along is justice.
The freedom to spend is a defrosted asset.
Does this chat-up line sicken you, take
                                          pisses wherever
                     cut down
                                          ask me a question
sleaze-eyed and rubble-mouthed
to agree with the minister that life has sacrosanct
components and we better grab a few
before they sell out, as the counterproposing
dropped-out heads in a heroin blur
all glitz up the street with their dreams.
Socialism will disconnect a palate from sick.
Bread and plastic robot-penises coalesce.
Take your sliced-open plasticine eyeball and
                     what's the point
                     crying out like snapped-up poor fish
                     tanks sunny
in the mammal way cash acts, defend this way
of life way off the brutality and sex scale, credit
                                          lizard
the thrill of an incorruptible love in
this arm. This arm is now around your head,
before rising to sleep you have this arm
with you, tender its fingers stroke off
temerity and insects from your face,
crass light gets stung out or wiped out(was in there
                     just closet the
                                          warped astro-bar tout in
                                          cabbage
diamond,
                     war is a principle of nature
you wake tight, onerous cloud thickens over
a snapped tooth-reel. Do not get out of your car.
Dream about this. You can laugh all you
like very happily, the knuckles are all foam-white
meat cabinet, recant all you
                     dispatches a blow-kiss to
the proposed exit wound. What would you do if
some crazy Arab smashed your children's head.

         As the planetary
         spin made by punitive calm in endless
         digits scrolls into endless sickness, to be
         sickened, to have been sickened, the mental
         sick-bag production line flourishes like
         so in the sovereignty of liberal economics

We are permitted to endure this. We endure
it blank, tin. Reconciliation beautifies pig shit.
Each vote stuffed in a box counts. After all what
else can he do, no government can be expected
not to respond to systematic brutality. Outside
glad severed hands leap about and salute
and veils from the faces of women are shredded,
hot codeine chars in through the sleeping bag.
We would so lose all credibility if not thrower bomb.
The pretence of events includes also an apache
                                                      rotor see from
which fire sprung and ripped heads off.
Swept up wind on hill tantamount to a screw-in
palate designates the hope for a speech replica
bongo noise. Romanticism. Nothing
you are stops
                     this and
                     that is a tree packed
                     look birds
collapses or, meat. Smash open the alarm shop.
That children has a black eye. White House
Commission on Aviation Safety And Security,
Final Report Feb. 12 1997: we are all now
the small minority about whom we do not
know enough and who merit additional
attention. Correct this deficit and disorder life.
Do then not disorder life. This one. Automated
hope profiling glistens in your eyes,
a vision of love for our partners in their desiccation
trash heap flashes across the pair, streaks out
of the mind in implicit proof of embargo: zap-cancel
gut red, saw up a donkey,
                                          recapitulate
                     a hold on life,
                     barraged through a slit by visage
                     chaos ironed to
such a replete sheen, an amassed fling of irate presets
news in indelible snack form heads
with the laughter duct ripped wide, do you think
ever. That this margin coerced to flipside
temper fits and religious despair pales, next to
you walk in the street. I take the bike
down, subsequently we reverse this. Going
on with and
                     valuing not cracking to
                     to strict bits this
                     sick love frozen to a crisp,
                     asset sunset.

Would so not be credible unless reactor bomb
shift them with the flush break their
legs advertise discriminating gun hardware shin
brulee shin-oil, extradite the dinner you
ate to a virgin bag. This is the requirement
to live as a conscript to indifference,
throwing violent words against their own edges
wrappers, twisted bogus in intense felt
sorrow over that obligation. Throw them at the
pink which grass isn't. At ash string
along that gut reflex, the whole deictic
pose lubricated into a kind of hate-crime pathos
extradite the cat-flap,
                     so you're either with
                     or
and bandages its
torn with a flag. Correct this pose with data:
institute a revival of also non-sick pointing:
twenty-five Afghans per day are cremated by
Russian mines left scattered among their rubbish
dump homes, milk
                                  haircut, new bag
                     glaze,
                                 this is a war on terror
and it affects all of us. It is not America
which was attacked on the 11th September,
we should each expect reality. Remember
you how you eat. Who loves you most of all.
         The conditions for war were already accomplished.
         The United States expected this and will
         push home the reactionary advantage worldwide.
         The actual military build-up is a kind
         of arrears, the coalition is the fundamental outcome
         most to be resisted, the new global impossibility
         of secession in the interests of the dominated, so that
         it's merely the self-exposure of a false
         socialist to insist that reprisals are a necessary
         action in "the healing process," as if
         moral equilibrium were the goal of condoned rage
         and militant lending the pivot of a just balance.
         This argument must be rubbished wherever
         it's broadcast by TV-mouthed "humanists."
         The coalition is nothing to do with
         retributive or just response; it's the ransacking
         of precarious liberties worldwide for as
         long as it's economic: the thought-out tussle
         of bargain-hunters at a closing-down sale.
         And the castigation of "tired leftist slogans"
         as an inadvertent mission of self-isolation
         is precisely indicative: ditch them at the first chance
         to chant out in favour of solidarity
         by default, genus pacifist-nationalist,
         the newsworthy and liberal chorus of upright
         citizens who for the first time imagine themselves
         on a tour of the historical sick-bay. They have
         been there all the fucking time, running
         sores brightened by the flip intellectual band-aid
         of anti-accommodationist liberalism.
         They use words like "progressive," meaning
         the conscientious adjustment of sentiment
         one yard to the left of rationalized Capitalist
         indifference expressed in hateful fire, the world
         radiates with this "pacifistic" objectivity, which is
         the quiet prop suited to its impacifiable object.
         Progressivism is the fantasy of left-reform
         by a different name more catchy to technocrats.
         What is the history of terrorism: has the testament
         of Trotsky gone up in the fumes and ash
         of murder? The destruction of the twin towers
         itself was murder, and terrible beyond sympathy.
         But terrorism is more than death, more than
         the planned execution of disaster by opponents
         of a transnational economy impossible to ameliorate.
         It is the horrific kickstart of the whole reaction,
         not only the violence perpetrated by opponents
         of that economy but the opposition itself, the only
         true opposition to inflict itself damagingly. The condoned
         rage of the progressives is an echo, prepared
         in advance by the ruling elite whose criminal
         depredation these liberals are keen to protest in
         more boring times, like the savage ones to come.
         It's the final extension of the sovereign umbrella:
         how can we possibly fail to drop
         a guard so heartless, "at a time like this?"
         To be an opponent of Capital and its ruination of
         freedom is dialectical. What you hate
         passionately is the grand and systematic
         progenitor of passion itself. That goes
         for the terrorists and Capital alike, though not
         anything like equally. There is no wholesaler
         of condemnation that won't make a sale
         to a downhearted liberal in the novelty of shock.
         Murder is despicable and we must hate it,
         as I try to impassioned despite the gross
         and mendacious injunction to do just that. But
         terrorism is not only murder. Murder is
         itself always, whether achieved by privately
         financed militias in a war against domination
         or by a standing army commissioned to defend
         the secret agendas of a ruling elite. Terrorism
         involves this hateful action. But it involves
         more, too (we hear forever how the combat
         of good against evil will be fought on many fronts:
         diplomatic, political, military, but do we
         ever hear that terrorism isn't a single and
         merely actual phenomenon. It is
         likewise dexterous, though despicable in its violence:
         the realized corollary of so much embittered
         and truthful life spent wasting beneath a lie.
         The attunement of consciousness within the unheard
         discord of its ruinous subordination
         is a goal and achievement of terrorism - the very
         consciousness of love also, which militates
         with unending tenderness against injustice;
         the same love which liberal capitalist
         democracies shrink-wrap into the merely
         willed denial of narcissism.