Playlist: March 2020

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I dream I am driving, and the accident with tomatoes mattered less because I was going to slam myself, my assemblage of metal and flesh, quite deliriously into the tree. He once teased he was good at slamming. Before there was yesterday, I had watched you with the beef variety in the centre of the plate; how you held the knife quite close so the skin would almost burst, I held my breath. Red would split upon red, the tremble. Is it even red, this colour they ascribe to the fruit we always said was vegetal? Breakfast, another cut between my legs. Breakfast, the people who queue outside for their messages. Two metres apart, we exist at the opposite stems of each other.

To think of it now, my mind flowering as though on modafinil, recovering a single pollen of thought. It is this: I would crumble to every yellow you asked of us, sweeping me from your sunsets as nobody would dare come online. 

As the plot develops, you are pushing the knife, really pushing it into the fruit. You are going quite steady, through the seed. I feel a warmth from the skin of the keys. You can’t go through with it; you drop the handle and check my pulse. We loll around, considering things. We are two lopped halves of the edible. I felt like Whitman, licking tomato juice from the knife of the man who doesn’t exist. Who made you a man? You could just as easily have been a sunflower, boy. We loll around, considering things; we sway in the wind that doesn’t exist. I want to be as sure as the land. The land outside is an area, and the area is X, it doesn’t exist. 

who / that / it
pleases
to live

There are millions of infected tomatoes living right now on this planet. I find it triggering when someone pretends to count them. I set my alarm clock to March, knowing we’d even get back if we tried, if we were silent as we are. I cycled hard up the hill to meet this, dreaming the fruit upon my return. 

The clocks go forward, stupid clocks!

*

Fiction makes us go places. All the signs said, for circumstances beyond our control— 

Move you between ex and why. 

I dream of a quarantine beside the sea. My brother is ordering luxury coffee, the air is good, I feel it stir in my chest. The air is time, but we can’t buy it. I leave fat tips with coins I can’t use. Why is it for ‘me’ or ‘us’ that the world exists? You took the single when you wanted the double. No, it is not that at all. We thank the people who serve us duly. You have served me the last bad song of myself. 

‘Of crushed red tomatoes, you turn it down to just an orange glow’ (Bernadette Mayer, ‘Very Strong February’). 

In lieu of my thesis, I kept making playlists. Which argument is it that would strangle the days, leave them to simmer

Then strangle the days to a blazing teal. 

*

‘Something is going to happen’, writes Sartre in Nausea, ‘I see myself advancing with a sense of fatality’. It is our curse to be so viscously stuck to ourselves. I don’t know what that’s about, what any of this means. Imagine a laptop on top of a laptop. I am helpless in the form of a sentence. Why are my keys so warm, from what tip did we insufflate?

‘The Nausea isn’t inside me: I can feel it over there on the wall, on the braces, everywhere around me. It is one with the café, it is I who am inside it’ (Sartre, Nausea). There is no island from the virus, no Nature to look back, sashaying her endless oceans of hair, like the restaurant manager portrayed in a surly review on TripAdvisor. I am nauseous with a virus inside me I can’t even see. Maybe we are close to a birth with it. A long, interminable pregnancy. 

The twang in my chest was a causal relation between ventricle rivers.

I feel trapped in the body inside my body. It’s always looking back. 

A friend messages with the apology, ‘Still need to reply to you but my days have been frustratingly full of speaking at videos of other people speaking at a video of me and so on forever and ever’. 

Can you adjust to the nausea? I drove a car very hard, knowing I could not drive the car, knowing it would end so badly and the creosote bushes would sing to me. I drive us back to the virtual diner, where you leave all the olives and sip a red scare.

The nausea comes in the form of abyss. It is good to hear you speaking, the lemon trees growing, your hair losing tone because of the days. 

*

If people were chalking ‘We will be okay :-)’ on the riverside walkway, I would do a Ben Lerner, via Whitman, and pour sympathy out in paint: ‘I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is’. Do we know how anything is? I have been texting my nurse friends with everything and nothing to say. I cross bridges for no reason than burning it backwards. Could you say this to a river? Can fire kill a virus?

I project us backwards into the current, knowing the absence of voice would sweep me, swallow a flower. If we forget how to speak, if we get through this. 

Tambourine canter.

Swallow a fruit. 

On the other side, politics chokes.

*

One day, we will live post-email and lilac you sit on the sill of my window. 

If I had a thing to say, it was not worth saying.
If I had a thing to say, it was not worth saying. 

Something is going to happen. You spear the tomato, eventually, and it is so trivial. 

I want to live in the blood that makes us so trivial, harvest my red, be less of love and more inside it. 

*

Somebody I don’t know on Zoom is called upon to define their practice.

*

If you were never already in reach. ‘Distance is here the expression of a certain loss […] which is “losable” only insofar as it is within my horizon’ (Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology). I watch other rituals on the feed, tomatoes conveying their life like sunsets, oozing Billie Holiday songs on a glitching sea. 

*

Your former melancholy. 

Darkside.

I want you to draw them. 

I want you to draw them, very slowly

until every one is a baby. 

And you make a baby of my tomato. 

And you make it very strange. 

And you give it as seed. 

Sequined with topics.

These bundles of fatalist apples of love. 

I sketch out the yellowest nets.

*

I should have sent no poems over the sea, I should have envisioned the breakfast of distance, I should have swam while I could. 

I would like to arrive dishevelled / at the edge of things.

*

Smell of wild garlic in Pollok Park / you polish your shoes / I miss you.

*

So this is it that survives ‘you’: 

‘The joyless, atrocious, sad “pleasure” is in the details of the suffering, in the suffering itself, in the taste you taste to the bottom where nothing forbids you to suffer, and each cruel dish, so relished, offers the heartbreaking pleasure of being able to feel.’
   — Cixous, Dream I Tell You

When someone on twitter has already written, had lunch twice just to feel something

‘In order to avoid saying “I,” the author eats incessantly’ (Ben Lerner, Angle of Yaw).

My heart freaks out at your avatar. It happened again and I’m sorry.

stop_refreshing_the_news.pdf 

*

Adding these smiles of coriander, you discover dawn’s vanity in the mouth of a crow. It is adding its cries to the plate of tomatoes. Such seasoning loses the seasons. I would drown you in oil / before you could make / the cut of my life. 

*

Remember gigs
Remember green infinite days
Remember growing backwards
Remember gross affairs with inelegant consequence
Remember green & finite money
Remember glistening sheets
Remember guessing who would be there
Remember gestalt was a thing

*

And you make it very strange, this thing that will happen. Immensely belonging to no one. Her body a pyramid. Enter it. 

Motionless, causing a solemn offence.

Outlook fails to open a page.

Something is waiting. Remember it green & infinite. 

*

Easy for you to say of a fall. Feels spooky to have speed dial. No news is rhizome. 

Catch you on zoom.

Hate us for saying it.

I adore us. 

So trivial.

Sacred tomato, last supper,

cut me on cam. What do they look like?

You are yellow and red you are yellow and / red you are yellow and yellow and yellow. 

~

Stereolab – Infinity Girl

TOPS – Colder & Closer

Deeper – The Knife

Ellis May – War on Territory

Porches – I Wanna Ride

Squid – Sludge

Thee Oh Sees – C

Porridge Radio – Pop Song

Catholic Action – Witness

Savage Mansion – Weird Country

Disq – Konichiwa Internet

Life Model – Saskia

DOPE LEMON – Streets of Your Town

Sufjan Stevens, Lowell Brams – What It Takes

Sharon Van Etten – Staring at a Mountain

Lucinda Williams – Sharp Cutting Wings

Broadcast – Lights Out

Half Waif – In August

Sun Glitters – UUnnrreeaall

Kelora – X24

Grimes – Delete Forever

Moses Sumney – Virile

The Weeknd – Hardest to Love

Minor Science – Spoken and Unspoken

DjRUM – Blue Violet

Princess Nokia – Gemini A COLORS SHOW

Laurel Halo – Zeljava

Brooke Bentham – Control

Good Good Blood – Sanctuary Mornings

Real Estate – Falling Down

stmartiins – Holly’s House

Ratboys – A Vision

Waxahatchee – Lilacs

The National – Never Tear Us Apart

Beth Orton – Blood Red River

Phoebe Bridgers – The Garden

Bright Eyes – Persona Non Grata

(READING) The 87 Press, 11th March 2020

 

Between utopia class and pandemic I did a reading in London for The 87 Press with some of my favourite poets. Features swerves, sexy crows, pissing stars, the wreck, the swim, no lyric poetry after apocalypse. ⭐️☄️🌙