J.R Clarke

Ian Curtis Is The Most Important Man To Have Lived & Died Since Jesus Christ

my left wing friends call me a proto-facist

my right wing friends call me a closet communist

I tend to vote liberal democrat

actual reality is always the most boring scenario

for me, no-one will transcend the human condition

by thinking about politics

My right & left wing are seasoned & fried,

despite this your words hurt like a hernia

a hernia that wouldn’t let me lift a thing

especially a pen

i have to think back to all that hard hitting literature, wants & petty voyeurism. Vain attempts to create electricity just under the skin to see what writhes underneath, just trying to melt into life. She has held back enough poetry already. Aware entirely of the horrible abundance of experience that surrounds her & makes her verse that teeming black bricolage when telephony was our own dirty little secret. Canned laughter barking like a low wattage lightbulb. always around a corner, behind your eyes full of apocalyptica hillsides. You believe anything as it is doled out in hundreds & hundreds of decibels, disconnected, clinging to stars. 

Lying down fucked out of our brains watching the birds,  This sparrow daylight inbetween buildings all day with the warm red light defoiled towards blackholes & chimneys until they stop, dance fly & fuck in the cold winter sun & i could write poetry until ink dies. 

So What Exactly Are You Going To Do With All This Existenialism

I came home the other night at almost 3 o’clock & i undressed in the dark as usual to save the chance of catching rib belly reflection. As i was getting into bed I got the feeling that somebody else was there also & sure enough as I stretched out under the sheets my big toe nail scratched the oily hairy skin of another man. Well, I thought, what’s the difference, it’s only a man. So I got into bed with him. But the Ketamine from earlier had saturated me through so I couldn’t sleep, lying there a reverb of a person. Well, what’s the difference I thought so I got up & rolled & lit a cigarette & after a few minutes I had the thought of seeing who this man might be. Moving the limp cherry torch over his face & with a cut of moon coming through the taped back curtains it became obvious that this man was a dead man. Well, I thought, what’s the difference, at least this one wont be moving around rolling into my side tugging the duvet. I got back into bed. I tossed the cigarette into the bin. I thought that maybe the loop left in my visions memory by the trail of the cigarette could be same trajectory of a fallen angel burning white hot through the atmosphere. I thought about perhaps writing that down somewhere. But I didn’t. I never have. Well after a while of not sleeping & a tame conversation with dying embers of pop image hallucinations I think I smell smoke. It wasn’t cigarette smoke. It wasn’t smoke of skin. It wasn’t smoke of burning books. I lean forward, the bin is burning away like a tabloid editors soul. Well, I thought, what is the difference of a bin being on fire? & It made such a lovely bright & comfortable light I thought I might as well read for a while. Patting the dead man on the shoulder as I climb over to the bookshelves I think this might ought be the time for some great big smashing poems. I pick out The Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot. Turn it over in my hand, flick the pages across like i’m shuffling a fixed deck & then instead pick up an annual of Omorashi Magazine. After about ten minutes or so the room has got a bit too hot & bright to read so i go into the kitchen instead & butter an entire loaf of bread to make soldiers for one egg. I think to my-self. I am the North Korea Of Breakfast. I am the North Korea Of Breakfast. I decided that this is a really good thing to write down & write it down a 167 times in order to symbolise the growing importance of the number 167. I am the North Korea Of Breakfast I am the North Korea Of Breakfast I am the North Korea Of Breakfast. In a later part of the now, blue lights appear outside & huge fireman are coming up the stairs. I reckon them to be rather weak hallucinations as well. I say I am the North Korea Of Breakfast.

“There is a fire son we gotta get you out of here.” They shout

“But I am the North Korea Of Breakfast. I am the North Korea Of Breakfast, But I I am the North Korea Of Breakfast.

“Come with us son, please”.

I Look away at my army & look back at the men of fire with their axes & powerful water & big stuff & asbestos lungs & conclude. Ok Why not. What’s the difference?

That was a nothing yesterday he didn’t wake up in. Nothing major was on, he didn’t know what happened. He sits, just waiting for something to happen, labelled with a million memories & covered up against a torn upholstered headboard. A knee jerk reaction caballing together on rooftops to glide in serenity, just somewhere else away from the pollen bacterial sunset lowering itself like a drunken lover. No background except back window light taped up at the corners. The traffic, tops of high rise flats, satellite dishes squeezing through autochrome streets dashed with knocked over sulphur glow of the night. 

the office of nature enveloping life in cycles of congealed tears. Indian temple slaughter lard lorry until a voice makes you turn asks that question from a cloudless heaven. A flag made from chaff up against these bus seats. . But my throat pulls itself inside from fine hash fags rolled like sausages. The glass of gin is an ocean splashing the oily harbour like a silver bootlegger pouring out his bota for the mule. Then these smiles come through like cracks in a captured heartbeat digital pixel sunset.

this body is drying out into your true desirous pose. Stop. feel the moment, people in coats covering pale office skin, unconnected to shadows into lines across ceilings from ornamental flowered standard lamps. But when your breath illuminates white in blah blah crowds meshed together in train stations, mid-October. It is a signal to be alive, witness something before it becomes black light slung out like a drought.

The sunset looked like a teenage girl who has just put red in her hair for the first time, a precise expert on the first go. But really most people think i’m a criminal who steals faces in small rooms. Not just a soul in the world but a sickened romantic standing in the assorted herd of the entire human genome.