SKAZZ Invocation: This document is a fried offering to the Maze-builders, to Jah’s thunderbolt zapping the brain into breath, to the acid-house philosophy of William Shakespeare, to all-kinds-of-crap, to chilling, to the soothsayers: Shem Penman & Lee Scratch: predicting dub in the year zero, to ye Ark afire in Zurich-Kingston, to Wilson’s white-heat (1963), to the Dogged & Howlingest, to the Engineers, to the National Coal Board and ROLAND Corporation, to the depth of the Moog’s texture, to smoking a holy weed and thinking about the whale’s cosmos, to the lives of undergrounders, to Self-begetters & magpie minds, to the future in fiction in fact, to the Billie Whitelaw wing of the Delia Derbyshire Library, to its spiral staircase in Coventry, to the DIY of Kling-Klang, to nine hour sleeps, to the maggot in the brain of the cauliflower, to the percussion family: oldest of musical instruments, to being fucked in the face for life, to Manchester-Sheffield-Detroit-Berlin, to the steel Monolith in the Desert, to the involuntary memory of skeletons bopping in a strobesmokemachinebluelaserbeam, to Tubby’s loops & Phuture’s squelch, to Adonis the Pioneer, to AFX and mbv spinning on vinyl, to the Justified Ancients of burnt metallic entrails, to subway maps & subway dreams, to Soul & Sirin’s cameralike-eyes, to skirting Brodkey’s bottomless pit, to Pinter’s three black dots, to the spirit of DH Lawrence, to the beat of Brontosaurus Bardolator, to Wallace and Fisher, to the ghostwriters association of ghostwriting association, to the unknown film-makers, to the jewel-fire of neonlights in cities everywhere, to the aesthetics of the deepest thinker in the game: Johan Cruyff, to Ink a Drug, to a hill, a river, a tree & a stone, to the kind of inventors of Noise: Jackson Pollock & Francis Bacon & Gertrude Stein, to playing your own strategy, to a spool-of-fire, to building the muscle you need for being alone on a birthday & Xmas: on the street, in a room like now, to the ghosts of VHS tapes of faded scenes of 1988 and 1989, to McLuhan’s brain in a jar of formaldehyde, to misunderstood creeps, to the KANGOL school, to the SLAZENGER school of prose-style, to the SELMA Supreme Fiction School of Fiction, to living fearless against zombie-dread, to welded with a dash words like uber-vital, to Monday morning waking up afraid and a mouth covered in a layer of mucus, you’re groaning, thinking fucking hell there must be a way out, nothing of spiritual substance is here. Stood between the bed & the couch it dawns in bold slanted caps: SKAZZ.
