bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonn...

. . .

To play the skald you need a console. So I made one, bent a few circuits from the alphabet and called it SHOOM, branded after the sweaty Balearic-house (as opposed to acid-house as opposed to acidhouse) night but using ripped-off technology patented by Shax Inc. The X of this device being me, of course. Like the yaw of you and you and you and not you. Everybody maintains their own realism to make sense of what’s happening in the yolk of the brain (sometimes in the genitals of, too) and we visit years like 2007 or 2019 or nobody can generate the right metaphor for the ancient brio of 1988-89. People might call it bullshit but it’s my flow. To think, this gaming-console, the shell is my skull. The burning smells of heated brandy. The logo is of two Ohs with an S in the left O, an M in the right O and a H in the space between. The jocund Ohs. The hole in the left is neon and pinky-red. The hole in the right is neon and bronze but first-place-100-metres-Seoul-Olympics-gold-sort-of-bronze that in the middle glows deeper like cranberry, whose meat cleanses the kidneys. And we’re here with SHOOM: a reality-engine. SHOOM: an incorporated logotype. Five letters, edged in a frying salmony tone and the rest is ink, shiny black and matte grey, with ink round here being a drug: a liquid with healing and magical properties. This is definitely a ghostwriter speaking inside of me: changing the subject, chopping sound as it spins. When somebody says the word nut or if I see nut or nutshell written, I’m reminded of the hollow space in a human mind. Thoughts arise about the problems of art. A monologue is a sine-wave oscillation. How can a page of printed words reach a pitch-of-extreme-consciousness? Who produces that kind of stuff? Or what is a pitch-of-extreme-consciousness-poem? What is a pitch-of-extreme-consciousness-novel? For me it’s a page with the O of a Bigmouth exclaiming in italics without saying: Listen, here’s who I am and my thing is I work, I don’t work, I eat dinner at two-am, I don’t eat, I reverse time, I’m a giant eyeball, I’m a man who pupates, I’m myself though, I’m always myself, I’m my own shakescene which means scrawny-gaited, a subterranean artworm, I sprunk I splodge I wander in this borderless No zone of the labyrinthine it’s pure shithousery but this is the way: the rope round my neck is of crushed bones, because I’m a nightcrawler, I’m SELMER Supreme like acidhouse legend Harold Pinter and acidhouse legend Harold Brodkey and acidhouse legend Harold Bloom are all SELMER Supreme Fictions and it’s in the clutch of this keyboard when I make a modulated sound thru which you hear a chant asking can you feel it suffusing and you ask yourself can you feel it and you tell yourself that yes: it’s then I’m KANGOL Film School.