We used to do coke, drink pinot noir, talk about punk music and paint all night long. We talked so much and we painted so much and it was such a joy that we didn’t even find time for sex.

Our work:

The moment purpose and brush combined was the moment it started to be art.

While you were applying big blocks of colour to the top right and I was doing something more gestural to the left, at that point it was art.

When it was complete and propped up against the wall in yr bedroom it was STILL art.

But when we broke up and you left it propped against a wheelie bin, then it became trash, instantly. From art to trash in one gesture, and maybe thats more common than we care to admit. Art is trash, museums are cathedrals of trash. Maybe true art can only be found in the gutter.


CUT UP #64

Symbolic disruptions

smoking soapbar


order without hierarchy

in Schonberg’s music


demisexual should be the norm

for average non-insane people


there are no wrong notes in this here boogie

only right notes we’ve never heard before


the thing as we see it phenomenologically

mediated through sense data blahblahblah


is reality in the mind? Is reality in nature?

If you ask false questions you’ll only ever get

false answers

false realities


this is all about the deficiencies of

an anglo-european vocal technique


I was there and awake when

last night became today


reason is no longer subversive

cultural revolution is a party


you dare to call THIS poetry?

I could do this w/ my arse and

a cassette



It’d be a Duchamp toilet party

I’ve been to enough of those

to know my

way around


the total reification of leisure

has made labour self-justifying

Labour / Work

The agrarian cycle is all or nothing. Either the work needs to be done or there is no work to be done. It is cyclical. It follows natural seasons. It is meaningful and useful work. No alienation. Productivity is driven by the amount of work there is to be done, not some arbitrary figure dreamed up in a bland office building somewhere. Inactivity (leisure) is just as valid as labour and certainly more valid than prescribed pseudo-activity.

The Industrial cycle is Fordist, mechanised, dehumanising, but involved nonetheless with the business of actual work. Leisure starts to become reified. Alienation begins.

The post-industrial pattern remains regimented but the veneer of productivity has worn thin and work is meaningless, dull, alienating and false. Leisure is totally reified to the point where labour is self-justifying and the our entire lives are subject to the whims of capital. Regulated commodified leisure is the enemy of spontaneity.

The structural nature of relations demands that labour power is bought for less than it is worth, creating a surplus – capital.

What looks like an exchange of equivalence is actually systemic exploitation.

Does the economy work for human beings or do human beings work for the economy?

Industrialisation creates ruthless exploitation but also the tools needed to escape a world of scarcity.

It is down to us to seize the initiative.


In a world where sickness, dysfunction, irrationality is so hegemonic it is blindly adhered to and celebrated, perhaps it is the freaks and the loonies who are the sane ones. The only rational reaction to this chaos is the absurd. Capitalism of concepts makes me laugh, the whole trick is so well executed. The elite have convinced us that the absurd is normal, so is it not possible that another kind of absurdity is the route to truth? It is time to reclaim absurdism as the new normality.


Its taken nearly two years of rage and sadness and denial but I’m finally starting to process this shit.
I first noticed you outside the supermarket because you were beautiful and you were wearing a Conflict t-shirt. After that we would sit opposite each other in the marketplace waiting for our respective lifts home from college and we’d look at each other but we were both too shy to talk to one another.
I still don’t know how you got my hotmail address, but I remember you adding me on MSN Messenger and introducing yourself and I remember thinking Cesca – what a beautiful name. From then onwards we were hopelessly in love.
Listening to certain records by Mogwai, Ludovico Einaudi, Anti-Flag, Propagandhi, The National and Beirut will always make me think of you. When I look at photographs from that innocent time I can’t detect in yr eyes the horrors that would later occur.
I’m not gonna think about the end. I’m gonna think about all those hours in yr bedroom in Leeds quoting Chris Morris at one another, listening to music and taking silly selfies. I’m gonna think about that time you persuaded me to go out to dinner at a Moroccan restaurant wearing women’s underwear, that was fucking hilarious.
Before you died we went for drinks in Henley and made plans to go to Hong Kong together. You were gonna show me around. I guess if I go now I’ll have to buy the Lonely Planet guide instead.
At yr funeral I think I was the only one crying during the speeches and I thought that was weird. The coffin was so big and you were such a small woman, it seemed wrong. Then everyone was acting as if everything was normal and making small talk and I was like FUCKING HELL do you not understand what exactly is happening here!? Some annoying woman was trying to chat me up and I’m thinking ‘we’re at the funeral of the love of my life, have some fucking respect’. So I went outside for a cigarette with Gabi.
You were the funniest, kindest, gentlest person. So pure and beautiful. I loved you SO SO SO MUCH and I don’t think I’ll ever be totally ok with the fact that yr gone.