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Thursday, 15 December 2016

Glamour




In a cloud of light, a drift of smoke 
they see it, they see a projection through
shining winter hair and laughter, 
not hiding so much  as extending 
a sense of solidifying music in a
very major key. Everything's fine
and growing in the warm summer 
lucidity, a frozen bare-legged stride,
a pirouette, a warm sophistication. 
Just 20 quid and there it is again,
stretched across the dirty brickwork. 

Desires2



Desires1



Friday, 2 December 2016

Freedom

They're not sure if they want significant movement or 
space in which to quietly enjoy their own self, or
both, in fact, variously. It's nebulous, 
but in either case and both cases they need to
couple and uncouple and couple again,
whatever it is needs to be built and will
reach out as they say, to some sort of 
other thing. What is this scenario? They are 
a movement with a projected potential and a
light, pearly grey and unrecognised, 
within which they move, suggestive of something
that affects a quality of movement. 
This is something like what they want;
it seems both easy and almost 
impossibly difficult, this utter involvement
out to the farthest reaches of space and
all substance and time for that matter and 
back down to a sensation of a slightly greasy wall
against fingertips, along with a sense of 
unfolding differences affected by choices
without the interference of a fascist establishment. 

Some Assembly

They move towards a new 
themselves, plugged
into a shining romantic 
grey-black surface, 
reflecting two 
skintight legs & there's 
a smoothly passing 
hiss of bulbous shadow and 
bright edge. They ache slightly 
to be at the forefront of a past,
of lights in a wet city that echoes
with a cold, night, satisfaction,
and they may get some faint
tremor of that kind, maybe, 
across a perimeter and through 
a forgetful burial in necessity
and information as they 
move towards a new themselves. 

Sunday, 20 November 2016

Intimate Cartography 2: Matter and Memory (full written text)

I waiting

warm, wrapped                    
           brightening cold 
a boy        waiting                                     
warm   
          cold bright 
a shining                 
shimmering glass &
chess board floor
a coat & bustling 
all warmth  




Reach-truck spun
tonnes of 
steel & a 
pressed body 
echoing sweat 
blaring hysterical
giggling 
imaginatively 
popped like a 
bloody balloon &
spraying under
hard white lighting 
a hairsbreadth
seeming from
the darkness 




Huddling in geological blanket strata &
layers of breathing warming 
just stone cold 
                confined air
      night and day clothes
          rattling glass 

                      vital blue-black stain creeping
across pinned up wood-chip ceiling paper


  

Mystery of monkey-puzzle trees 
            a whispering 
       walk towards the park entrance 

               a mystery of hippy danger

hand in hand through chords of sunlight 



Finger-drawing internal ice 




Hard and lacerating brick surfaces under
hot sun and a metal tank grey and metal and
cool and smooth under fingers under haptic vision and
water turning to thick ice in winter and 
dead
fish 
under an experimentally rainbowing fly-spray surface 
under hot sun and a smell of straw 




A scent of damp     they can smell it 
infects them & their fingertips 
a consciousness of thick wool in his hands
     providing a negative charge to determination that's
disregarding trepidation and sleeping children and a thin carpet 
infected with damp and an inconclusive desire 
a tv on with the sound down 
        it's all about convenience and it's like a job 
but open  tumescent and trembling  with an expectant
                mistaken future





Tensing legs and filling with acid energy as they jump 
and run
after a flinging of earth balls and with  
a shouting of coppers    coppers
park toilets muck polka-dotted
      under a howling weight of sky 




They're both crying at the ersatz death of Robert Powell

no but
       that's facetious and a bit mean
but tears are running down all their cheeks 
               and it's disturbing
                
                 one day you'll understand 

the gas fire reddening child's skin 


Pearl light at a rattling sash window
cutting
            inside 
                   his forehead through
a memory of speechless breathless dark
        ridges of a fraying bedspread under thighs
a dark storm attempting to drag him through black glass




There's a slipping  of some kind and an
impact     a broken wooden rim is very clear
       cold and deep-red-brown kitchen tiles in
boxy blue air
     a deep cupboard of curious broken treasures 
               
               a sharpening numbness
               they're all present and gathered
               seeming expectant

       blood and  - pause -  screaming 
and a gathering then to a large & bustling 
       all-warmth & comfort 





Itching of 
anxious dread 
              after-school 
              boneheads
                        flecking idiocy 
                        hating haircuts

you secretly confuse 'pubic' and 'public' &
           
                    shifting sidelong wary
          attempting to trace a line out from 
abusive threats
thick electric breath & 
real danger of harm 
chosen with a choice of subculture 



It's all feeling as though it's already coming down
four 
         or five      
running along dim corridors 
vibrating nostalgically in a thin 
blue-green glaze & beams of dust 



A bollocking at tedious length this hideous
insult 
          the buzzing
          infantilising 
fucked
          dying eyes 
          dragging bowels
          nailed in place by need 

Pffff





Seeing a stretch of cold 
blue infinity
a 3 o'clock summer light
and running for it 





Transparent lethal yellow plastic disorientation
stretching through the air way up to the corrugated roof 
        waves of corrugated steel heat running down across 
everything rising from a packed mud floor




Shining fat-necked bottles of milk
        medical eye-patch   asthma
red brick      whooping cough




A black Bakelite phone in cold thin light




Tonnes of mobile steel in scraped red and white
honking with foul breath and nastier
poisoned gut stenches





She is filling with a feeling that sings
through the skin across her shoulder blades 
            clear & touching the sun as her eyes
drink the instantaneous lives of children 





As for the roaring in the country sky
it is an unbalancing 
replacing a rock
with lovely wet laughter 




Cutting and infecting 
inside the skin, she
knows and is briefly 
expressing the injustice &
the slavery of a cup of tea



Dim and lead-lamp lit deep red stench 
inside dark sharp repetitions
dragging and stretching and pinning
a conscious surface out 




Terror & madness
just in 
being alive      specific       singular
in all 
                      

                           this                 





Along a path between raised beds
repeatedly and smelling already 
this repeated journey hand in hand 
shifting and flickering light and matter  




Echoing against grey-green wood 
and inside the sound of a sea 
an experiment of senses and imagination
flashing across strips of darkness and light 




And in weekly uphill retreat with habitual waving
from a fading dream of non existent super 8 
hand again in hand & a scent of cold coat wool
dissolving smiles loving & fixed 
                                                   eternal
                                                                imperishable 

                                                                                     past

Tuesday, 27 September 2016

New photography website

I've got a new photography website; the link is on the right but it's also here:

http://jonclay.zenfolio.com/

Corrupt as a dead rancid cat




There.      is 
a         beckoning with 
real 
             charm 
      and

an 
                eternal 


nightmare 
                                in. 
             a  


bathroom 
                                 begins;
there.                  are

Sick 

                glittering              Black fountains 


and 


waterfalls                as
each 
           split 
                       second


stretches 


beyond
                                    all 



perception 



rich men sit comfortably in full knowledge and drink cognac
and do not care to notice




as        
                         The



porcelain                  And.    



The.   




                                  Walls                            are.               screaming



for 

                       All. 




Time