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Symbols and Sounds

by Paul Green/Greg Segal

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THE DEEP STATE switch my breakfast on and onwards/repetitive strained eye movements around around it/until you are dumbed up the rite way/ pubic schools must keep faith up the arse of least resistance/ Tiberius ruled minnowing his history boys in bubbly hush with money and the unexplained death of dogs we entered a deep stateπ in the depth of the Tate modernist state/behold the magic meat a brain of Anthony Blair is exposed/his sacrament deprives them of their bodies/ the inconvenient brown people/dowse over their dusty cellars gripping magic bones/ I can’t quite fry the Bilderbergers who give me stelazine and dog-breath so do his brain/so doable/I’m down/I’m down here as Dumbo/in such a state dig it down/bunkers under Chelsea for oligarchitects of-oil oi oi! they come across/all over the Little Queenie/like the patience of spiders morphic attractors driving change from futures marketing owners of the elite the deep fuckers fake over their dungeon for Kirstie install her pony-fat for a good hiding in the smart art-of-the state the deep statecraft cruises my secret space ways the inner earways infested with electric ants/those throaty microphonic dub me with a statement/voice-pox/does in my amygdala installs a dark mandala back of the eyeballs gone googly to match your profile ALERT! you are re-entering a right state TORMENT OF THE BASILISK! twittering to the death of millions/ the glitter of new micro-nukes/in the glare of an eyeball I was obsessed by the deep state of ‘Burlington’/pyramid of official toilet rolls fossils of atomic chairman/dusting the red phones to dial up a Jezebel Spirit / Green aliens scrabble in the deep cabinets to find last words WE ENTERED A DEEP STATE
DESCENDING A TREE KETHER unbearable nuclear light/white hole/a void/flux-trap CHOCKMAH vast countenance of Odin BINAH calibrate her vinegar distilleries of justice CHESED crystalline rings interlocking a dark matter DAATH he crossed on the rope ladder woven of frogs GEVURAH we are your Martians now/battle-trucks of Planet Blood/out of meat/out of mind TIPHARETH a control room in the sun has the complete settings but too late NETZACH our tigers are burning baby/cackle of green stuff /her Venus catch my fire HOD machine chatter under a yellowing sky YESOD dreaming breast again against breast/apertures in flesh defences/ MALKUTH frack an Earth-God in the depths of his plummy bowels/mix down water/fire in an alchemy of muddolls/festive tramplings
intervoid 01:28
INTERVOID Metal scrappage from our Intervoid will be sorted, according to reliable sources. The chant of the weed, nasal angels, all the normalised sound tracks will keep you on message. Crump went the golden lights of old Baghdad. Keep staring down the telly. The Void tried to get into my cot, it put its metal angular head over to say hallo, my darlings. The angels and maggots are line-dancing across my screen. I’m pluralized by the bursting stars. It’s dark inside the radio. The statement said they desired men of iron. I felt trapped on the wrong astral plane, barred from the consummation areas for a half-life. The others, brighter young things, chortled with entitlement, but I forgave the girl in the pirate hat. A green-backed angel with scalloped tin wings crawls into a stone. Its priests who smelled of old soap smelled danger and the terrifying simplifications of old age. The slang of love was verboten. Her every cleft would be botoxed by now.
Leakages 04:34
LEAKAGES 1 At the end of the day rhetoric was the only placeholder I coloured in the cut-ups ‘prostitution/was sold out’ Allah and Dick Cheney/will take full responsibility for updates ‘targeting British/worldly life’ Anti-social media stream the dripping memes: screaming Liz and her petting lizards hired old paedophiles of Zion to stage another Gallic sacrifice, more puddles of glorious blood Conspiracy geeks share selfies right there you so like being so liked 2 Tonight I write sadly Christopher Logue crackling on vinyl jazzing Lorca over Brit bop/his red bird dancing on ivory Tonight I’m on and off doodling some pinky humps of emotion as described in the text books Tonight I write straight into the false present the moments on hold scattering like rain Tonight I write my self out the lightning rod of our superior fire power pierces my foggy lungs Tonight it is written all over bleak blue lights of gendarmerie spin around the trauma zones Tonight it writes madly in pixels for all the minds blown into flecks of pink matter
MARQUEE/SUICIDE 78 Alan Vega riding his ghosts electro chemical voices cooked in sweat box organ a collector’s item in tranquillity now it’s fizzling in my grey stuffing the pudding of resurrection men I’m here but not there is the matter rain slashed my house last night I heard voices japing in the hollows memorised a poster for THE LURKERS
ON THE CORNER Brighton 3/8/2014 This carnival adrift sky washed away in grey I’m on the caffeine trawling my retrospex tranquillity-based mass observation: here come rainbow rioters a percussion of loin pride maledom princess in a priceless corset serpent power tattoos the brown arms those old studded leathers brought out special trap the walkabout tourists/midriffs of old jazz geezers/ girl in a blue fedora and sharks tooth necklace/ eurasian girl exhausted by seaside jollies seeks refuge in partners/ your partners in helmets scanned painted faces for health and safety the women just walked away handling hands pale girl in her dream hat I was on sidewalk caffeine alert duties grime man reported squatting in Newcastle Brown waiting for a change, any change to come Kim Jong-Un lookalike clones himself to ground zero I’m on the beat in the pocket no tattoo is taboo behind plate glass I-spy dope-patterned hot pants hallo sailor boys dangle hands Captain Mission has landed tall man in epaulettes salutes gold bomber jackets pinky hats Hawaian horror shirts/ ELVIS SUPREME BEING a revolving door aesthetic/bunny ears can’t find the next whiskey bar/ sulking despite pink hair and a coronet/sequinned navels against the world dump the Red Stripe in her handbag/I LOVE/EAT LOVE
TO EVOKE PHAROAH SANDERS Thothman calls the Pharoah (aetheric timewarping in memoriam) so the Pharoah screams forward through time howling and hauling my ass backwards New York August '68 242 East Third Street Alphabet City where the scribe was inscribed in his depths after the yellow cab over potholes, garbage bin, grilled door, goggling on the blink in the blackness of Slug's Saloon beaking a pale nose through fuming blackness big Afro-Sheen dashiki brothers guarding the bar check out my white threads, my queasy minder attorney bro-in-mob-law from Tudor City who expected Dixie jazz in hats not the bullroarer tenor raising funk demons blazing pyramid of percussion avalanche piano a long yodel mastering the universe
Sphere 00:57
SPHERE CKLG FM 102.7 1971 oozing McCartney, then out of radio darkness: THELONIUS MONK LIVE AT THE BLACK HAWK jerks around a corner hunting ivories sticky insects between the keys trinkets dropped right in there fell off and on the stool in his Polish hat SPHERE called unto his self THELONIUS centred himself every where in nowhere man testing tone science like Ra God of the Gaps he stuck the bright knife in black icicles between the keys an epiphany such an epistrophe cats wigged in and out to catch notes on the fly obliquely in the bleak light of Minton’s
THE LONG POEM The long poem is drawn out like graphite rods raising my centigrade, my chaos of nuclear gasses for my long lines are melting, the linear bedtime story in the safe-rooms of Enlightenment - the long-lost locked room mystery… …collapsed in gulps and weights of hot metal, regurgitated gold bile and the flower-bedecked raves are festivals of desperado recycling the West is a boiled submarine we tremble before the Unfuckables with kalashnikovs hooting Allah Akbar from the high ground of digitised martyrdom * a collective noun behind the mise-en-scene narrated our monetised death jump (SHOW-TIME! sponsoring oil-drenched camels nibbling the Queen’s Baton) you and I mean you click-through reincarnation as an addiction self-flagellantes cruise lobbies of the dead ready for to carry me home let’s give the Illuminati a go all I can do is my routine about Anthony Blair, the ultimate selfie, and his sacraments of bread ’n’ blood… knavish red-eyed demon is a great traitor to these islands and should be quartered at Tyburn, his vitals to be thrown to the hounds. A pox on him! telly-tubby antics in the glassy desert… * The Peoples of the Book ripped up/off each other’s First Editions each page from the finest skin of girls and babies slightly foxed to fit their agendas of slicing post-human genitalia Rival monopolies of the Near Death Experience jostling in Jerusalem for market control as I fondled my smarty slab to flip into uploads: severed heads/last night's paella/bomblet celebrations/ poor little cats/the black/ blackening flags of St George even your personalised Russian bride in red rubber but the Pentagon has Jesus on stand-by in a flying saucer - all is well… * All is the omnivore stalking you and the kids in the TV movie they have made all about you in which you consume your own toes and work upwards to fall off the ladder slaving to an inner banker for quantified appropriate beans and re-formed porkers I have no choice but to re-invent the author and slip into my own body for an ID change lively up my personics to talk the walk-through (a blizzard of signals and fractured crystals) experiencing quite an increase in Tulpa activity of late /I am Goth Wookie to centre myself into the exploded moment, it’s right here, in Hastings in some fattened mums dragging their kids swollen with dog-food around and around a circus for IDS the Quiet Killers of ATOS and government by egg-faced management * The long poem stretches me in nine dimensions I shall run out of space-time screaming for refuge in a black notebook where I ate fast food at the base of the World-Tree my footfall was in Malkuth, the Earth-Sphere, a sun-spotted day in London Town humans in perpetual motion on the other side of the glass, sixty women a minute, the male glaze over hijabs, those pert bums, the long march of my ant-people across Pleistocene ice- plains… Are we, ladies and lads, a story arc directed by a future attractor, morphogenetic field-hands on the bumpy time-scapes of space… Set the controls for the Black Sun! eco collapse is a strategy of the world-mind/the cure for depression is jihad my eye is in your black triangle - watch it… * The long poem is lined up against the wall to be branded before it is shot No let us give a booby prize to the long poem it is more humane quite humungous like a dose of ayahuasca in the House of Commons Bar - George Osborne shitting in a vase - the Woosterfarians yodelling this is not never the weapons system we commissioned meanwhile your long poem must get its marching orders from Sun Ra via the Saturn hotline at checkpoints for multi-temporal bifurcation/tectonic plate shifting/smash-up of the paradigms where history splits its infinitives into moon walking homunculi/the intervention of insects before the cells turn round and start wandering home to get spiked in the lobbies of Hyde Park as massed faith-school vuvuzelas proclaim end times and special offers on reconstituted flesh * The elongated poem voyages into blackness, all-corrosive nigredo ground-burst as I’m struggling for my time allotted to out-think the blue sky-boxes, drill down into Being before it’s even advertised by oligarchs banking their food against a collapse of watch-towers no time to talk to a fistful of bent dripping coins it’s red-eye alert in Phat City sperm warfare those anti-sin ramparts excrete the gold bugs implanted earlier don’t filter my mucus my head is unmade like Tracey’s tarty old bed the long poem must be uncompressed for I am the last of the Analogue Men I’m spinning on the long-playing poem extruding my spider-map of bowels from the epicentre of the galaxy according to latest reports I am going plasmatic * This poem is contracting as a consequence of globalisation saith the dead pundits it will shrink unto itself like a reverse universe a glut of light on the Godscape for the West has briefly fizzled and phuts into a great brain of dark matter dreaming of Space Virgins of the Third Reich © and Barbie-dogs rescued on the Lost Ark or the jingle-jangle Singularity, seven billion bugged copies of it rewiring our queasy wetware I am in a force-field of shadow photons, sickly as a puree of dead parrots artisan cuisine for whitefolks frolic - the mystery brain has runaway with its night train flash back to Children of the Lost Planet/Crash of the Red Moon/blind groping of the Triffids my trove buried in our Gestaltbunker your ontology on the over-ride to a dead end * The long lost poem went time-worming into the wrong hole for we are all coded from junk DNA bearing alien assembly instructions my neurons have already made up my mind but meanwhile the long poem drones on in Urdu for heat-seeking readers in Waziristan knitting their waistcoats of martyrdom William Hague still sitting in the lap of George Bush his oaken mouth clacking open and shut The Bush paints Antony Blair by numbers a brush strapped to his pizzle and assorted pre-loved naughty bytes are frantically sorted by the Tarot Readers of Cheltenham - it must be in there somewhere that sigil of zero, the Salafist Dada Nihilismus… HOW SAVE OUR CHILDREN FROM THE HEAT DEATH? I cannot stop the Long Poem


released December 3, 2017

Paul Green: poetry, vocals, sax
Greg Segal: other instruments, arrangements, production, cover.

Recorded in England and the U.S., 2017.
All titles Green/Segal

Buy Paul Green's poetry book, "The Gestalt Bunker", here:


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Greg Segal Portland, Oregon

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