AfR! Postscript Speakable Only in Knotty Lunchese

Postscript to Adorno for Revolutionaries

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The dissonance the professor admires is a hardback on the SHELF, concealing the broken back of the cock-on-the-walk who put it there. We’re only as reputable as the speakers in your bass-bin, and we put all alt concepts under the tremolo key. We crave the evil tweeters just like the Satchmo acid. The faux bouquiniste is as nutty as Fremsic, waiting for the pong of the aftershave, answering the ping of the phony dialectique. Oh daffle my thunderhead in Beefström, in Wall Mart®, in pervy Potts, in majuscule blisslike! The care with which we collectively infold the sticky insult between the leaves of darkgreen scholarslip, where the reactionary beatle lays its eggs, is defence of the LIVID TISSUE OF NERVES electro-imputing our innermost cravings and longings and leggings and fist-u-like fondled-up Fauntleroy. It’s forked and do-ladled and rimshot and scatterfat, the rendering of porkfat so right in the can, which opens up suddenly in a jagged font of richmelt molasses. My, the seamy side of Sullivan was a Pocohontas® under the bedskin. You can’t run for help and the glossed-up Joyce in The Listener just spoils the flow of the prose, like interrupting the sex act with commentary. Because commentary is already there as fantasy, the thing-in-itself veining in chlorophyll yella streaks and creaks and peaks until you stare jawdropped at the material atom, a bewhorled marble. So blue and swirly beautiful it drove poor Buzz mad.

 Those grinding gears just there to spur the cogitation of the dungeon engine. We rang the changes on the persons to try and see what y’all were doing, ME. Which, as a newly-minted version of SEXUAL MATERIALISM, quickly accused the toothsayers of neglecting dental hygiene. As you sew, so shall ye reap, repression being your dingy gazebo. With a Colgate® stripe on the ferrule. I had a wank in the afternoon. We’re not describing music as objects, we’re describing what the music makes us become–in the frostbite nite with the flops gone white, beneath the jammy noonday ache of a rational sum. It’s all to be hurled to blazes, but we take seriously the 30 yards of chain we laid on the ground in a straight line between two landmarks caught in our theodolite. We know our feelings and admit our drives, so let’s take a ride to TRUTH CENTRAL. Cum Ye all hither to the fine-and-dainty turnabout…

Sway a door ajar from treble trouble (money, stipend, trendiness) to glimpse the heavy heaven round us, waking to the Vortex® of the actual. No matter that it sounds like some new kind of kitchen cleaning pad advertised in women’s magazines in 1959, this pat-a-cake bakerman jostles the very fronds of the onion. In layers intrusive, in fibrils, in waif-sets with bristling antennae. Crystal, I done oughta. Insolent waves insulate a cavity audience, primed for the hot cunt punctum. Dark whole. Electro­flyer. Bees’ knees. Bedbugs. Crawdaddy blinker extraneous, the material sign lit by a succession of Anglepoise® spotlights, a spaghetti of powder trails to the Big Bang of emergence, when the matter spooks unbidden and eagle-winged Begriffe rear up in your pasteurised, pastelised ambience (itself a dim, wan translation of Nazi-science Umwelt). Sojourn on of dried-up pancake, rear munch palaver dead in the water! Preamble to an amble through a line of damp anglers, canal minds open to raindrop circles and unmoney time spans: reality as a ’20s abstraction, every right ­angle positioned in relation to spirals and circles and curvesome organics unseen by the ’60s blockheads. Oh Bridget Riley–you rile me!

You took me and moustique me, believing I was writing a pray-see or rear-view when actually I was staring at my own tumescence in wonder, kneeling to smellfish the line I was casting on the uncle-rated void, my Biro® beribboning and degibbering the poky genitals on the Avenger. Here croak emissary, Willi Baumeister as Poltergeist, with crackling of Teutonic consonant cutting notches in the cloud-bedecked hierarchies of the you-man totterpole. The musk of sense in the weave of the midlife cocoon. Below me, munch of Snodgrass. Snaggle-tooth berimbau Cyro-foam, quizzical incisors gnashing the twang, gnat proboscis flannel-mind with offstage jungle gleam. Aloe Vera®, ’ow’s the hip replacement doing? Home to the ever-spreading chestnut tree, Verushka Park with mosquito nets. Spread out to make you laugh into a sac. The pard steps softly through the tart’s boudoir and my paranoid sensemaker improvises a contiguous novelette. Here’s holy fun shrunk to a thumbnail (‘Canister, Alcready, best-of-times…’). Speaking in rushen curses set fire to the roof-tiles, rile stools suddenly wrecked and broken, those silly injunctions about primacy–written or spoken, rotten or puked–strapped to an unthinking juggernaut called an academic career. Music was no longer something mere musicology or sound art studies could map. The expanded brief of DADA, the discovery of the contingent (Hans Richter) as pertinent window on the universal capitalising process, required a philosophical revolution and a revolutionary philosophy, or all action dwindled to wishful rosebuds and moral dejection. Agents were dispatched on wingtip to test all manifestations of the money principle in every guise. The particular was revealed as under the cosh of the universal. We bled, then rose and fought.

Oh principled poets, gaythorns and lap-pups! You project the archive into future oblivion; I snip chives in the Deptford herb garden as Lol blows a tune, strolling in a paradise vouchsafed to me by Lord Buckley. You confuse the necessary mortice lock of determinate abstraction with the rigor mortis of received wisdom: we pedal harder, escalate the cash rungs till they ring like magic beanstalks, trip the ogre, snaffle the gold, hew the blooming stem. Rowdy grass was a wholetown roundabout. I set fire to the antic haystacks and dunk the developing groupuscule in the fixer, louche as a distaff, tight as a mop. I made it as stiff as Cosmic Plasmatic Sensation could go, then thrust it into something as specific and wet and everwidening as the great black megaphone of destiny, Courbet’s Lora Jean Dumonde, which wondrous orifice rides just below the Heraclitan dialectic, the secret of origins awaiting the pole of unveiling. For IMPROVISATION–i.e., real thought–knows no greater spur than the joke on the end of your holy fork. Using innuendo and phoneme slip to slide fuck facts past the broadcast censor stencher. Because ‘all flows stop at the sticky end’ was just another beauty spot in the whorl, a liquid riskle, a crinkled dimple welling up aside the crown. I love. No guess.


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