Free art! Art for every one all day every day; beautiful, funny, irreverent, egotistical, boring, subversive, political, painstaking or traditional. Free art everywhere emblazoned in intricate interlinking networks across the streets of Brick Lane.
I pick over the dereliction noticing the tiny yellow flowers on the weeds, following the grammar of the pavements. When Braille like paving butts up to a sliver of cement embossed with paw prints and leads to a cracked stone slab I pay attention and keep reading.
I’m Catholic, Muslim, shaman I’m religious
I’m Marxist neocon I’m political. Ethics, beliefs and aspirations fixing the rights and wrongs defining the boundaries. Eat right sleep right, play right, work right ritual routine and safety, discipline and self-control. Mind training, body training. I jump into the great conditioning waves that produce me.
“Cigarette tobacco, cigarette tobacco” the young Albanian men flicker as we eye each other shape shifting from predator to prey. The man on the fruit stall will for darling me throw in an extra bunch of bananas. The whore boots if I come back later will they be even cheaper? We can’t help dancing at the record stall, wait I’ll bring you back a beigel.
Beach combing after dark the piles of clothes and objects, having just missed the last stop on the commodity world cruise are washed up on the curb, their last drops of value evaporated. Later the conga players draw a self selected coven powering ourselves into the deepening pocket of the weekend’s final hours. But its getting cold and the temples for the worship of dereliction, the gold in the shit, the light screaming out of the darkness are few and far between.
Beyond dereliction too fucked to squat, a beacon of shite in the encroaching order. A property developer wills its roof to fall in during his final moments before sleep. The power of knowing what you want is said to transform the world. I love it with my eyes, porn for the fans of the forsaken, the abandoned. Day by day hieroglyphs of the street accumulate on the old dark house. Advertising the invisible, stupid messages from the ones who know. The world is no longer flat, the façade sprouts effigies and objects “ this is not a basketball hoop” a head wraps its self around sweet tooth’s gums as he crucifies himself gloriously spread eagled across the black old house.
Fly posters encrusted onto the bridge state THIS IS NOT A BAR Brick lane cliché
reaches its peak and implodes into a black hole of infinite dimensions, an unknowable topology of planes and lines a complex web of skewed wills. The folly of pushing through a forbidden door – the black hole on the other side shouts welcome. Candlelight softens and warms gentle faces and stroking hands.
Smoking in public was banned in the UK on July 1st 2007
The dereliction and I recognise each other and make a pact to love while we can. Cobra was my king he let me take him there, a loves love indulged. And he washes the smoke from his locks as soon as he can.
Thing, nothing and No thing
This is not a bar it’s a third way, space/times bulging doughnut.
This is not a smoking bar, here we can linger in the aura of each other’s cyanide and benzadrine.
The black hole wears fur and shouts don’t believe the truth, the black hole is trussed in Japanese sex knots, and the fire falls out of the grate. The black hole is a tickle fight with a slightly dodgy uncle.
Don’t dance the floor will fall in.
Master of the 5 point palm exploding heart technique, with contact in exactly the right spots – body and mind like a Chinese puzzle manipulated expertly until we unfold, we’re in pieces falling giggling to the floor.
Again and again I walk through the dangerous door to safety. And drawn away from the eddies of playful conversation scanning the scarred walls pen and ink figures grin from curling brown paper. Day to day symbols evolve acquire accessories and die in flames or shatter under a fore iron.
The dark is where the badness we sublimated is supposed to fester. But we roll in the sickly sweetness compost, patches of the brown powder left in our body creases we stand up naked as the day we were born and each of us a little taller.
John drew a line and it was a long line and it took us to a door,
He drew a line and it was a long, long line and it took us to a door
Where is it now? Where is it now? Where is it now?
Where is it now? Where is it now? Where is it now?
I work all day and play all night a day has 24 hours
The power of community – the black hole multiplies the queer family embraces and supports growth spurts nourished with pure passion and who is inspired? Ket heads, university lecturers, dirty squatters, trustafarians, germangirl archist with a knife, bgirls, a muddler of words, a faker fighter pilot, a 1920’s Berliner, An unknown twin, a beatrix kiddo wannabe, a power house masquerading as Joan of arc, bangla boys, an anarchist healing by the day, a rude and stupid kind genius to broadcast us back to ourselves, a 1980’s roller disco on deconstruction, a nasty sweetness, all the black panthers who ever lived, a woman in white.
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