Below are 3 texts from my new book Memories Like Angels at a Ball Tripping over their Gowns which is available now in paperback for $19.99 or as a download for $7.50.
Exopolitics
Suppose, at our approach, the guide suddenly switched to a language we didnt understand, an immaculate and alien langauge that had ordered abstractions hanging like Jimmy Page solos in the air before us.
The disappointment is physical, our paradise a stage set, symptomatic of a marble feather in a Nike backpack.
It’s not unlike a clockwork dog in the early dawn walking backwards through a field of razors and daisies, nor the theme day no-one seemed to mention. You arrive to the party the only one not dressed as royalty, your choice of deconstructionalist jeans, your personally developed Gaultier feral wardrobe not getting the ‘what clever irony Brentley’ applause it deserves.
————————————————————-
To The Director of Public Affairs
First let me explain. My art is meant to be anti tyrannical, it is the intention of many men of letters to fly their kites in storms. Whether or not it was you I meant to offend is another thing again. Do you pride yourself in sticking to the book, where you the boy who threw away the paper if the pencil left the rule?
If so then I repeat: We have abandoned the dead capital of the streets, the new networks are virtual, we are marching as I speak.
We laugh at Marx, have buried the hatchet in his head, we sent some blueprints through the post to that effect. Set out to that city with no pavements from the tourism catalog. Upon arrival we raced breathless to the cinema, caught a matinee session of The Man called Horse. It was part of a festival screening; Richard Harris with those claws in his chest, the Sun Vow Initiation, could you imagine such a test, to prove your worthiness, your dedication to the interests of this mass of men you rule with pen? Didn’t think so Sir. What is the virtual comparison of dragging you screaming from your desk, tearing the emperor from his chair, the board of directors in a faulty lift, plunging to their death.
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Fetish a Virus?
The secret visitor.
The street organic.
The regal carnival.
The fugitive major.
The lover innocent.
The sensitive theory.
The bystander creepy.
The common anxiety.
The fatal brother.
The artist tarnished.
The distant singer.
The truth opaque.
The figure sophisticated.
The elegant claw.
The debutante sullen.
The shy flower.
The odd machine.
The laughter lame.
The open demon.
The soft figure.
The ceremony silent.
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