codeine linctus by the bedside/
slabs of malevolence,, head swarming with images,, , prismatic shards piercing the gloam..
codeine/ robitussin/ benylin/ salbutamol…
flourescent tubes crushed on the ground-.
-- emerge in a seething hive, sediments shifting.. you feel the scrambling/ scrapping for position, you locate yourself in that. The portal is a sun bleached precinct,, late 50s/early 80s,.
You see the Old Bill have got the horses in, go to Wimpy for a milkshake.
You walk into town, through the market.
You hear the tannoy. Koranic verses
You feel the tension, palpable in the alleyways, the luminous mazes of t shirts and England flags.
Hamza Myatt. White muslim convert. Black flag , Shahada in white Arabic lettering .
Used to be a financial adviser in South Wales. Islamic literature. DVDs.
Mobile burger stall, aluminium chairs, a shuffling discontent-- malicious sideways glances,,
’ , polystyrene cups and bacon rolls….
proselytise new faith
The black standard.The black flag of jihad.
shock of warm sunshine. late spring,, stirring in the ground..
you feel it rising,, the tension. You will it into being, the rupture, the violence.
You resent the rebranded version of the town, recognise it as a betrayal.
'Learning centre’. Council workers out on lunch crossing new civic square. New flats,,balconies , lime green, shrill yellow, pockets of hallucinogenic hate ….,,you feel excited, you know its going to kick off. Some bloke on his balcony disrupting the computer generated scene, smoking in a keffiyeh scarf.
The simulacrum shatters.
Broken computer terminals, discarded toys, washing strung across spindly poles…
council waiting list 11,695.
Thatcher's right-to-buy, housing lost.
You fantasise about a hideout,,
on your mind all the time.
You want to see him, dance with him, get hot in looted sheets.
Rum and cokes,, the recoding, the reordering,
You walk past that pub, the Barge Aground .., dead yucca plants, garlands of lights smashed in the dust….
step through rubble,, through the end of a bleak protracted winter..
dreaming of him, his kisses. You think of later,, the euphoria of the riot, the tilting of the streets, a steep upward shift, all reshuffled, rearranged…
William street quarter, ((formerly the Lintons.--
Revenants of a brutalist past.),
777. Demolition of Lintons.
Go to Konvolut K
Tangram ,, black triangles, squares, parallelograms..
you think of that pause, that break in the order,, what it means
Now, Past and Future, collapsed .
you are alive---
It happened so quickly,,,you can’t bear to watch tv, the pointless soaps, the boring talk shows,,…it all seems so irrelevant, …so removed from this real life you are living….
You’re restless, excited, distracted…
All kicking off,,
Barking abbey, daffodils and crocuses out now. Spring speeding up…
. Buds and flowers opening in front of your eyes.
You walk down as far as the Creek, you feel the town giving up, dissolving into the estuary.
You pass the elevated portakabins and cross the footbridge over the motorway;, you sense his anticipation,, you want him here, when it all goes up, when black smoke rises from the town hall.
You walk past a failed development, ground floor retail units boarded up with plywood panels. The path is blocked . You look at the markings, the black triangles, elegant runes.
--happening in front of your eyes.
Abbey ruins, narcissi, pale yellow mirage . B and Q hangar closed. Car park empty, trolleys buckled and melted in beds of low maintenance perennials.
80s vernacular Tesco opposite abandoned burger king. Dark smoked glass.
Sinister, devoid of clutter and signage.
Parched reed beds,, tides of detritus.
You think this might be a good place to retreat,,later, if it gets a bit much.
A124 Canning Town to Barking.
A13. Haunted developments/ Riverside/ abandoned//
Ruins of empire…
Disordering the territory,
Lithuanian women on wall drinking, laughing, searching across creek glassy eyed.
Ford plant. 40,000 employed in 1953, 4000 now.
That secret place,, frothy cherry blossom, under the A13 flyover.
The ghost of assembly lines, the strike of 1971.
You think of his exqusite face, you pause to let the image of it crystallise,, and you think how you have always known it…
The aftermath of a terrible war.
BNP driving round,, Jerusalem blaring, Griffins gurning mug yanked through estates.
Place becomes jagged. Kaleidoscopic,, versions of utopian worlds splintering and reconfiguring--- allusions to mythical states black with congealed blood.
wrecked, attacking big screens. know that are they are completely off it, completely off the map.
Cross of St George,
Everywhere you see the George cross it becomes black, a malign patriotism.
You walk through the industrial estate, a yard full of palettes and bonfires. You think of later,, you think of the fires, the kisses,, the blood smarting in the head wounds.
Tall weeds, rust and fire.
Riverside development 2025, Barking Reach rebranded ., blocks of flats half built, structures in the shadows, settlements around the abandoned construction site.
That pub with black walls, survivor of the wreckage, marked with black triangles, signs of occupation 1971/ 1981/ 2010/ 2025.
You see a bloke hanging about on the path watching , you turn and walk back to where you hear the women shrieking, throwing cans in the water.
You cross back over the river,,bridge lit up white and red with Polish graff, some Anarcho Syndicalist, some Neo Nazi.
Thickets of brambles, the path less marked now .Banks of tower blocks, A13. You climb a low wall and crawl underneath a railway bridge. You are crawling past power cables, your hands are scratched and your knees black. You need to get in the pub early to spruce yourself up. You want to look good when you see him.
You are in the hinterland between the motorway flyover and a flat playing field. There’s an abandoned skate park inside and all these kids playing basketball in a wire enclosure. The gate is padlocked. A kid of about 12 shows you a point where railings have been prised apart. You squeeze through.
You walk past a frayed ribbon of allotments and come to a park ,a long meadow flanked by blocks and pylons. You walk up there then double back through rows of suburban streets until you reach the mayhem of East Ham station.
planners and developers attempt to gloss over.
militant energy .
, Always now,
Those moments, inscribed deep, never forgotten, in the landscape, pulsing under our skin. We have seen them, moments beyond sequences,, intense and luminous.
You walk back into town,,, Barking. He is waiting for you.
It is Spring, and it is a heat wave,,
wrecked , beleaguered,, written in faces…
on walking frames,
big drunk bloke,,, track suit, arms aloft shouting from kerb, woman , head down, slumped on concrete block.
///The transformative moment,,
You guage the situation in the market, old people sitting outside cafs, racist mutterings. Halal butchers---
No kicking off. You think if it did go off it would have to be at the top where the Islamic stall is..
Or the tunnel between Iceland, Wilkos and market…//
seats outside caf, arc of household goods, bright plastic, fake flowers,,,soaps and incense,,,,,
but when it does go up it’s outside the station, outside the two pubs, the Barking Dog and the Spotted Dog.
St George's Day Parade
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...WEAR BLACK AND SILVER CLOAKS AND CONDUCT AN OCCULT RITUAL, WHEREIN THEY WORSHIP A GIANT STONE OWL. ...
The Barking Dog---
Wetherspoons/ smell of spilt lager, spilt blood on hot pavement outside. Monday afternoon and the place is packed with wrecked ICF.
Lining up charlie .
with their 99p pints.
News 24 on tv /it has started, the burning, the wrecking. Westfield, Boxpark, Angel.
tramadol…// blokes in wheelchairs .. tubes out of noses. Lining up on oak veneer tables. Vans outside, from one nest of hate to another---
Jerusalem blaring , megaphone distortion
Velour banquettes, scorched carpets.
black circles burnt in walls.
one step from King George’s.
Cheap drink, cheap drugs , life on prescriptions.
A malevolent march towards oblivion
Splits into four chambers, spilling black seeds…
- slabs of malevolence,, head swarming with images,, , prismatic shards piercing the gloam..
gold eyeshadow, fluorescent rose on cheeks,, you look better now—
black dress , pink stilettos
walled into a maze of cascading images.,, negotiating other paths….
the pub next door,, —The Spotted Dog
London, balmy heat wave..
Everyone in white, suddenly--
Powders dissolving in vodka glasses.. you love the thrill of it,, his face, desire radiating in the heat…
the tension in the street,, the smell of smoke and boys in tracksuits running in and out the pub. The tv showing scenes from outside the front door, the horses, the groups of bare chested men.. you sit in your little alcove with your vodka and coke,looking at the mob outside, the mob on tv..
It all collapses into this moment,,
Pub becomes labyrinth of confusing levels. alcoves replicating in black mirrors,,,yards out the back leading to lost parks and meadows.--
the goods yards, portakabins, dark chambers under bridges.. the markings again, black crosses, elegant runes--
you drift through ancient fields, hawthorn pink in the hedgerows,,
You look at him, and you’re thinking he’s too perfect, too beautiful,, there must be something wrong,, …
Black plumes of smoke, windows glinting gold.
the pub filling up, shrieks and shouts,, the euphoria of the riot--
jukebox wired up to PA,, Rick Ross,, Gucci Mane--- demonic soundtrack to flying bottles, horses rearing at explosions of fire.
Violets, cherry blossom,,
Boys running in, Old Bill overwhelmed with fighting in Stratford/
Your new perfume, notes of mandarin,patchouli, vanilla,, he brought it from Westfield for you,
---cigarette smoke drifting in through front.. woodsmoke, chemical stink of burning warehouse--
striking oriental floral scent carries hedonism at its heart, and seizes the attention
.. it’s what you’ve been waiting for.,,what you always dreamed of—--
and now it burns, shimmering in the heat, the swooning incandescence,, the white hot pleasure of it all.
---to be continued----