<- Yes Sir, I Will.
The Pig's Head Controversy.
The Aesthetics Of Anarchy.
December 7th. 1977. 5.30pm.
The old man weeps. Crusty eyes. His nose is snot-running. His child writhes on the pavement. The rubber bullet has glanced off the child's eye. The right eye. Cobwebs of blood form on the white of eye.
"Right lads, wait until you see the white of eye. Wait lads, wait."
The cobwebs pass into the iris. The cobwebs pass into the pupil. The cobweb pass into the retina. A darkness. Half the brain is cast in darkness. Dusk. Half darkness. The soldiers chuckle on the cold street corners. The wind moves stealthily through the streets. It has no motive. The guns are still warm, stealthily through the streets, slung on exaggerated shoulders.
The child paws helplessly at the blinded eye. Searches light. Nothing but the cold stain of dusk. Pre-birth twice.
Her Majesty's Forces. God save the Queen.
The child falls towards the gutter. Heaves half-digested comfort across the street. Egg, bacon, toast, hamburger,
relish, potato chips, boiled sweets. Now simple slithers of primary colour held in the saliva.
The soldiers chuckles on the street corner.
I sit, silenced. London 25 miles. Belfast 350 miles (Approx). I have no positive uniform. I wear black. My preference.
Black is the colour of death. I am always naked for my clothing exists in the shadows. I wear silver wings on my
breast-pocket. The wings are flight.
London 25 miles. Belfast 350 miles. Paris 350 miles. New York 3000 miles (Approx). The wings are flight. Silver wings on black surfaces. Black is an aspect of death. In the graveyard there are rows of granite blocks. Hard granite. A stone. The lead caskets remain as testimony. Beer cans in the ether. The bodies are long since rotted. Each my father, my mother, my son, my daughter. Each an aspect of self. Each a reflection of my own existence here. They die so silent. The granite. (Did they perceive the nature of their ways? Did they live this moment?)
The chalk squeaks across the slate.
"This, child, is the nature of your ways. This, child, is your life here."
"Yes sir. Yes sir."
I rush the words, afraid of being identified as a liar. (Take this, child, take it. Take it. It is all that they can offer you).
The rubber bullet has glanced off the child's eye. It ricochets across the damp street and falls, bounding, at the feet
of the bored cat. The animal licks small patches of human blood. Lean beast abandoned in this moment of grief. The child.
The old man. The mother, her perfume, a cheap supermarket toilet-water that clings mothily to the cat's fur. She too
cries. The old man holds her. The old man holds her again. The old man holds her again, his snot runs across her bare
"He not died" he mutters, "he not died. Blinded only."
She looks across the barren room. The wall covering is orange/gold/brown. The monocolour television promotes tinned meat pie.
The family, a tight unit of four, are seated at a well laid table. The meat pie steaming in it's container, is the center piece of this tableau. A bunch of plastic chrysanthemums, ethereal in rich steam, lends a majesty to the occasion. The family smiles it's sterile satisfaction at this packaged delight.
Her Majesty's Forces. The Virgin Mary. God save the Queen.
The old man's piss warms her leg. It runs in spurts through the cotton of her dress. She can not distinguish the piss
from the tears.
"He not died. He not died."
I move my head from the blankness of self to the blankness of window. It is night. All days it is night. Silent forms
move as shadows in the darkness. Beads of sperm cling, as yet undried, to my clothing. I kindle the delight of my body.
Carefully, I withdraw my penis from the meat pie, the jagged tin edges threaten my pleasure. The uncooked pastry cakes my hairs. The meat lays in tempered lines upon the erect flesh.
I drop the devastated meal by my side. I leave it there for the animals. I can not accept the histories, the oppressions.
The child is blinded alongside the slaughtered cattle, alongside the yard. The endless yards.
She screams at the sight of placenta.
Her cotton dress drops in white folds beneath her, a damp balloon, drawn beneath her. The old man pushes her against the cold glass of the television. Between her legs an army recruitment programme shines from the screen.
"It's a man's life."
I recoil from the histories, the oppressions. I wear black. Black is the robe of death. My blood is red (as yet
unspilled). The banner. An ancient flag that seeks an ancient freedom.
In my anarchy I choose no-one's boots, I seek only the determination of my own will. These paths that carry body from machine are the routeways of the assassin's bullet, I follow them not. They are nothing but the beating of manly chests, the blandness of history's cheap deaths. Silence on the walk to a communal graveyard. Unremembered.
"This, child, is the nature of your ways."
Quickly now, quickly.
"Yes sir. Yes sir."
I too could quote you voices from history, but they are the voices of the dead.
Marx. Christ. Freud. (Swirling rhetoric from the tomb).
I seek my own explanations, exhilarated by my own presence upon this living earth. I live beneath and beyond these surfaces of death. I want nothing of that blackness. It is your externality that I wear.
The child groans in the acid stench of the sickness. The tanks shake the tarmac of his pillow. His head jerks in
sympathy to their motion. The blinded eye does not register the closeness of the caterpillar-track and the hand.
One by one the cold bars of thetrack mash the child's hand into an unrecognisable mass of broken flesh, muscle and bone.
Slaughtered by the cattle, by the yard. The endless yards.
Is this a heresy?
The old man stands confused by his impotence. It worked before. The cerebral fusion of broken child/distraught
mother/birth/death had worked before, has stimulated some part of his lost sexuality. But now it stand quite desolate.
The cathode-ray injects coded messages deep into his brain. (Fuck. Rape. Buy. Steal. Own. Possess. Capture. Destroy. Seduce. Overpower. Demand. Envy. Hate.)
The lascivious nature of the male ethos from which he is excluded by age. The messages only confuse.
She reaches the on/off switch of the television. It fades as a procession of drum-majorettes turns the corner of Wall Street in celebration of profit. Her hand slides nervously across her thigh, she feels the moistened surface of her own flesh, skiddy in the old man's piss.
The tanks are parallel with her window, their massive shapes blank out the minute amount of light that might otherwise filter in from the street. The room is quite darkened. The television is a fading dot. The blankness of the window becomes the whole room. They stand, a tableau of fear, as the soldiers leap from their metal machines. They beat at the door with their gun-butts.
I add that autumn is over, the moisture created by my presence in this room runs, condensed, on the cold glass of the window. I have not drawn the curtains, nor fastened the blinds. Silent forms move as shadow in the darkness. I do not want to choose action. Silenced, I can generally withstand the pain.
I step off the plane. Flight GK020. New York/London. (Passengers shall comply with government travel requirements and
present exit, entry and other required documents).
It is 10.30am. London time. December 7th. 1977. Yellow mist. 3000 miles. 6½ hours. The layers are the inherited roles. The layers are the years of insidious erosion. Social erosion that has enabled the few to rule the many, has taught the proud to accept humiliation, has taught each master to be the servant. Privilege stands unquestioned in this social abattoir. Natural rulers. A nation crawls on it's knees in homage to this history. Faded flags hang like corpses in the streets, testimony to the acceptance of oppression. Inherited privilege, inherited servility, each accepting it as a reality. There is no question. They stand in jubilation before the palace to celebrate their slavery. The arm of the parent, first wavering move away from catatonia. They wind in single-file to the panelled school-room. Each child the replica of a false dream, an imprint of the manner in which it will be needed to serve. There is one apparency, servility.
"Is that right, child?"
"How can I question you Sir? You give me not the vocabulary."
Servility to God, Queen and Country, all demand death as final proof. These boys choked on the mud of war for that
trinity. The old suffer exclusion as their death. All in an ignorance, each in turn, taken to the slaughter. The point of
birth perverted to the process of dying, nothing created but replica, no new mind fostered where the flesh is
cannon-fodder. Perverted, they teach the hatred of the flesh and the reverence of mind. The mind is a condition, the flesh
is a fact. They can not face the facts. Systems need support to exist, they destroy potential to create stability. The
mind becomes fiction, alienated from the body in it's desire to serve. Society is a psychosis. The mind is a social
deliberation created to suit the needs of a pyramid of privilege. The body remains the fact of that structure.
How then can I move?
Marx. Christ. Freud. They are amongst the prophets of this death because they demand acceptance. (Suffer not little children). The untold arrogance of sterility.
The guns-butts break the door in sharp splinters, a crown of thorns in this sorry home. The crucifixion is inevitable.
The father and the son. Agony in the cowebbed eye, the decimated hand. Now this old man.
Is that a devastation?
The old man recoils from the beating fists. They jab his frail stomach. Insistent. Harder now. Enough?
Harder still. Adrenalin soaked crap slided through the old man's underclothes, onto the floor, beneath the shiny boots, beneath the gaiters, beneath the combat uniforms, beneath the oppression, beneath the centuries of this Union Jack, is this MY HOME.
Flight GK020. New York/London. (Passengers shall comply with government travel requirements and present exit, entry and other required documents).
These squaddy-boys fuck, rape, buy, steal, possess, capture, destroy, seduce, overpower, demand, envy and hate, legitimised by God, Queen and Country to use the ethos to maintain the ethos that maintain God, Queen and Country. All sewn up in the prison cells and psychiatric wards of MY HOME.
Is this hand of hand of Imperialism?
The old man is not yet dead, but he is ended. The child is not yet started, but he is already ded. These system? What is their demand? What is their cost?
The young squaddy bends her tortured body across the television cabinet. He breathes in wafts of perfume, a cheap
supermarket toilet-water. The traditions of victory are his.
She feels the squirt of warm semen against the walls of her vagina, feels his withdraw.
She will never know the father of her second child.
December 7th. 1977. 5.40pm.
I sit, silenced. Forms move as shadow in the darkness. A cat licks translucent liquids from the jagged opening in the meat pie container. I adjust the silver wings on my black clothing. The wings are flight. I am not yet free, but I am not dead. I am started, but see no end.
These systems? What is their demand? What is their cost?
I do not want to choose action. Silenced, I can generally withstand the pain. The shadow in the darkness is my own consciousness, slowly it takes form, slowly exposes itself to the light, slowly demands my commitment. I can less and less withstand the pain.
I WARN YOU, THE NATURE OF YOUR OPPRESSION IS THE AESTHETIC OF MY ANARCHY.