T

he first sign of weakness is masturbation which blinds them on the football field and leads to own-goals. Today is the day of the dirty-white dragon of the logos. Come together.

Gun metal blue. The patina of copper. Verdigris on the edge of green. The condition of modern democracies is a condition of perpetual bullying. Piggies.

Artists steal the world’s energy. At each stage there is a death. Nobody I know.

Vomit and phlegm. This may seem all nonsense to modern minds. We can work it out.

No Hortus Conclusus, my seaside garden. All poetry is religious in its movement. Tell me what you see.

Opinions, reminiscences, portraits of people and places. Science is the only contrary method, the opposite working of consciousness. The inner light.

The detuned television flickers grey, waiting to be flooded with colour, waiting for the image. We are lifted to be cast away into the new beginning. The fool on the hill.

I present you with a green flower. Death takes us and all is torn redness going into darkness. With a little help from my friends.

Nothing is of nothing made. All is incompatible with all. Here, there and everywhere.

Dame Perspective, the obsessive mistress. It was a thick, fierce darkness of the senses. She’s leaving home.

At that time there was political purity in artworks. Let me make a reservation. Think for yourself.

Deliberately scratchy and degraded, cut like a home movie to romantic ballet music. Freedom is illusory. Sacrifice is illusory. Got to get you into my life.

The world is a cacophony of voices, the airwaves are jammed. When it comes to living, we live though our instincts. Don’t let me down.

My hair short, I put on a leather jacket and took off into the night. All this sounds very far from painting. Revolution.

As long as our sexuality was contained, we could be exploited. Life is more vivid in a snake than in a butterfly. Misery.

What did we have in common? One truth does not replace another. All together now.

You can weave facts any way you like. Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. Run for your life.

The virus produced a quiet space in the hubbub; it achieved a subtle alienation. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins. Within you, without you.

If the streets you live on depress you then bulldoze them down. It is nonsense to declare there is no higher or lower. The fool on the hill.

There was no language or discourse I could relate to, nothing. It was another world, the world of fierce abstraction. Help.

There is something terrible in the thought that I wished this. For it is always a battle, and always will be. What goes on?

I began to read between the lines of history. It was a knowledge based not on words but on images. Yesterday.

This decision opened a door in the labyrinth. There are two sets of correspondences, both physical. All you need is love.

Anyone who picks up a brush or a camera is suspect. We see that the emotional reaction to such a conundrum. She loves you.

Grey surrounds us and we ignore it. The true action of the myth, or ritual-energy, has been cut away. Tomorrow never knows.

Artists are suspect in that world. But the rider on the white horse is crowned. Something.

Artists are seen as elitist, and if male, part of the dominant culture. Nothing is so farcical as insistent drama. It’s all too much.

I think this work runs counter to the accepted patterns of sexual politics. And this will go on forever. In my life.

These are the rules for prolonging life. It is impossible to communicate anything serious any longer. The end.