remixed from my journals and notebooks from travel, 18th century travel handbooks, current music on the spin (this one was influenced by Le Tigre), Basho, Herodotus, Buddhism, google sculpting, and of course memory . . . mapping new maps into the present rather than clinging to the past. . . another attempt at an expansive poetics to move away from the constricted mind and ego . . .
this one was re-sampled, re-mixed this morning . . . Milton Keynes and Bletchley . . .
Tossing at night in their own traps. I couldn’t cut a straight line. In this corner of Europe one sees little in the light. An Englishman does not travel to meet an Englishman. In a place that used to be a monastery more than 55 languages are being spoken. We are only looking at the chaise. A man can churl on the sign. You suffer Mon. Dessein. Table tennis at the Bletchley swimming pool. Hot chocolate comes from the machine. The stuffing was coming out of the sleeping bag. It is a dead man’s bag from World War Two. Who shot J.R. Ewing? Being but a poor swordsman I led her up the door to remise. Curse be my gods. Curse . . one two three four. I have withdrawn my hand from across my forehead. We are all ninjas in a cobweb. I fancied it. The characters from a widowed book. Who took the ring from the ram-a-lang-a-ding-dong? Pulling out my tour. The poor monk does not blush. Edit. Remix. I have laid my hand upon your cuff. Sprightliness the prey of sorrow. The poor monk does not blush. Off-setting the new vineyard. We met at the Coffee Hall housing estate. There is no nation under heaven.
Labels: Bletchley, Milton Keynes, The Grand Tour