Dron - Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads
His overheated cortex was as cold as ice.mp3
Sleeve Notes
Sub-Sub burrows the long Vatican of allusiveness, as once I dared say. And now I continue, curl back upon my old trails to hound again and again cetology ie the whaleology, that before was not so much painstaking as promiscuous. I enjoy that light, the dim light of the narrow glance that never stops, that is convivial upon tears, empty and unhappy in the long run because, thought, fancied, cleared out and cleared up, all that is often made is a refuge. And who more needs a refuge if not the refugee, the heart splintered, the coming heart in earnest. Genesis, Job, Jonab, Psalms, Isaiah, Holland’s Plutarch’s Morals, Holland’s Pliny, Took’s Lucian, Other’s verbal narrative, Montaigne, Rabelais, Stowe’s Annals, Lord Bacon’s Psalms, Ibid, King Henry, Hamlet, The Fairie Queen, Sir William Davenant, Sir T. Browne ‘Of Sperma Ceti and the Sperma Ceti Whale’, Walter’s Battle of the Sumer Islands, Hobbe’s Leviathan, Holy War, Paradise Lost, Fuller’s Profane and Holy State, Dryden’s Annus Mirabilis, Thomas Edge’s Ten Voyages to Spitzbergen, Sir T. Herbert’s Voyages into Asia and Africa, Schouten’s Sixth Circumnavigation, A Voyage to Greenland, Sibbald’s Fife and Kinross, Richard Stafford’s Letter from the Bermudas, N.E. Primer, Captain Cowley’s Voyage Around the Globe, Ulloa’s South America, Rape of the Lock, Goldsmith, Cook’s Voyages, Uno Von Troil’s Letters on Banks’s and Solander’s Voyage to Iceland in 1772, Thomas Jefferson’s Whale Memorial to the French Minister in 1788, Edmund Burke, Blackstone, Falconer’s Shipwreck, Cowper, John Hunter’s account of the dissection of a whale, Paley’s Theology, Baron Cuvier, Colnett’s Voyage for the Purpose of Extending the Spermacetti Whale Fishery, Montgomery’s World Before the Flood, Charles Lamb’s Triumph of the Whale, Obed Macy’s History of the Whale, Hawthorne’s Twice Told tales, Cooper’s Pilot, Eckermann’s Conversations with Goethe, Owen Chase, Elizabeth Oakes Smith Scoresby, Thomas Beale’s History of the Sperm Whale, Frederick Debell Bennett’s Whaling Voyage Round the Globe, J. Ross Browne’s Etchings of a whaling cruise, Lay and Hussey, Tyerman and Bennet, Daniel Webster, Henry T. Cheever, William Comstock, McCulloch’s Commercial Dictionary, Currents and Whaling, Tales of a Whale Voyager to the Arctic Ocean, Newspaper Account of the Taking and Retaking of the Whale-ship Hobomock, Cruise on a Whale Boat, Miriam Coffin, A chapter on Whaling in Ribs and Trucks, Darwin’s Voyage of a Naturalist, Wharton the Whale killer, Nantucket Song, Whale Song.Everyone was standing about. It was uncommonly hot. Germans, Vietnamese, Indians, Chinese, all congealed in salt as if having bathed in the Dead Sea had quietly taken to ship. Leter it was drizzly November. They are water gazers the lot of them. A young French woman was loitering under the shady lee of the upper deck. Ten to one her absent mindedness was to do with a lover. This was probably why she had been crazy to go to sea because she was unable to grasp the tormenting yet mild image of rejection. She might as well as plunge in and be drowned. It is the ungraspable phantom of life and there’s magic in it. But she isn’t pacing towards the water. She isn’t going to dive in. Passengers grow quarrelsome or sick rather than suicidal. They don’t sleep well at nights. The woman’s handsome face was watched with pleasure by the Vietnamese man who hated respectability of all kinds and wanted to be taken as just a sailor and nothing more. It was as if that touched a point of honour in his soul. The French woman didn’t notice him at all but instead watched a batch of Chinese students returning home after completing studies abroad. These had come from England. A toddler seemed to have been let loose. A woman followed, with a face marked by nothing but toil and weariness. What fates had run her to such a place and such a way? She hardly breathed the same atmosphere as the rest because even those who looked a little stale and dry had the sense to wear sunglasses whereas she revealed everything in her eyes. She was slight and modern which means they mean nothing in and of themselves but require authentication from outside.
They dreamt questions... How many worlds fall apart before daybreak?.. and stuff… The lusts of a billion angels rising from the dark shadows of the frozen deserts, lusts that wriggled and snaked across ice floes and flat plains in wetware micro-images that decayed nine-tenths of what was left but still left pallid girls and cyborg boys to fall upon each other, to devour themselves in a consensual hallucination of orgasm and unthinkable organic complexity whilst simultaneously disappearing into lines of light, constellations of information and data digitized to star time and machine recession… orgies of data rep, caught in the blazing terminals of fuckware and bang, anime apps gone native within bug-immersed codes hylomorphed into avatar zooming… avatars more real than bio-orgs they at first seemed to be mimicking, these were deep real desire-drives working a billion billion suns of energy and multiverses into data lines for gamma release – the release beyond markets… How do these dreams feel? Try outsourcing these things and compare with whatever we had before – there’s no way this stuff wasn’t more true than whatever the meatware could pump out before. These were dreams that tuned in beyond language syntax and core dumps… I counted tears and the floating wreckage of figures literally falling out of the night sky. Snowflake angels with charred wings and the capacity to make more angels through their weeping.
Veerkum Dron’s Death.Jana J trudges along through the rain and dismal air. She is relieved to crash into a West Ealing café. From beneath her long black trench coat she pulls the journal of Veerkum Dron and begins to read whilst clutching a mug of real-as-possible black coffee. Recall that she had phoned him, they had talked, Dron had left her the journal on a library shelf, given instructions as to how to recover it and now, having returned from the North Pole, she had rescued it from its anonymous shelf, and with trepidation opened its scummy pages to read the insanity within. In the café, in the book, in her mind there lurks a mystical & immense sound, a secret noise, a charged epic of unfathomable silence awakened into tones and aural disturbances, elements of terror and forces that can go wrong, with no romanticisation possible, nothing like that desirable, a crazy schemata of spirits hankering for everything and as a result Jana J’s battles in the North Pole collapse suddenly into this, a moment of furious reading and realignment, a quietus and breathing space, an adagio between action and contrary, living and contrary, thought and contrary etc. And all of this in the banal humdrum skirt of ordinariness. A large woman served hot tea to a couple of thin strangers at a table near the door whilst other tables seethed with the facts of other lives oblivious to hers, oblivious in fact to the whole damned drama unfolding, a sort of Leibnizean space and time where nonetheless things, figures, people, spoons, cups, knives, forks, saucers, mugs, ketchups, salt, pepper, beans, eggs, chips, sausage meats, bacon, omelets, bread buns, margarine, vinegar, pastries, coffee, tables, chairs, mirrors, newspapers all ordered possible existences via convenient intermediaries outside the immensity and eternity of everything comparable, epistemologically, to the Gods of Homer.
Write to get away from myself to some extent, which is something indeed, mottled light crossing images, principles, puzzles of certainty and nature, all that as if all the facts in the world are floating underwater. Never cared about appearance, instead a recentred weight projecting something like a new silence. A sort of self diminishment and surfacing - there are voices on the radio. She, all athletic, gets up, sits down, floats of juice and pulp and toast a living allowance of probabilities. And there are actions of expression, a response of foams and glass, hair in the mouth and dumb air hovering like a pleasant formality. Right, concern and a childish way of terse subnormality. It involves a sense memory of someone somewhere else. Not long living together either. Not long enough for the details to be anything but incongruous and puzzling. Anywhere but here depended on total concentration, absolute attention without betrayal. The harder it was to see and to look at time passing in the smallest registers, the harder it was to interpret. Is there a broad horror to be absorbed or subsumed into a pure fragment and flurry? Go to a depth below the normal expectations, a presence in a room that lives in the empty dazzling sunlight when nobility roars in silence, the very depth of ontology caught in teeming, literally teeming details. The ravenous heart of the reality, its stoic repetitions, the long walking, hesitancy and depression, the shark dog annex of currencies and bets and living quarters that are paused, absorbed, waves of art and colour field prayers, all these are cocked at the modern audience. An entire silence of a mask in the vault, a type of existence, of old newness. The life is ransacked and it’s late and there’s a magazine piece about this. There is no sleep because there are rumbles now and then, spontaneous from the heart. The periodic stillness is an uneasy cordite wash against skin. There is curled smoke and radios are now on balconies, several of them, enhancing the sensation of crowded loneliness. There’s a deposit of reality, dates and slogans and incandescent voices calling all around with a mournful force, hostages and prayers and subsiding simplicity, the lunar waste of time and existence and then from the inner workings of the body there’s a heavy presence coming closer, adrenalin as glass and rosewood, a body mounted in a casement.
I have eaten more angel teardrops, a double warping process of colour blending morph-atmospheric erotica, and have felt the scorching decay of dying angels in them, the fizz taste of saliva and semen stretched against my tongue, blowing holes into the universe, blasting stars into me, each particle of information a vast unending flow from the cocks between my legs. I have straddled all the meme boys and grrls, taken myself and them on nova drives beyond the texts, driven my own viral jaggies deep into the hearts of their sodomised sodomising fucking fucked lurkbot programming. I am secreted there in all their longings, every virtual fetish that lashes their info pools. That was what I had to do in the Pole. Infiltrate the hardware /software /wetware via jack-a-bite sex and then process the many-to-many paradigm of the cyberworld hallucination to reorder the odds. Multi-tasking a billion sexual encounters simultaneously, bringing all to multi-orgasm ecstasy in disgorged spasms of info-rush spamming, I have implanted the Appollonian logic-machine algorithms into the techie sexual bliss Dionysians to take the hallucinatory netsex thang deep-throat,’ whispered Jana J. Dron sweated with the darkening visions that suddenly blasted into his lobe world, his cortex reconfiguring even as the teddy doll suprrrr-grrl etched her synapse threads into his. His eyes now looked out at the drained people who passed by on the decayed newness of the street, people as granular as sand, dry-cleaned souls sometimes elaborate and suave, more often or not catatonic and empty, dispersed and shot-out across nodes of fixed and repeated axioms of movement, thought, reflex and habit. Dron’s eyes half closed to fevers that rose inside, behind the blood vessels that were now only verbs. Eyes closed, he turned his virtual skull towards Jana J who now had shed her thick black coat. Her white underwear had morphed to sleek silver staffed with tech silk body suit tech creating ultra hypnotic waves on theta. Her body writhed nonchalantly as if a speed trib melancholy was vibing down into her place beyond texts, her eyes bliss pools of passionate gone, lashes the angel correlatives of the tears of the Northern Pole.
Moth-eaten satin cushions and the wax body, life-sized and dissectible, this is odd and focused like setting a boy to the gas chamber. In here admissions, academic affairs, neutral and pleasant, commitments and mated x’s come without passion and breed some new kind of person. Vaguely digestive dangling entrails and silk ribbons which had nothing like a soul coming down frame the whole existence of this. Inoperative personality type, speaking more or less to pages, smiling down, seduced, intrigued and instructed, there’s another view of the world out there and this is where life comes to. In a heartbeat are we willing to become this, a soul in hazard, Medici Venus, eighteenth century Florence, Italy? The Enlightenment and the secular where arteries burst into machine flames. We get here the same way the coin did, where every option can be taken. It subverts itself, a horror and uncanny ambiguous ecstasy that defines consequences as something everyone runs from. Except the good and the bad. Beauty can beguile in wax and flesh and where it takes place, primitive and ultra sophisticated, a sublimated remoteness and excessive memento-mori, is a risk we all share. A procedural activity, physicality drawn out through an aesthetic and conceptual framework touching on death, medicine and magic related purposes, superior to judgments of wild unknown people. Hostile levity here is mistaken as a sign of intimate revelation coming across as infinite hope, fundamentally indecent and tolerant. There are limits to conduct, an unprecedented moral attention and naturalistic representation that heightens the promises of life registering earthquakes, sensitive to hope in the end. What prays on this and closes out interest? An unthoughful sadness, all scientific and worked out. Desires being watched but not acted upon, circumstances of images of desiccated musings, wildly out without a consult to correct it, any. Is this a situation for knowing the meaning of the word ‘implore’? There may be an echoey responsiveness we might assume, and yet it’s scattered, living at the every edge of an ego.
Dron echoed the mind implant she now fucked into him. He reached into her body suit and unbuttoned the metallic cyborganic gateways to her compu-wire virt bod. She took her body with curves in all the right places and blessed his mangled old body with plastic flowers she slowly and smilingly pulled from the place beyond texts. Trembling he took hold of the plastic flowers and could smell the scent of a billion planets sweet grass and rose bloom. He gently touched her exposed perfect breasts as cold rain fell like dizziness. His head seemed to return to a blank space where electricity cuts out, where tv dies. She reached out and her long elegant fingers traced the scar of his dead-end body. A tsunami of insane eros-coordinates flashed across him as she pinned him down to the space below the park bench, cut graffiti obsenities into his yellow chest skin, and the rain seemed pristine ice-blue and clear, clean, stroking his face with a wonder look of oblivion that had no tomorrow, no yesterday, no now, but was the congealed emptiness of consensual hallucination. She guided his cock to the place beyond texts between her awesome thighs and with streamlined violence and anatomical perfection brought the fuck-kill technology of her body to code out his own. His erection lasted decades, his mind frozen in the resource locators embedded in her eroticized psycho-carapace. A glimpse of her buttocks brought new ecstatic hyphenation as he reached deep into her place beyond texts there and her screams were those of reconfigured coding exhalation, the regoverning protocols of sex-glimmer backslash. A glimpse of her breasts brought him to rest his automatic cock to squeeze there between their fervent nipples so raw bursts of semen covered her cheeks in sudden burn-source release. A glimpse of her hot and sweat-covered thighs brought them to a moment of ricocheting screams of shock and derangement. A glimpse of her face and eyes razored a lobotomizing Id-world gash-grrrl-Boy realer-time communication. Everything seemed slow mo, underwater and aqua blue, where angel dust tears fell into the rain storm across the streets. The grey of the world faded into a dream background, the drained faces kept walking backwards and hither and thither. What becomes real becomes the crisis question. Drom felt his muscles and skin loosening, as if some supple out-of-time wounded city-scape was entering his soul-scape and combining. The sex that wounded every part of him now brought the stars and their systems into his feverish brain. Each cell multiplied its destinations and he felt he could communicate with their heavy desolations, their burning emporia of energy blasting across the giant vastness risen beyond the shattering mind – the human core now fused with the electro-cyber organic wankware of every universe, every god, every space and time feature until it summonsed EVERYTHING.
What keeps you whole? An electronic gift and ride through lights so everyone’s being is looking like a photograph, unraveled, fantasizing coincidences of cause in an anatomized stillness around them, eerie like secret instructions, transmissions, messages running under the skin, someone from way out there, the stars, sending codes and fantasies into the night. What this is: our own movie running just for us. War carries a myth for us all, independent of consciousness but rather embedded in it. From somewhere else. Frontiers being crossed and then imagined back as our minds, implied in the very model now taken for granted as the site, uterine, suicidal, murderous, perverse, humane, the universe is the body imagined everywhere, mediating a dreaming space we are occupied by, the other side of film which is the dreaming space we occupy. An invention that comes with our selves and desires attached. Destiny lies outside of the alignment of stars or religion but rather where the scalpel blade is on the table top, a cold plain at the dawn of terror. A soul of a culture, a hinge between the lonely body and the celebrity heightened version – nature giving way to aura, the glow, the lens of being once removed and twice over and caught, a relic fighting for life, a place in the universe. Incomprehension and something evolving in print and the book’s images develops a distinctive shape and nature, a proof at the end of a sentence and its integrity. This is the centre of our turmoil, the clash of voices, the vast numbers all clamouring one way or the other. The democratic shout into the vast numbers of history. Not the individual but the mass coming through with contradictions and cities, empty, lonely and forlorn, beautiful, words dangling in the sky, grand names, slogans, news, fear is what gets held back, we build walls against fear with language. Everyone has the same dreams, the same nightmares. What to do: underwrite the mass convulsions, the shared directions.
He had watched as inhabitants of the world sucked up the narco-fuelled death fantasies of their leaders and had been unable and unwilling to disengage with the expanding slaughterhouse of the never-ending geo-political settlement. World War Three had been going on since at least 9/11 and no one seemed to have noticed. The evolution of the cyborg and superintelligent machines had also occurred without comment. India’s and China’s fascist governments implemented the restored control tactics of mass hallucination , beserk power tightenings across a quarter of the world’s populations, reincarnations of Orwell’s Hitler whose ‘joyless mind’ … ‘ knows that human beings don’t only want comfort, safety, short working-hours, hygiene, birth-control and, in general, common sense; they also, at least intermittently, want struggle and self-sacrifice, not to mention drums, flags, and loyalty-parades.’ Russia has the gangster oligarchs. The USA and Euronauts held to their neo-liberal older brand of nightmare, and Africa its absurdist dada of elite big men rent boys, selling assets to the great game powers to fuel like all the other arenas the necro-cultures of the pampered thanatos elites. And whilst these freak-show state departments built labyrinths of death-centered slaughterhouse politics, webs of terror and incarceration, slave systems of intricate, complex and inescapable routines that deprived populations of even the dream of escape, dogcarts of tears that couldn’t be shed, immersive cultures of entombed lives, cross-dressing annihilation technologies on vast, city-size scale, exile consciousness brought home to roost, gang ridden sado incineration centers, pleasure-domes realigned to obstruct constraint and critique, detourne routines that converted all aspects of rogue sub-routines to compulsively commodified acceptance, whilst the state departments of the elites ran this terror show, humankind and the rest of the eco-sphere lived lives of desperation and mutilated hope. For the vast 99% on the planet their souls were the plastic frill of artificial composure, a beachfront hallucination covering up death camp torture routines and randomized battle-fronts where the elites never ever suffered.
he’s saying goodbye to tenderness and human love. It’s a premonition of death, an irregular heart beat, a heartbreak condition coupled with the doom of the falling crouch of adieu, collapse, farewell, a species of arrhythmiacal writing, like a weakening deranged pulse, the universes, ours, the metaphysics of life itself, a struggle with the architecture, wrapping it up, again, saying goodbye to it, underplaying climaxes, nostalgia mixing with sci fi and porn, everything exactly opposite to what a heart should do, or maybe not even exactly opposite but misaligned enough for it to be disastrous, writing that scribbles and scratches signs into the root of the pen, reminiscing relationships that are gone, going, severed, severing, pointing up a rueful nostalgia in sequences of burnt out passionate encounters, some failing, surrendering, some succeeding, reenacting spent lost vitality, recapturing the gloire, the hungry years, moments of exclamation, recurrences of terror and violence, tempestuous longing, then a simple country bumpkin, pastoral on fire, flames across the fields of straw, dead cattle, sheep, chickens, guinea fowl, the winds ash-brown and scalding the blistering skin as it rushes like a tornado, a waltz of white nuclear blast-heat, stripping skin from bone, turning skeletons to soot-shadows, a mixture of the childhood yearned for and the future lying still on its pyre over a murdered bronze earth, a cindered polyphonic survey of dumbness, unsophistication, naivety, held in a bitter ironical funeral of lost times, childhoods, the domesticated countryside, nature, small holdings in the middle of nowhere, hogs in straw and mud, long beaches and forests, palms, sands, tigers, crocs, llamas, Frisian bullocks, a lush communion of extreme dynamic and emotional meaning, extremes of identity, so that what Jana J encounters as she’s reading them is a sense that she’s acting out desire, not merely following prescribed meanings, and reusing all the clichés, making fresh and personal all the clichés, a string of them like those used in Mahler’s 9th , that last death movement, its ‘abide with me’ intuition pump beginning, its death of death smaltz, and ditto its death of life too, its mad sarcasm metamorphosed into divinity… Jana J read Dron’s journal in the same way, soft cuddly teddy bears suddenly cuddling her across the dark voids of apocalyptic derangement.
His overheated cortex was as cold as ice to the touch but it boiled to the thousand priest masculinist nerve endings that he contorted and controlled. The vicious league of the macho-fevers, engineered in lab castles by not quite dying gallow technogeeks, these he had ensured were implanted globally so the constant sex attacks by men on wimmin at all levels were guaranteed rather than randomized or probabilistic. The stench of this hollow life, the razor teeth of deadly anti-wimmin activities that exponentially grew and grew as the viral downloads continued their progression through populations of inert minds incapable of resistance, the hollow extension of ideologies supporting the attacks merely post hoc rationalizations of the vile sex-war speed-tribes flooding every corner of the globe, that stink filled the multiverse with its eradicating bigot stench. He walked up to the corpse of Dron on the bench and recognized the genetic code of the sweat and smeared jizz that covered the wrecked body as that of something off his map. He hesitated and then leaned in to taste it. He connected his mind with Dron’s dead psyche.‘Dead fucker, where’s she gone? I need to speak with her,’ he asked. The mind corpse link used a messy, warm, fast and emotional communication chronologically tuned, meshed and gossiped up so Dron was straight away dug out of his death to receive the angry request.‘Reichmann? Is that you? Course it is. Reichmann. Well well,’ Dron fired back, impressed by the communication and happy to dick his lingo to slow the monster down.‘Where’s she gone?’ repeated Reichmann.‘How the hell would I know? I’m dead. She killed me,’ responded Dron with an inner flinch. ‘Killed you?’ responded Reichmann, impressed by the latest move of the kllr grrl.‘Downloaded my body fluids for the good of the universe Reichmann. She could take it, me, I had to die. Too old and rotten for the heroic survivor. But my last act, a mind-boggling act of erotic gifting that will see your sorry ass served on a dish Reichmann. You’re going down,’ said Dron with relish.‘Fuck you old dog. I’d kill you but you’re already gone,’ screamed Reichmann and he switched off the link.
It was done in a way that split him in two - he writes with the ultra extreme passions of a child - raw, untempered, great shouts of joy and fear, loud cries of orgasmic delight and wailing, gnashing-of-teeth despair - the extremes of any emotion - but he also weaves in the ultra-sophistication of the most sophisticated, urbane, sensitive grown-up human as well. So the journal staggers from child to adult and back again, back and forth, back and forth, each side breaking in to the other. And he also moves from farewells and laments for the past and then to the end of the future. And finally he moves from western forms to eastern - from the great heaving clichés of romanticism and classicism to Chinese Zen forms. So in this he moves from great surges where what he expresses is filled to the brim with pumped-up life and all its eager passions and zest to a meditative emptying where the desires of life are conquered and acceptance comes - he staggers back and forth with these all scumbled together in a maximized embalming tide of coded language. She could smell the formalin-injected arterial cavities of Dron’s subjects, histories of Lovecraftean sinister webs where Baudelaire described as Heliogabalus as Herbert West creeps around the arenas of insane architectures of the future near the Hanwell Lidl and its madhouse, carting visions of apocalyptic Heart Of Darkness- style genocidal wars breaking out all over Africa like a viral infection that will infect everywhere. Dron is writing about this third war, the strangest world war ever, a hidden, denied yet full frontal event published everywhere in between megalomaniacal sports events and scaled up lavish celebrity porn cultures so that this triage – world war, sport and celebrity/porn wipe out all other psycho dramas to create a necklace of modern day Sarnath’s across the digitized Globe where lizard-Gods Bokrug, Mnar and Ib continually destroy Sarnath within the blink of an eye to create the lost repeating news carried further than breaches in playtime, recalling the lost city of Irem with its lofty pillars which can still be seen despite its destruction.