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Friday, July 11, 2003  
Luka London Lorca

is the only poet in oooh 30 years or something even worth reading...I'm serious! Do you know what kind of madness that is? ...he spills words like gilded trash, erudite garbage, airwave junk, taxi intercoms on the edge of radio dials, processer typos. Mangled words, chewed words, shredded words. I've been rummaging thru (even spelling poet-style now) Luke's archives and it's like Frank 'O Hara + Iain Sinclair + Ghost Face Killah x Finnegans Wake. Scratch that: it's its own thing, something out of control, even Luke can't control the Heronbone sprawl now, the stems, stalks, nodes, networks... "arrgh! it's alive! ..."

London's a beautiful place...

it's dirty, it's messy, it's humid, it hums, it's green, it's a maze, it's grey, it's elegant, it's derelict, it's dicey, it's cut by flight paths, undercut by subway tracks, it's gridlocked and it's tranquil, it bakes in the hot sun all summer and then scowls through drizzle and bitter cold all winter, walls erode with weed and flyposters and aerosol paint, the air cracks and crackles with radio signals, mash-ups and mutations, there's sex everywhere, stupidity and style, so many alleys and roads and streets and squares that A-Z ink bleeds and clots, myths, legends, true stories and lies hide and spawn in those blotches, and nothing works, you can't get anywhere, everything is chaos, streets overrun by rodents and flies and feral pigeons, and tiny shops that never change, historic portals, weeds and flowers from Siberia and the East, tumbling delicatessens, farms and markets, soca shops, ragga shops, jazz shops, shops that sell sea shanty CDs and shit, elegant parks, hidden parks, parks like small countries, menageries, birdcages, taxi hqs, rusting railway lines lit up with graffiti mosaics and rampaging weed,

there's marshes, poplar forests, reed beds, regal parks, refineries, sewage plants, and orange houses, manor houses, castles, Victorian bridges, palaces, and rivers with kingfishers, canals where people live their whole lives on longboats, where people canoe home from work, football fields and stadiums, cricket greens, racing tracks, dogs, horses, world class sprinters, there's raves and concerts, obscure cinemas, weird video shops, dodgy video shops, there's all sorts of food, Polish, Bengalese, Ethiopian, fish and chips, crepe, this place, this place you divide it by postal districts and style blocs and pre-industrial villages and then you times it by bus routes, underground connections, short cuts, and endless walking, walking, walking. And this is the sort of thing you get at heronbone: geography, style, sound, wildife, routes, strategies, epiphanies. Survival through articulation; resistance through disfiguration. Defiance; wit; thought.

Luka Luka, you're the best poet I know who's not dead, just ahead of my friend Daria Brit, somewhere in NYC, not dead either but certainly dreaming about Andre Breton and kickboxing my head in, she writes like this: Soft guts smeared my sock drawer - a hysterical effigy of someone's crying wife. Married Mario with the figure-eight nostrils. Fucked my betty crocker for a handful of dimes. Woe is my marinated ear, dripping with cold cream.

Swifts are out in great numbers this gorgeous, warm & breezy evening; some hunt in packs, knit in and out of each other's flight patterns, some break away, swirl, hover and dive. Watching, breath caught. Wow.

12:23 AM

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