cuts of my tribute to jeff nuttall

as we was prosing our verse and made the turn to author we came handy-andy to the authorfinding her most proportionate to our desires. there was no dead author,there was no author, there was no text. it was fastened on the door of thedead Jeff's trim/ as for us, they owned a copy , in f a c t and place oftwo of that booke B Culture. some original ragged edged underlined one and anothernewer lover of abooke. we said booke. and commenced to write her booke.in hades eurydice we cld. see Jeff and his 'oral anal grunts of jazz' andthe burial of the rites could not have been better. at the grave, whalesroared at his old days. aye, it was us Jeffy and our mogs and togs/ so itgoes yes death was about to be mingled with your bodies of . and love andhalf-inch print, the time we read Fanon together, them was a long timeago, or ego it was in 73 with the others as we printed and played. sometime in the marches against the atomic war build up.yes and these authors were our namesnot drinking so much in those linkages
were we?all night in the corner store the teenage light we had? going back toAlex ad the others wandering about the globe 'give me your filthiestsonnets' you said but that was an American named Allan and there was theothers and so many others the river has not washed its bed forphonetics and near the sound of the letter yes Jeff Jeffy boyyou were like the Keats of a madcap moment and the CND marches and Bertiecrowing high above the gathering and Ronnie blathering with the boozewell Jeff those days and century is gone we are some almost blind in ourparanoid reactionary selves but we know the author is not dead or alive ortheory butand we know she is not theory or theoria or polar molar and shoulder toshoulder we heave the text O JeffAdonais I love youwhen you trope your hornand manic yer metaphors and beeps/Spifflicate water-buffalo drunk on rainbow fish will snore beside theoval father where he basks/No one does that the way you do Blues man. Jazz man. jazz man and collage man. For the
rest of us, as longso like this we are prayed togethersome nightbefore waterswanbefore afterfabricates what I recall that old time when you sauntered to the door forAlex's bird and bolted when he arrived out of destination and nowhere. themimeograph and xerox Opal splitting to Canada and then some.oh before was nice before death came along with scrogging'constant fear of denunciation and blackmail, because the consequences ofbeing found out are punishment, remand pending deportation 'Alex was being a junky and reading Beckett's first gleaming books Malloy/"When the spatial word first sang Ave Maria it plummeted against night."It was your words I hard heard then and picked me from youth bringing mehere to the space of its moment. Some now unfolding always in the becoming.Your death of the author was the sameness not heard by the big publishersbut some comedy of errors and the soul.Then there was Sigma and the bird was walking, Debord taking Alex's partto defend him Hands Offyour
poemsSo brightly blisters the great regurgitating ribbon of the Thames .Sculls skim through like springtime swallows.Keels kiss tidal scum, lancing the stolen sun - boilsor bops to a stop, as inThe bee on wheels has laments on a stickWags weepy banners with gypsy ribbons ...The tiny wheeled bee has the sky on a stickIdly waves as she buzzes through the afternoonKicking the tears around like bean tins.your jazzI make a line out of a rhythmic figure. The previous figure suggests thesubsequent one. The rhythmic figures owe much to Charlie Parker'ssaxophone phrasing. then the changesa shift between 1966 and 1967 from poetry and art and jazz and anti-nuclear politics to just sex and drugs, the arrival of capitalism. Themarket saw that these revolutionaries could be put in a safe pen and giventheir consumer goods. What we misjudged was the power and complexity ofthe media, which dismantled the whole thing. It bought it up. And thishappened in 67, just as it seemed that we'd won. Or this
Some mumble so dim they say more palping the bread of grey thighs. So delayed is all saying on theirfumbling lips their dun stuff of stung and pore-pockedflesh Decays before a self's declared. They dwell in strange cells, suchsouls, Huddled in drums that smell of stalecake Inadequately locked in rooms wherefilth is metaphysical. Should we help them speak? I don'tthink so. For what if that final wrenchedepithet by which their coupling worms found sense Should form instructions, germinatereaction, Infecting speech and mind withspecial lisped loathing
Of things attempting stridency allround?You were the Faust of the generation Man!None like it was you cool blower and hooter broke the rules again andagain, and one can only imitate ya , if 'one ' is gonna playthe 'one'bullinggame but you taught us better, better than Johnny Rottencould have ever done for his crowd.Love of the woman's body her husk and spunk,She walks the carpet quick to door.Swings open. HallAll oddly empty of their heat.Says “Out, boy, out.”He pads out panting healthy healthy.When he’s goneHer face tilts, soul singsPrayers.That first time I read you, and read the word spunk and knew how you meant.At least you got something published and many times over. Oh, man. Iadmire that, and so you Author are not dead, not dead, not dead at all.when you wrote 'the noblest images of Bacchus' cut and juxtaposed withhorror of war images and your thing about DeSade was still in my head twoweeks a week or so ago. Some things never go and we don't understand
themtill we do.So it goes.Good to have known you to have read those books and the rest, to have beenaround while you've done it far and near distant close closeby and goingon an inspiration to hep cats and hipandgood to be your younger contemporary but led by you and others like youyour chums but you shine manstill shinethanksNo dead Author hereNo death of the AuthorNo dead wanted dead and alive wanted dead alive in the dread of theinstant escape moment of its hydrogen bomb putting yer shoulder to itas all loves go and escapeNone. None dead or alive live man wanted live writer poet walking walkinglike so many others like so many like