©hayvend>>>> Pete Owen

"You can't polish a turd"

Common sense says - No, of course you can't; but what does common sense know about this kind of shit ? Not very much I think, not very much at all.
"Realtime" stinks of course, getting a jewel-like shine on that untidy turd is a messy business; but polished it was and shine it does.
A return to the question of representation, that reeking old plum; a spiral upwards to a new place of reflection on the same old shite, the actual, empty, everydeadly-day garbage of our vacuous lah-lah-language, from a vantage point in the clouds.
My voice is one of those that appear on "Realtime" and of course I am ashamed and proud that my nothingness and dead-boy bullshit gets a chance to shine in the precious setting of John's oyster-strewn and beer-can stinking flat. Nothing that I gave to the evening I was there, pissed and looking, not for trouble but certainly for something, nothing that I had to say was of any import whatsoever; just the smelly idiocy of the usual fucko subject on the make.
However, that's the point. Lacan, that great gorgonzola, said, speaking, not about the shine on the shite exactly, but about a point close to the matter in hand: "Sublimation is satisfaction of the drive, without repression. In other words - for the moment, I am not fucking, I am talking to you. Well! I can have exactly the same satisfaction as if I were fucking. That's what it means. Indeed, it raises the question of whether in fact I am not fucking at this moment."
I don't think that there was a lot of fucking going on in John's pad that day; certainly, though, as its vapour emanates from C.D ROMS across East London, there will be the unmistakable stink of the sublime: the fishy bouquet of dead-boy-speak as it boils off into the crystals of an art so life-like, so pure, that the lips and tongue refuse to taste or are razored and burnt if they try.
Every day I get to listen, for I can't close my ears, to my dumb-ass tongue wagging as it loves to do, and every day I get to hate, to hate the sound of the shit as it leaves me, the me that's supposed to have uttered these pearl-drop gobbets. So there I stand, outside, and I listen, as we all do, to the idiot that is supposed to be me tell the truth of the fool that I'm not. My pissed-up bullshit can be heard, can be herd, on this dumb-ass little disk with all the others. So, here I am not, but shining, anyway. Thank you John.

Peter Owen. (6.00pm to 11.00pm, 17/4/98 )

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