On Alien Territory

There is no limit to a human being’s ability
to rationalise winds, tides and waves,
extreme weather. Natural hazards. Darkness.

Vary your pattern and stay within your cover.
Bear in mind that you may not have encountered
similar conditions before. Assume nothing.

Everyone is potentially under opposition
control. Steep steps, livestock, machinery,
medication, can be unpredictable.

Never go against your gut: always a risk
of injury from crushing, kicking, butting
or goring. Go with the flow, blend in.

Please note that stalking regularly takes place.
Take all normal precautions. Don’t look back;
you are never completely alone.

Pick the time and place for action.
Should someone get into difficulties,
it would be some time before they were discovered.

Don’t harass the opposition.
Protective clothing should be worn
by anyone at risk of coming into contact.

After being bitten you should remain calm
and don’t panic. Do not attempt to remove
any clothing, such as trousers.
Keep your options open.

Jane Røken, 2014

Remixed works:
The Moscow Rules, Wikipedia
Island of Gometra’s Safety risk note

Love of Dirty Hands, of Imperfection

Pauneth Elusmith

Start making sense. The fragment which ruled
has left the building, out of sight in the direction
of my body. Those images of one day and the next,
fixed ideas virgin-lipped, but not in ways you
would imagine. Repurposed from the great mass
of free-floating language out there: the vices,
the virtues that are so imperfect. Shovel the stuff
into towers of words. We’re delighted to get
our hands dirty. What does it mean to be a poet?
The movement of identity is recycling the words,
the attitudes, and the ideas. Eyes consenting,
the confusion of bodies will continually morph
from flux to celebration. Uncertainty is sculpted
from the poetic machine, resembling the eyes.
Traditional tropes will turn the leaden heart
inside out. Hilarious writing is butter on the box.
Choose your vices, embrace your virtues.
Be guilty of love, of imperfection, unfinished.

Jane Røken, 2014

Remixed works:
Flarf is Dionysus. Conceptual Writing is Apollo, by Kenneth Goldsmith
Out of Sight in the Direction of My Body, by Paul Éluard

If You Don’t Care
Where You Are,
Then You Ain’t Lost

Moomin Strugatsky

The houses in the Plague Quarter are peeling
and lifeless, but the windows are mostly intact,
only so dirty that they look opaque. Now at night
when you crawl by, you can see the glow inside,
as if alcohol were burning in bluish tongues.

On the very top of the jagged peak above them
stands the Observatory. Inside, scientists make
thousands of remarkable observations, smoke
thousands of cigarettes, and live alone with the stars.

In the middle of the floor a giant telescope revolves
slowly, keeping watch on the sky, and there is
the constant whirring sound of a machine.
There it is, their cable, hanging down almost
to the ground and covered with hair . . .

That’s how they always do it around here,
so that everyone can see: There they go, the heroes
of science, to lay themselves down on the altar
to mankind, knowledge, and the Holy Spirit, amen.

Jane Røken, 2014

Remixed works:
Quote attributed to Robert Anton Wilson
Comet in Moominland,
by Tove Jansson
Roadside Picnic, by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky