A fake poem by an non entity called Acryllic Figa

A fake poem by an non entity called Acryllic Figa

tsars like russian oligarchs
like white supremacist cop tasers
like bullydon boys in pork 

tie and blazars like a global air born disease 

Severe Global Airborn Rightwing Syndrome

sgars across the planet
tsars and czars and little zazen
little father men
busy character armourin’

in tsars we trust
and i hope you bust
free from such tyranny
of we

to me you see the we
is the tribe of all around the world
humanity, the gene pool fool

we domesticated primates
with a god complexity
all together born of a mother
mates buddies sharing ecstasy
of blood flesh bones and skin
same same where begin
or bigend to mend

breathing together in
a masked conspiracy we blend days
the task: get from out the hell basket
mask and anti-mask it
in art and out art crafted

uplift the message of you to us
to me to them and to all
address the good people with general
assembly with put on a slight texan drawl

ladies and gentleman
i speak to the clique’ clearly upon
the tissue of otherness
that which is not me not mine to wine on
seems foreign to me like

phantom energy to teach me
about we to mean me and the others see
the other ‘me’s’ wrapped in TV series

on wide screen watch me’s
an old set of theories
that stereotype ‘me’s’
mixed up with beery sneer ideology

fictional ‘them’s’ and made up ‘me’s’
by screen writer devils and the
analytica sleaze
ad monster men 

well mark these tears
in coming years better learn
to know yourself dears
and get real cozy with you’re inner ears
me you and them shifting plural gears
and try to understand cuz’ 

it might take yonks

you and me maybe not so different after all
each tense about the other
often a squabble sometimes a brawl

similarity and difference hence me
and you to me to mean you as all humanity
the cosmos and everything
under the sun correspond
without within above below
beside the next beyond

you there in the mirror mask
with my face on it let me ask
where did you get my voice
the imitation games bond
nearly spooked myself

you and me or ‘I’ and ‘we’ for want
of better terms
to flip the coin and the perhaps
open a can or worms
heads or tales tribes or tribe
plural or singular
you get the vibe

plural brings choice and reason
the many the mixed the all in betwixt
unhinged unfixed and the difference again
and so on eventually with
flux the doors flap the cards are dealt

a choice of more than two
non-binary that’ll do
a verb cooks to progress
to accept the new data
broad and wide varied yes mate

the difference engine runs the differdance
evolution standing innovation
ability utility stability and levity
for personal identity
in quantity and quality crisis

divisions categories things in time
the men with little hands wave us
back to the bronze age with slime
little heart small brain big head
the great hoarders

with walls and borders
banks tanks gangs and
midnight marauders
and the tsar in me and the
tsar in you
security comes with maturity
pull down thy vanity

it maybe the anti-tsar in you that
dictates that as true
but who to blame who to same
who whoming who?

how to distinguish the others
by name birth sex age race
the tsar in you like Tony the tiger
brings out a certitude
a truly fictional comic enemy
place

to retribalize to trail blaze unfazed
picking up history of the new tribe daze
walk the maze of history
with a ragbag of poetry
astro black mythology and Yussef’s
happyology

what complex of origins fossils and maps
which gene pool ocean
what train which tracks
to binner bouter-space
I’ll see you there to turn tsars
into stars and space into mental
entanglement

gently astonish
government
we all become one
and outlaw the bomb
my tribe our tribe stop
the punishment

gravity pulls its historical point closer
but this hysterical joint jives
with my flow i will not utter his name
no lets just go

to the PR architects of doom
stunt men and supporters of the balloon
i pour whisky on your forehead
put acid in your salad cream and
jelly in your bassoon

trash machine messages to you
and a note to myself
know thyself know the others
do not be afraid to come out
from under the covers

come out come out
wherever you are
this is a message for banker
king MP tsar
we tsars too so don’t tell us
what to do

word to the wise to the
women to the poor you
are the majority
and you own the authority
to open or close your own backdoor
spectacles testicles
brandy reefer we think perpendicular
to the left/right griefer

to divide with pride in one side
not the other you dig sister
feel me brother
the other is a brother from another mother
stop hating and stop with whatever
be clever

play the game to tame sameness
unearth difference honour presence
being here in another’s shoes
cruise in the walking blues
running back with clues
past me’s and past you’s
in your ear and in your eye

out this coded substitute i try
to split identity with senses sense
up your nose and out your ass
this little rhyme

with no pretence we humans share
same sense organs grinding
the same hardware finding
manufacturing code hatchings
same lab or factory block
perhaps a different road some different rocks

equal and opposite others mode
only the software differs a toad is a toad
we are one family of individuals
so division of biological sameness
begins to slouch toward the heart
and minds of the people

divisive PR operations build on
precisely these divisive data fields
stalking us divisively
the psychological dead-visions
departministry of propaganda goose
lies and deceit

infected by sgars syndrome
cambridge analytica
a weaponized language machine
designed by artists stolen by masked
military industrial endtertainment
anti-media

NEWS SPEAK and DOUBLE SPEAK
a thin line right here—dear reader—i feel ya’
this writing is an open invitation tweet
me a turnfable technician
on a mission to gain a laugh on my feet
a paragraph with rare groove
make it new and make it

move by fluke or chance or crook
or no such luck look me in eye
tell us your tales tell em’ all
fly

once and for all on the wall
in the hall scrawl: in anti-masks
we lie, next to the bar
everyman and everywomen
is a tsar

for Bob.

—Steve Fly
Amsterdam

05/02/2017

Day Off - T4QS

A Note on Christmas and being 2016 by Steve Fly

So, i really do sincerely hope each and every one of you out there, reading and not-reading this, find whatever meaning you are looking for this holiday. Today, i thought for a moment on the tram...'man...i must be a Christian after all, no matter what i call myself (model agnostic) by the amount of good thoughts and strong memories i have of Christmas, almost every one since being about 4 years old. The highlight of the year for so many many years, the presents, family, food, laughs, drinks, friends. Plus, i feel compelled to address everybody, like a speech at a massive dinner table. And keep up the good cheer. Putting the stark reality outside the front doorstep aside for a day, homelessness, refugee crisis, war, lies. No, today is a slightly bland merry old time, a day when we count our blessings (you see i can’t help but invoke religious terms today) and give thanks to whatever it is we each feel we wish to pay our respect. Jesus and/or Santa i rekon, if you think about it. But not many say so explicitly.  

We celebrate the birth of Jesus, like it or not, who went on to become the Jesus Christ, a popular figure in western cultures and who seems largely misunderstood to this day, due to interfering belief-systems and the inability to comprehend metaphor in religious and mythical texts and scriptures. So merry Christmas everybody, to mean, wake up to the birth of your own new saviour and muse, the birth of a new inner compass, a loving caring force inside which simply encourages you to be nice and helpful and to share. The birthing is like a filling up with stuff, including the chaos of what comes forth. I hope you quickly get over any difficulty in the beginning of making it new. Happy new year.

I have probably said and written some awful things about Christianity, sometimes with a similar fury to the likes of Christopher Hitchens, yet without his clarity and forceful fact based assault. (sorely missed in commentary today) I have said and written less about Islam and Judaism, but hold them in similar contempt as Christianity, very broadly speaking.

The abrahamic religions, as echoed by Timothy Leary, have been responsible for some of the worst trips this planet has ever known. Yet, having tasted the magic and mysticism connected to some other spiritual practices, strains of Buddhism, Taoism and Thelema, i feel that there are some parts to all religions that can be illuminating and informative, if your open to try new things, like simply new thoughts. It seems to me that to claim to BE an atheist rejects consciousness BEING itself…yourself. Theism can be fun and some gods can be exciting and helpful guides, at least, for me. Just because the large majority of theists may seem like zombie followers of some foreign doctrine or other, does not mean others are not progressive, intelligent and rational humans.      

To refine the idea further, belief itself, weather it be in the form of religious fundamentalism or materialist fundamentalism, leads to similar bad trips. However, i think parallel thinking about these prickly subjects can help bring about a peace for all man kind. You know, like the lyric from the Christmas carol, peace on earth, good will to all man and womenkind. As Bob used to say ‘if you can’t achieve tolerance at least attempt courtesy’ This Christmas, why not try to make a big effort to understand things you might not believe in. Suspend your disbelief, and present it like a fairy on a tree top.

Only the most ignorant and deluded hermit could not see that the coming years will be challenging for all around the world humanity, and closer to home for the disunited kingdom and disunited states of America, and of Europe. To remind yourself every day of all the trouble in the world can be damaging and unnecessarily, the world is not your problem. The animal and human torture, the terrorism, bombings, invasions and drone strikes, the beating and rapes, killings and daylight robbery are not your problem. Keeping a level head while others may loose it around you will be a daily challenge in a hyper-connected world. I sincerely wish you good luck with that, and i hope you can remember to remember. Violence is psychically self-defeating. Being nice to others is psychically self-affirming. What is there to understand? Just do it. 

This is the nice part of the Santa Claus story, the surprise and free gifts delivered, good behaviour and being nice to others is rewarded with presents and surprise prizes. So best wishes, all-around-the-world-humanity, and have a good day.

x
--Steve Fly


  

           

    

Skyswimmer & KFC - Two Stories For Sam and George Harris

Skyswimmer

Knock Knock

—Who's there?

Kenny

—Kenny who?

Kenny hear you.
Knock Knock Knock….

Kenny dashed out the school gate like a race horse, bolting home to begin the other race. The big race, maybe the biggest race ever. Today was race day, it was the skyswimmers final.

Kenny knocked on the door with a loud thump, he pushed the door open with his shoes already in hand, dodged under his mums legs and scampered up the stairs like a dog.
"Kenny! Kenny, how about you say hi before playing games. And what about dinner, it will be ready at 5.45 and you need to be showered as auntie eve is coming over to visit. Don't be late" Kenny's mum shouted up the stairs.

"Yeah mum" he said. His friends were all giggling into their microphone headsets. Both skyswimmer champions were being grilled by their parents at the same time, both had family things to do tonight, and the winner would probably the one who could deal with parents, as much as deal with the opponent.

"Take your marks, get set, BANG" said the high pitched American voice of the ref, and the race started.

Wearing his sky swimmer socks and his skyswimmer gloves, and his sky swimmer goggles Kenny dived in, a huge crowd whistling and screaming along the pool side. Lying on his bed, Kenny kicked his legs and rotated his arms and moved his head, he was off to a good start. Kenny kicked and at the end of the pool, instead of a wall there was no wall. The pool flowed out into the clouds. This was sky swimming.

Kenny felt his stomach turn over as he flew over the edge, the rushing of blue and white colours from the bottom of the pool turning to sky blue and cloud-white, all with a hint of yellow from the sun. Kenny kicked and paddled through the clouds, all the time neck and neck with his opponent. Two of the greatest sky swimmers in the world.

The race course had been designed especially for this final, and nobody, not even the referee had ever seen it all-at-once before, only a small part of it. Thomas and his opponent John were tested in their skills by this course, and they both followed a natural instinct to compete, pushing each other forwards, faster and faster.

The duo soared through 1000 foot high hoops made of orange foam, and flew under golden bridges and between the tallest building you could image. They kicked and paddled and bounced around the fun course, and there was only a teeny-weeny cats-whisker between them. It was a close race, and there were only three more levels to complete, and one of them involved landing back on the ground.

Kenny concentrated and then quickly dived down toward a big green field beneath him, a sound was drawing him closer. The two sky-swimmers noticed hundreds of children gathered to greet them, cheering and very surprised to see them. They landed gracefully together, like ducks on a lake, and they listened closely to their ear buds for further instructions, this was the last part of the race, the final challenge, the highest level, the last hurdle…the final minute of play.

The challenges were created, and voted on by the virtual audience who were tuned in using their phones and computers. Friends, and friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends made up some very silly things to do. The words came through Kenny’s headset, ask the kids for food, you must cook for them all, then you will be the champion sky-swimmer.
“Cook, cook, cook, cook…” voices chanted and cheered inside his headphones.

After the cook off, and the children had not died of food poisoning, Kenny and John ran out to the filed and leap into the air, kicking and paddling. And into the wide forrest they flew, spinning and diving like falcons, scraping the tree tops and skimming the waters, lake to forrest the falcons flew, in and out of huge cloud rings, between massive luminous poles. They zoomed up and up through the clouds and back toward the pool where they started.

John nudged Kenny with his shoulder, what he called the zombie body check, where you push all your weight into somebody else, but Joh didi it wrong, and ended up slowing himself down slightly. Kenny nudged ahead, reached for the poolside and just about pipped John at the post. Wow. He won by 0.25 of a second, wow, that’s less than a finger snap. Snap!

Kenny pulled off his goggles and jumped from his bed onto the bedroom floor. He bounced up and down like a football player celebrating a cup winning goal, his hands clasped. “yes, yes, yes, i won” he said to himself. “Yiiiiii whooooooo’.

“Kenny, keep the noise down, and stop playing plants versus zombie-ding-dongs, and come down. You’ve homework to finish for school”           

KFC.

Knock Knock

—Who's there?

Thomas,
—Thomas who?

Thomas’t have knocked before

It was the day after Thomas celebrated his 5th birthday that he thought up a really good magic trick. He said:

"I want to open my own place” he said to his parents. 

"we’ll have fish-fingers, chips and lots of cake, erm, and some milk"

"Oh Thomas, haha, you’re funny" his dad said, 

"Dad. I’m serious. My friends want to as well. We call it Kids Food Club" Thomas said confidently, while bouncing up and down on the couch.
"Let's talk about it tomorrow Thomas, now it's time for ‘beddy’ boys. Up you go, monkey”

And so Thomas bounced across the floor and up the stairs, brushed his teeth, washed his hands and face, and put on his cloud-patterned pyjamas. Pidge-jah-mass, pi-dja-mass, pyja-mas, he said to himself staring up at the shinning stars on his bedroom ceiling. What kind of a word is that…

Thomas had a dream in which his parents and brother, and his relations were all fruits and vegetables. Yeah, it was funny. His mum was an apple, his grandad a carrot, his brother was a strange potato, and his dad a banana. His grandma was a strawberry. And they all jumped around on the front garden like small goats, squeaking. Thomas smiled and rolled over to begin another dream of goal keeping for England, but instead of a ball it was a planet he had to save. He made the most unbelievable, gymnastic moves to catch the world. He saved it over and over again. 

The next morning Thomas and his friends gathered at school to talk about Kids Food Club. They talked and talked about the menu, and new words for the food they would make, instead of cake they would make fake, instead of chips they would make ships, instead of fishfingers they would make ishfingers. That was Tim's suggestion, and he had just lost a front tooth in a hover board accident, so couldn't say his 'S' words properly. So he said "ishfingers" and everybody laughed, so ishfingers it is.

By the end of the day, the first menu for the Kids Food Club looked like this: Ships (Potato Chips), Qs (Peas), Fake (Cake), Ishfingers (fishfingers), Cow Juice (milk), Council Pop (water), Nuffin' (Low fat cake), Navy (Blueberry Sauce), Salladinns (Salad Sauce), Leg-Go (Lego brick breakfast cereals), Council Stew (Don't ask), Gangham (Ham and cheese Sandwich), Cows in bandages (Bacon wrapped burger) and Zomburger (Again, please don't ask)

That evening, after spelling homework, and maths homework, plus drawing homework, Thomas waited for a good time, usually after dinner, because thats when mum had done the cooking and cleaning, and dad was home and reading through Facebook on his phone. A good time, he thought.  

“The kid food club had our meeting today"

"oh, um, Thomas, thats great, so, how did it go..?" his mum asked

"good, we made a new menu, and i made up three things"

"Three. And your going to cook these three things? wow”

"Yes, we will ask Miss Baker tomorrow if she can help us.”

"Which things are you making Thomas?" His Dad asked, picking him up and twirling around the living room"

"Heee, Cows in bandages" Thomas squealed.

"What?"

"Cows in bandages"

"Its like pigs in blankets, but cows, and instead of blankets…erm, bandages!”

Both parents looked at each other, and laughed so hard they both fell off the couch, rolling around on the floor like dogs rolling in dry summer grass. 

"My other food is ham and cheese sandwiches…Gangham Sandwiches" and with that, Thomas moonwalks across the carpet, smoothly moving into a crazy dance.

At this point Thomas and his parents and his brother were all laughing, howling like wolves, yelping like monkeys, gasping for breath, and lay out on the floor in a huddle like drunks.

The next morning Thomas got up earlier than usual, went down stairs and started filling his rucksack with ingredients. He stuffed the bag right up to the top with potatoes, flour, sugar, butter, chocolate, ham, milk, cheese, fish-fingers and peas. 

Thomas staggered out the house and put his bag in the car. “I’m ready” he shouted to his mum. She was very surprised to hear this from Thomas, who was usually leaping around in the lounge at this time of the morning, or watching Gigglebiz on the gogglebox.

At the school gate Thomas made a distraction by pointing out that the drainpipe on the side of the school was loose, and could fall and hurt somebody. So Thomas’s mum quickly led him to his class, without noticing his heavy bag, and she walked to the school office to warn them of the broken drainpipe. Thomas’s mum was very kind.

Thomas entered the cooking class with his huge heavy bag, and dropped it onto the table with a heavy thud. The class turned and looked with amazement at the wide variety of ingredients Thomas had carried. “It’s ishfingers time” Thomas said, and the class laughed. Miss Baker had to calm down the class.
“Right then Thomas, what have you got for us today?”
“Well….i…..”  bililililililing bililililililing billililililing

The school fire alarm sounded. All the children and teachers followers the fire-drill they had learn’t. Calmly making single file line, and then walking to the nearest exit, finally all gathering in the sports-field for the register, to check that everybody was present and safe. 

Standing in the middle of the filed, Thomas looked up into the sky and saw something strange zooming across the sky, zig-zagging in and out of the clouds. He squinted his eyes, and put his hand up in front of his face to shield the sun. He starred and starred, his mouth wide open in amazement.
“Look at that everybody, wow, a skyswimmer, it’s a sky swimmer”

Hundreds of eyes looked up at what Thomas had spotted. High above them two things were swimming through the sky, darting like red arrows, and spiralling through the clouds in odd formations.
“They are going to land here, look, look” a boy called James shouted.

The two figures swooped down and landed next to the group of teachers gathered on the field. They paused for a moment, as if they could hear voices in the distance.

“Hello, erm, we would like to eat, can we eat, please take us to your kitchen”
“What….what?” Mr Foggerty, the headteacher said. “You want to eat? erm…okay, this way please.”
Mr Foggerty led the two boys into the cooking area, and there on the table were the ingredients Thomas had left there earlier.
“Fishfingers” my favourite, Lenny said.
“ishfingers!” Thomas shouted, and everybody laughed.

And so the skyswimmers cooked up the strangest feast you could ever imagine, and told each other knock knock jokes. They made fake navy muffins and Council Stew washed down with wowow juice. Yum. Lenny and Don ran back out to the field and kicked off into the sky together, like migrating birds they disappeared into the clouds. The children cheered, and Miss Baker shed a tear. Thomas shrugged his shoulders, put his hands in his pockets and turned his face towards the bright sun. He started to think about what to cook up tomorrow for the Kids Food Club,  umm, maybe bald swimmers in sewage, he thought. That would be, pea-soup. Brilliant. Zompea Sirwoop.

Knock Knock

—Who's there?

Danny
—Danny who?
Danny hear you knocking mate.

Knock Knock

—Who's there?

Figs

—Figs who?
Figs the intercom will ya’

FLY BY NIGHT 186

Steve The Fly is spotlighting the new vinyl release of John Sinclair’s Beatnik Youth album from IronMan Records in England, produced by Youth and featuring the late great Howard Marks on the opening cut, plus sides by Sonny Rollins, Sun Ra, the Miles Davis Sextet, Eddie Jefferson, Selah Ragab, and Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson, and a closing cut from Sinclair’s Mohawk album in honor of the late great Lee Bridges—The Cannabis Poet.

The John Sinclair Foundation Presents
BEATNIK YOUTH
FLY BY NIGHT 186
Steve The Fly, Sarwar Studios, Cross Keys, Wales, November 20, 2016 [SFBN-0186]

[01] John Sinclair & Beatnik Youth: War On Drugs featuring Howard Marks
[02] Sonny Rollins: Til There Was You
[03] Sun Ra: The Other Side Of Time
[04] John Sinclair & Beatnik Youth: Sitarrtha
[05] Miles Davis: Blue In Green
[06] John Sinclair & Beatnik Youth: Do It
[07] Eddie Jefferson: Come Along With Me
[08] John Sinclair & Beatnik Youth: Brilliant Corners
[09] Selah Ragab: Naveen
[10] Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson: Gangster of Love
[11] John Sinclair: relaxin’ with lee

A JOINT PRODUCTION
Produced by Steve “The Fly” Pratt for Radio Free Amsterdam
Post-production, editing & annotation by John Sinclair
Executive Producer: Sidney Daniels
Sponsored by Ceres Seeds & The Hempshopper, Amsterdam
Special thanks to Sarwar and to Mark Sampson for the Beatnik Youth vinyl

© 2016 Steve Pratt. Used with permission.

http://www.radiofreeamsterdam.com/fly-by-night-beatnik-youth/

Fake News & Made Up Truth.

“Keep it unreal”—Mr. Scruff.

“Literature is news that stays news.”—Ez.

Silent But Dudley: Black Country Blues 

by Mr Steven James Pratt 

Link: http://a.co/7KhqHcL

Stevr Fly By

My First shared experiments using Unity3D. --Steve Fly

A trip up mount Snowdon

This photo montage and trip report is dedicated to my loving parents and their spirit for adventure. Both in their 70s now, this journey to the summit of mount Snowdon just yesterday was in celebration of 49 years of happy marriage. 49 years! a testament to love and understanding, so rare these days in relationships. Congratulations. Love, steve.

Launching The John Sinclair Foundation

T4QS Free Party - September 9th - Blue Mountain Club - Bristol

t4qs.fm/blue

Cory Doctorow - Keynote [HOPE XI]

DJ Fly Agaric 23 - Bristol - T4QS - August 19th.

t4qs.fm/blue

BEATNIK YOUTH ambient - 12" Vinyl

https://soundcloud.com/ironmanrecords/sets/john-sinclair-beatnik-youth-1

T4QS present SODCAST 002

They Came To Starburg by Steve Fly Agaric 23 (Audio Book stream)

"They Came To Starburg" is my first and only published short story, and also the first time i read my work aloud. Originally crafted for Halloween 2013, recorded in 2014 and released by Iron Man Records in 2015. If you enjoy this free stream of the story, please consider contributing to my effort by buying a track here:
https://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/they-came-to-starburg/id935832302

A note on the text: this story was inspired by the experience of watching Tesco (and all large supermarket malls) transform a small town in England, and my interest in tongue-in-cheek cosmic horror brewed with mushrooms.

Enjoy, Steve 'Fly' Pratt.

& here on spotifly: https://open.spotify.com/album/7c1ePDwFPZmnjvFbndcpWt

Turn Your Shit Down - by The Fuck You Sound

The Fuck You Sound present: Sodcast #01

The first T4QS podcast features a full hour of exclusive shit and bespoke jack-off material from the crazy fuckers. Rare nuggets from sonic maniacs Bogus Order, Rev D Wayne Love, DJ Aries, Lord Beefington, Senor Modulator, Caleb Selah, Steve Fly Agaric 23, Debra Zebra, Viagra Twins, Tim USA, Javier, Charles Shah Murray, John Sinclair, Dr...um and Robert Anton Wilson.

The flagship show has badass T4QS tracks like Turn Your Shit Down, Backbencher, The Money, And So On Eventually, Prozac Imperial, Banjoman, plus unique DJ toolkits.

Introducing epic interviews with wankers, spoken turd, bollocking of the beats to kick back and beat your meat too, or study with a fine crab-comb.

The first hour is followed by a wicked guest DJ mix by Rev D Wayne Love (Alabama 3) to prolong the dance potty.

For more audio visual treats visit:

www.t4qs.fm/bandcamp

www.t4qs.fm/twitter

www.t4qs.fm/sodcast

www.t4qs.fm/360

Robert Anton Wilson meets Steve Fly (Album)

Just one shoulder

...to be still

silent and ready

to bless with fury

what you thought

what you know

what’s new?

horror and terror 

error and mirror

smoke everywhere 

identity dented day

after day by searching for

the elusive other

the you in them

the us in we

the feeling of solidarity

littered lives

splintered sentences

the struggle to make

it whole and new

even the philosopher

of science and magic

can feel cold chill of doom de doom

and yet the mad moon

the number 1 sun and all stars

and earth remain spun

life coming and going 

tragic and comic waltz

orbit of causes pauses to

the work you were doing

what you worked on

before the job sucked time off

swim through the hate and

hollywood revenge flu

into creative love lake mate  

dig deep and spark one

bark if you have to

how to make it all cohere? 

push through

stay high and keep smiling

the world is too big
for just one shoulder

--Steve Fly Acrillic
(First thought best thought technique)

Kevin 'Memory' Lane

Kevin "memory" Lane.

"Hero's get remembered, legends never die"--Evil Kenevil

Ouch, sometimes people are snatched away truly before their time, and Kev was snatched away from us, all who knew him, and from those who did not have the pleasure of meeting him, or reading him, too soon. Way too fucking soon!

Thankfully, he passed in his sleep, and i suspect he was fully up for it, fully ready to ride that pale horse into eternity with a wide grin. "come fucking on reaper, what you got, ay?" And so it goes. A hero beyond measure, both personally and to all of my friends from my home town, Stourbridge, and surrounding areas, Lye, Brierley Hill, Hagley, and the greater Black Country.

I often referred to Kev as the true voice of the Black Country, a unique individual with a rare and raw talent for writing, coupled with his full-on, up front and principled social presence. A true legend who will be terribly missed by those who new him, and by those who did not. Kevin held the kind of fierce intellect and wit and worldly experience our society and its so called leaders lack.

On more than one occasion i had encouraged him to publish his writings, and not just limit his writing ability and insights to facebook. I am sure that some of you reading this know exactly what i mean, Kevin Lane consistently schooled us with his status updates, honest, raw, funny, smart. Kev was a psychedelic wizard and at the same time a top boy, a lad, one of the boys. He somehow combined a number of personalities together, and broke down stereotypes, followed his own path and was his own man. He had his own dance, his own philosophy of life, his own music tastes, his own humour, his unique way of putting it. Kev seemed to me to be a truly free man, always up for trying something new, consistantly making you think, and always, without fail making you, and anybody in earshot, laugh out loud.

Everybody must find their own way to grieve, and for me personally i must write, and write, because one fact i have learn't, and continue learning from his tragic early exit from the stage, is that eight or ten words on facebook don't do him justice, for me, Kev deserves a book, a statue and street named in his honor. Although i fully understand that many people now use the dating website to express a wise variety of emotions and thoughts, personal and otherwise, for me, it's not the place to begin to pay tribute to such a wide-reaching honey-monster of a legend like Kevin Lane. This motherfucker deserves a few thousand words just for starters. So, strap yourself in. Go make a cup of tea and roll a spliff. The present author is about to take you on a journey down Kevin Lane. A lord, and a real shit kicking black country bard. The very least i can do is spend a few days pulling together just a few memories.

So, about the dance...Kev was well known for his unique dance moves, he could be spotted a mile off, doing the Lanebot, or whatever name you wish to put on it, which involved a lot of shoulder movement, little footwork and a lot of smiling. It was a mechanical, almost robotic looking movement, and it was certainly unique to Kev, to the point where other people would try to immitate his moves, with little success but equal enjoyment. Every music event, and every party in Stourbridge will sorely miss Kevin, he was literally the center of the dance, a mascot and life blood of any party. One time around 1999, at a local rave called "Lifted" i remeber Kevin going full tilt on the dance floor, and on the pole. At one point, in a most hilarious manner actually licking the pole, and dancing around it like a cross between a Native American indian worshipping his totem, and a Black Country porn star out on the piss.

Kev loved his music, and supported independent and local acts, most recently championing the Sleaford Mods before anybody else i knew, and always had his ear to the underground sound. A healthy mixture of punk, indie rock, soul, reggae, funk, classic breakbeats and spoken word, Kev would always be up for having a good time at any party, if there were music to groove on, he would be grooving away with all three shoulders. Kev loved good film and TV too, besdes his fantastic collection of pornography (to be donated to Dudley libraries) he sticks in my mind as the guy who turned me onto loads of cult films and future classics, again, before anybody else. Clerks, South Park, Adult Swim, The Black Mirror, Saxondale, were all introduced to me by Kev. Kevin was a taste maker, and had a sharp eye for cultural memes and movements. I would often visit him just to get the low down on what was happening, since i had been away from the UK for large chunks of time, and he always had another movie, fresh album or book to suggest, never disappinting with his selections.

The last time i spent any extended quality time with Kevin was only a few months back, when he picked me up in Bristol and drove down to Exeter to support a good old friend who was performing in a brilliant theater play. Yes, Kev even recognized the joy and benefits of theater, and was one of only three close friends who slogged it all the way to London, and bought a ticket in support of my performance with the Cosmic Trigger Play. On the way to Exeter and back we talked and talked, for over 5 hours.

We talked about Hunter S. Thompson, Robert Anton Wilson, conspiracy theory, Alex "bumblefuck" Jones, The Sleaford Mods, our trip to see Ken Kesey in London, George Orwell's walk to Stourbridge from Brum, facebook fuckery, social media apocalypse, Margott James, putting a whole pair of pants in his mouth, Radiohead, Frank Foley, WWII, Powick Hospital, the Stourbridge acid test, travels through Europe, The Burningman festival, Amsterdam, Bristol, America, 9/11, 7/7 new underground psychedelic bands from the U.K, maybe having Kev help promote new bands at the club i work at in Bristol, Doug Stanhope, a memorable trippy trip to reading festival in a van that broke down, the million marijuana march and Howard Marks, medical marijuana case studies, Kev's writing, my own writing and novels, Chris Morris, his home brewed beer called Stourt made right next to the river Stour at the Broken Arms, John Peel, 360 VR and the fuck you sound, DJ Aries, Pop Will Eat Itself, the decline of Stourbridge clubs and nightspots, the sly closing of Brierley Hill swimming baths and the film footage we made, the opportunity and need for new events and nights in Stourbridge, strong space cake around the Thompson's house that took us out for 48 hours, the rise of the dodgy political far right, the virtues of Jeremy Corbyn. We shared a spliff and a few cheeky ones to keep us going, and Kev was always going, an adventurer who managed to keep angry man's disease at bay, always looking on the bright and funny side of life, and death.

Kev was a unique friend to me, in the sense that he supported my own crazy adventures, often travelling hundreds of miles to support me, he would buy a ticket and get up off his arse and experience things for himself. Two memorable events he attended both took place in London, and are evidence for his rare willingness to try new things and show support for the arts. In 2014, Poet John Sinclair and i had a record release party, gig, at the 12 Bar in London. Kevin and another friend "eggy" made the trip, and were on top form representing home team. I recall an hilarious game of pool he had with Jake of the Alabama 3, and his meeting with the rest of The Fuck You Sound after the show. I felt proud to have support from a Black Country nutter in league with the other nutters around me. Together with CHU, Kev stood front of stage, smiling, laughing and shouting encouragement throughout my set, with the presence of ten men Kev really made that show complete. (See 360 photo)

On another occasion, together with my friend Scott, Kev bought a ticket and travelled all the way down to London to support a play i was performing in called "Cosmic Trigger" based upon the life of our mutual hero and inspiration "Robert Anton Wilson". I remember seeing him laugh a little, and i met him outside the theater, introducing him to the genius poetess Selena Godden before he left back to Stourbridge.

I'll cherish these memories of his support for me and my work, and i'll miss him. But as CHU reminded me, "he'll be eternally over your shoulder, mate" and he'll be equally over the shoulders of all who knew him, a perpetual voice, dropping jokes and insight with perfect timing, serving up good advice together with a fuck load of well placed swearing. Until my own dying day, i will hold the memory of Kevin Lane in my heart and mind, and work toward becoming, with luck, even half as funny and half as honest as he was.

"Go and write a fucking decent song that says something about the state we’re in instead of buying into all this rock aristocracy bullshit. What the fuck’s all that about?”--Jason Williams (Sleaford Mods)

Dove Sta Memoria

Kevin Lane 1973-2016