Mark Young and Jukka-Pekka Kervinen – from: Karl Mar

Mark Young and Jukka-Pekka Kervinen

from: Karl Marx’ Rubric Journal

The surface of
the road ahead
is made from
scattered vowels
kept in place
by sullen
consonants. The
makers have left
their signatures
behind. It is
hard to drive
across. Names
c  r  u  n  c  h
beneath the tyres
like broken glass.
We continue along
an anonymous road.



Rimbaud is in town & I’ve arranged to have lunch with him. People seeing the pair of us out strolling arm in arm will undoubtedly come out with something demeaning about the relationship. The aging German with his French toyboy — both parts are true but not together. I’m not inclined that way although  I  do  find  his  anarchy quite exciting. The British. Probably jealous. They trumpet their propriety, but I’ve observed some  interesting  truths  about  them from my times at the Museum. Still, we’ll play along. Lunch with Arthur will be ham & watercress sandwiches, a pot of tea, perhaps some scones, taken at the proper pace  in  the  sedate  environment  of  a tearoom somewhere in the West End even though both of us would be more at home with coffee & croissants in Soho. A pity Wimbledon hasn’t been invented yet. Otherwise we could go there & sit in the stands & listen to the plonk plonk of the tennis balls going back & forth as he tells me  that  in  his  new  untitled  volume  he makes the point Voici le temps des Assassins to which I’d say, returning his serve, Maybe so, but Demain sera le temps des Travailleux. People around would tell us to shush — Damned Foreigners! — but we’d ignore them. Then he’d tell me how they promised to bury in darkness the tree of good & evil, to deport tyrranic respectability so that we might bring hither our very pure love. I’d think about it as I chased this deep lob to the backcourt & probably reply that life is not determined by consciousness, but consciousness by life. Dialectical deuce. A satisfied silence from both of us. We’d smoke a cigarette & laugh, & watch the white-clad players below us try to get one over on their opponent. & then, at the end of the match, as we were making our way down the stairs, I’d turn to him & say You know you got it all wrong about the vowels. They don’t have separate colours, they’re all the same. Red like the blood of workers. We will not meet again. Not on a grass court anyway.

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