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\title{Letter: Mrs. Ludd.}
\date{2002}
\author{Peter Lamborn Wilson}
\subtitle{poems}




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  {\usekomafont{title}{\huge Letter: Mrs. Ludd.\par}}%
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  {\usekomafont{subtitle}{poems\par}}%
  
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  {\usekomafont{author}{Peter Lamborn Wilson\par}}%
  
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\subsection{first}



\begin{verse}
Volunteer to serve the Negation \\{}
Never too late for Mrs Ludd \\{}
If Bugs Bunny’s a Surrealist \\{}
what’s that make Elmer Fudd? \\{}
Wherever you are tonight Mrs L \\{}
Tiamat Tara river nymph undine \\{}
Captain Moonlight \& Saint Monday \\{}
flaneurs on ancient boulevards of spleen \\{}
never complain never explain \\{}
our secret society goes back to the Neolithic \\{}
peonies penises skinsoft rain \\{}
the garden-the bicycle-please be more specific
\end{verse}

\subsection{second}



\begin{verse}
Perfect Mirror of Global Capital \\{}
the Devil’s waiting room \\{}
haunted slum \& universal slime \\{}
of techGnosis \& cybergloom \\{}
pumpkinification \\{}
carpal brain syndrome \\{}
public suicide machine \\{}
Mammon’s Dictaphone \\{}
Moloch’s internal combustion \\{}
psychic noise pollution \\{}
landscape of corpselight \\{}
metaphoric cold fusion
\end{verse}

\subsection{third}



\begin{verse}
Very well no longer resist prophetic voices \\{}
angry illiterate letter Pinned to social factory’s door \\{}
Neither Physics Nor Metaphysics-empirical morality \\{}
haunted by spirits real as need be but poor. \\{}
Suburban Luddite. Jungle marches on the city \\{}
tear down digital enclosures smash the looms \\{}
turn off the hell drone kill the power \\{}
light the lying City only with Moon.
\end{verse}

\subsection{fourth}



\begin{verse}
zerowork taoist hermitage \\{}
maybe in the Hardenbergh Mts \\{}
Catskill romantic arts-\&-crafts style \\{}
with bunches of twisty branches \\{}
jugs of cider marked XX \\{}
cellphone towers not yet sprouted \\{}
once or twice per day satanic zzmm \\{}
of intercontinental jets otherwise silence \\{}
thunder wind \& birds all silent \\{}
rain is a type of silence \\{}
dead drunk under the Moon \\{}
Luddite Pornography \\{}
sunlight or rainlight in the hayloft \\{}
privy overgrown with primrose \& honeysuckle \\{}
up in the cold clouds \& dripping pines \\{}
no car no phone no plumbing no electricity \\{}
nothing to block trembling blue orgone \\{}
or stupidity of naked Nature \\{}
now pubescent \& swollen
\end{verse}

\subsection{fifth \& last}



\begin{verse}
Reactionary nostalgist \\{}
crackpot Kropotkinite \\{}
last human lab-rat gone rabid \\{}
ungrateful dynamite

monasteries of slowness \\{}
even light goes less than MC2 \\{}
cultivate holy datalessness \\{}
secrets meant to be shared

How many Lady Ludds \\{}
how many General Neds \\{}
it was raining when you left us \\{}
we forgot what you said
\end{verse}

\section{THE BLACK LAMP}

\subsection{1.}



\begin{verse}
radical journal connected to the Despard conspiracy \& \\{}
Luddism early 1800s north of England

or: “dark lantern” or glim used by pre-electric burglars \\{}
could also refer to oil lamp with glass chimney \\{}
unwashed black with carbon or “lampblack” (once used \\{}
to make ink)

or metaphor: eyes of the beloved color \\{}
of madiera in tawny dark bottles down in \\{}
the cellar at night by glinting candlelight: \\{}
velvety monastery under perverse Moon

oxymoron: sun at midnight: night sky with \\{}
paradoxical meteors: negative illumination
\end{verse}

\subsection{2. Rolling Blackout}



\begin{verse}
Switch off the Aufklarung before leaving \\{}
socialism minus electricity please \\{}
Black Light of the alchemists of Isfahan \\{}
where even day falls into reveries \\{}
Power failure: rain comes in lacquered screens \\{}
the house feels like a pelican of glass \\{}
phone goes dead but someone else’s voice \\{}
starts to life like pistils licked by bees \\{}
Storm’s over: \\{}
power returns but not to you \\{}
tree-hating landscape-rapists throw the switch \\{}
electrocuting all your monastic pleasures \\{}
icebox grumbles lightbulbs galvanize \\{}
radio threatens more cancerous weather \\{}
eliminating all your buried treasures
\end{verse}

\subsection{3. Enoch’s Hammer}



\begin{verse}
We lose a world every 15 minutes \\{}
by evening nostalgia for morning overtakes us \\{}
digital hemlock numbs our limbs to slumber \\{}
fearing nothing nice will come to wake us \\{}
This IS the Future: how do you like it so far \\{}
anachronistic fireflies? Petroleum: a prophecy \\{}
(by the author of Der Golem) suffocation \\{}
600 channels: tombstones: burning seas \\{}
Black Lamp dark phosphorescence pearl of night \\{}
how many dodo species whacked like weeds \\{}
or children vanished into ambient screens \\{}
No King But King Ludd asleep beneath the hill \\{}
under the parking lot the beach-but who \\{}
could be foolish enough to want to smash machines?
\end{verse}

\subsection{note}



\begin{verse}
last known sledgehammer of the Luddites \\{}
manufactured by Enoch \& Co \\{}
I see it under glass in the museum \\{}
one night begin to glow
\end{verse}

\section{ET IN ARCADIA. (for Bishop Mark Sullivan)}



\begin{quote}


“The human desire for transcendence is an arguably hard-wired behaviour”


—Arcadia Research Project, Australian Network for Art \& Technology



\end{quote}

\subsection{1.}



\begin{verse}
Gnostic police-mind over matter- \\{}
what else is law but magic? \\{}
a fictitious person has no liabilities— \\{}
only assets \\{}
no corpse to weigh down its \\{}
immortal spirit \\{}
Sphinx \\{}
vast \& vague as a cloud of radioactivity \\{}
succubus \\{}
flea that swells to the size of a galaxy \\{}
“discorporation” might be a more accurate term \\{}
or something retro like “Sathanas”

Cell phone towers hide inside steeples \\{}
where does bad religion go when it dies?

El Estupido the unconscious thinks it’s all SciFi \\{}
strawberries crossed with the genes of fat people
\end{verse}

\subsection{2.}



\begin{verse}
High Moral Ground? Y’can’t get there from here \\{}
pervert pleasure: class traitor (see Genet) \\{}
voluptuous degringolade-Imaginal Past \\{}
down the hole with the trolls: gone away

Exiles of Cyberia Unite \\{}
nothing to lose but chains of Lite.
\end{verse}

\subsection{3.}



\begin{verse}
The old Ukrainian carp fishers \\{}
are picking up \& moving \\{}
slowly out of this dutch genre \\{}
June \& dappled—even the name is dutch \\{}
Wallkill.

From the other bank \\{}
you can see they scored at least \\{}
one big one \\{}
dull gold held up in the ray between \\{}
blue clouds \\{}
steamed with dill \& potatos
\end{verse}

\subsection{4.}



\begin{verse}
renunciation laves the skin like rain \\{}
silky spagyric excised from time but not \\{}
from space BLAMM thunder defines space \\{}
a game of bowls in a valley time forgot \\{}
Not that you have anything against time \\{}
as continuum rather than torture machine \\{}
or the Taylorism of everyday life sliced \\{}
\& diced \& lost to some Maxwellian fiend \\{}
In fact the Order proposes a reconquista \\{}
seizing back the provinces of rain— \\{}
invisible worlds hover behind its screens \\{}
Every gadget that disappears makes way for \\{}
unpolluted space\Slash{}time to reclaim \\{}
the marches between the banal \& the unseen
\end{verse}

\subsection{5.}



\begin{verse}
Anabaptists on dope: strict observance \\{}
Amish icebox spermaceti lamps \\{}
under the radar off the grid—in fact \\{}
no phone no television \& no amps \\{}
Entheogenic sacramental heaven \\{}
whiling away the time till Armageddon
\end{verse}

\subsection{6.}



\begin{verse}
haven’t tied off the veins of pleasure but \\{}
just can’t stand the tragedy of representation

dunno much theology biology but \\{}
shade is as good as a hat

Le Physiognomie du gout delivers the goods but \\{}
the Slow Food Movement’s an Escargo Cult

the best parts could be buried in a box but \\{}
their aura would heal sterile soil

don’t want to flee the country again but \\{}
might have to
\end{verse}

\subsection{7.}



\begin{verse}
E T A Hoffmann Fan Club \\{}
Pro-Endarkenment Left \\{}
meet at the bend in the river \\{}
between warp \& weft

Children on summer lawns \\{}
birds at their dawning jamming \\{}
nightingales sullen thunder \\{}
hunting \& farming

Fishing the manuscriptorium \\{}
the stylite in an armchair \\{}
stuck in the crook of a willow \\{}
prays to empty air
\end{verse}







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The Anarchist Library



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Anti-Copyright



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Peter Lamborn Wilson

Letter: Mrs. Ludd.

poems

2002


\bigskip


Retrieved on 7\textsuperscript{th} October 2021 from \href{https://www.fifthestate.org/archive/358-fall-2002/letter-mrs-ludd/}{www.fifthestate.org}
   

       

       
         Published in \emph{Fifth Estate} \#358, Fall, 2002.
       

       

       

       
   



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