Jaie Elliott Johnson-Miller

The unilateral silence of Image 09_9

In this image I am trying to break out from within the TV as the Constitution. As the law itself. I am not jealous of other zones, here, as I have been in the past. Because those are just other zones. And there are zones other than those. Other than these zones there is nothing to get inside of. Therefore, the question is of birthplace, otherwise, zones are just the shadows of things. That is the narrow scope of failure. I initiate value as sacrifice. Inside mystery, the intensity of zone material obliges itself as two things at once. To agree and disapprove. I don’t believe there is such an edifice as returning the gun to it’s holster. The future did not happen as expected, as interchangeable. TVs are rare when your habit looks solid as it is sliding through a ghost. As ghosts reclaiming abolition. Condition. What if I meant there is no edifice within, there is no trapped art to be heard? On this page I am voice, I am image as unheard- denial exchanged- where images are served to occupancy. On this page I am structure. Structure as service.


The feeling that comes from not being in one’s home country - of being a foreigner, or an immigrant, of being somewhat displaced from your origin.

The monkeys wont let me in the pool. I’m six years old kicking my bluff across the road. it’s an old sandal. When I get home my mother asks me whats wrong, the monkeys won’t let me in the pool, I tell her. I take 300 breaths, like 300 steps back from the shore, I urge King to take 300 steps back from the balcony. my redaction is stretched in accordance to what one of the monkeys thinks is best for the other monkeys. in their primitive interest. The TV has beached itself on this Afghan rug and each one of the black stones it offers is weathered and fading. It speaks to me in R&B about copyright infringement, about genocide in the Congo and why I should never go to Africa. I swallow the stone I think invented chess. at the airport they think I am smuggling heroin in my charcoal stained lEvis, but I am proof reading endgame. it is solid, it will work this time. I carried this feeling with me through Utah, that small banality the pope threw at me, that no one heard during Dresden where I stole perfect English from the tip of a bayonet. They take enlightenment and sing it back to me like a pop song, dress it like an actress I will never have. it’s lost it's patina. The trouble is, your ideas are mass produced. Every grief is to be continued. it is the process of being debased by a god who can’t get the photographer’s flash out of his head, who’s only responsibility is to the salmonella HSBC put out of business. That is who I give ash to, from a fire now limp and dead.

The Ghost of John Kerry

No, get back in your box. The tigers demand room temperature 
from a hand bursting with seeds. The wealth of the seeds is suicide.
This is a telling position from which to negotiate for a bigger stick to 
walk with, a stick whose dual purpose is to poke bears. 
The next question, sir, is which hero, man or god 
will volunteer his laughing stock son to throw away gold at the Olympics
for stealing orange juice from the supreme court canteen? 
The inconceivable consequence makes no contact with this sweet life
of having my actions unfavourably compared to lab rats.
[e.g. In a study involving 300 college students it was found that given……]
All the while, I merely described the door on my way through. 
……the question was never how the number 0 danced
for 700 years atop the skyscraper dressed as digital currency, 
then was found plummeting through a Hippocratic oath landing in 
bboy stance during the 2008 financial crash. History is the leak 
in this pipeline and top heavy reasoning which needs no spoiler alert.


Adding surrender to the whites of their eyes, which are the only useful billboards when the city is simply a hole that forgot to wrap itself around the fraud suspended from the only sane tree in Western Europe. That forgot the country of its burnt step, one knee pressed down , the only tongue it fought to give universal healthcare murdering amazon packages by the thousands with the hope of thatched thought that could write a letter of complaint to the ice caps, addressing the moral poverty spread throughout the polar region and what it did to his gum disease. I am all militarised stillness, the imagination has one trick belonging to the furthest reaching rope it can convince to obey it. The slack will corrupt those who wake after 11am for any reason, chasing down immunisation in the warmth of the pillow being sucked into the air by the ghost of Idi Amin. They made Idi look more desperate for tangerines than he really was, if you knew him you knew any debt could be paid with forty feathers and a tangerine but only because they softened the gap between Castro speeches. When all the jokers in the pack are corrupt, mostly famous for their black jokes, I salute the division of haloes by visiting each of their formally bombarded territories, laying reefs and apologising for my part in it all but stressing the importance of ‘leaving the past behind us’. It’s The anniversary of salt, June 10th, I’m dressed in rock formations, quickening my pace to the funeral of foliage that died in zero gravity. half of the eulogy is about the internet , the front row consists of 90% of the western media (so basically five people) and as I walk in things get digital. 

To be continued…


1. there are like, what, if you round it out,  a thousand cities dredging the trenches for ammunition that cant expire unless animated, and we achieved that by being awkward enough to gather in threes, lifting, holding shell casings to the light. once you identify the official who you should be reporting to, you show him your pile of shells, you get him to lift the cigar from his mouth and nod his head, yes, with his hands on many coffins. the sky is industrialised and beyond that Athens, but you will not reach it from the dark room with the motor on the table because you are too late for reassembly. the instructions were given at a different date, boy, you are not here to share my hat or stare too long at the Geneva convention. If I invite you to speak, it will be wasted on your straight face like rusted copper, you have not the body of an awkward troop, piss off. bring me more shells.

2. that is not a kitchen, but the fumes are similar to the hundred guards, their shields and helmets identical, the same brand like one face swallowing the crowd. Not a single stone has fled my stomach since the flag I draped there. they follow each other to where the whip is carried like water between teeth to be shared by horses beside the hanging man who points to deceive you. there is no sign of the men on the roof. this talk is charred and growing ocular by the flip. I suppose because a woman has a staircase under her dress she must also carry roses in her veins, but I assure you they are just finer details of an architecture you can see by leaning on the banister of her rib. are you shaking this feather or stirring it into the helm? just make up your mind

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