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Showing posts from March, 2009

for the birds

I am revising Godzenie. 1st proofs from Blazevox came the other day. it is coming together. I am getting happier and happier with it. I'm having fun again and feeling lighter.

Peed with Sean Bonney behind a tree in Hyde Park.

Thinking about writing. Re-reading old blog entries from four to five years ago in North Carolina. The excitement. The possibilities. It is coming back round again. Jeff Hilson, Sean Bonney, Amy De'Ath, Steve Willey, Dez, Nikki, Trini, Jim Goar, Michael Zand, Alyson Torns, Tim Atkins, Alex Davies, Jack Spicer, Sophie Robinson, Frances Kruk, Ken Edwards and others are catalyzing me.

Their writing and their in-the-fleshness are making me feel real!!! It is good to feel real.

I think I have grown tired of the so-called linguistically innovative poetry. There are exceptions of course. But I want fire. I'm a visceralist, a new brutalist. Textuality and theory are not enough for me. Not near enough. I need playfulness. I want to laugh. I want to feel awe. I d…

new poem for Godzenie

new poem for Godzenie


I’ll tell you
about Godzenie

the reconciling
of marvelous
machines
that stamp
our heads

bricks
from a blown-up
post-office

fluttering
letters

a twisted
metal sculpture

here’s the kick

our tune
for the endless egg

the hills that trace
the fall

don’t ever
get famous

bodies
bound by sand

the morbid sentence
called out
of hearing

dictation for
the blue revolution


that infinite passage
of breaking light

an alien memory
machine

shoes of a girl
racing towards
the door

won’t somebody
tell me something

I poke
my fingers
through this rubble
with a heavy Eurydice

a heavy hammer that chimes
against this metal

eyes of mad celluloid

I would have killed
the snow that fell
on Katowice

the wound down
clock that beats
against this robot
heart

in the making

Well, I am more sure now. Poetry and writing are number one. It is the one thing that can keep me whole, sane, mindful. Everything else falls away, eventually. What I mean by poetry is very broad however. I don't just mean the books I read and the words that I place on the page. I mean the positioning of my mind. Poetry is just one practice that engages me, brings together my mind and body (at least for a while), makes me feel less self-conscious by plugging me into something much bigger than my self. For others there might be other practices, other ways of connecting.

I am also more sure that what I do for a job matters A LOT!

Maybe job matters even more than location. Not because of career or money, but because I can't compartmentalize my life. But I also need healthy holy shots of community. To talk to other artists and writers.

Everything feeds into everything. I need to create an environment that is stimulating. I am obsessive. I have given up trying to be someone else. S…

from Moving Pictures (London and South Korea manuscript)

what do you think
oh think
in yr mini
Vienna
through any window
piss
is raining
from the sky
sons and daughters
ninety times
out of a hundred
piss
on the streets
with knapsacks
& immigrant mullets
it is easy to put
a hole in the ground
and make a great
piss
what’s seen is
sucked
away and what
remains
is a big
train station
toilet
25p per
entrance &
exit
is this a sad
romance?
nothing is really
uncovered
stories directly
from the drain
perhaps doing
that
or this
& pissing
it all
out &
everything

from Alien Memory Machine (serial poem)

38.

Everything has gone

white
blinding
white

there is no
tunnel
there is only
this

the brain weaves
a strange kind of music
and our bodies
seem unable to forget
the memory of what it feels like
to be properly seen

all I have said is truly a conversation
with light as a shadow puppet
among the living

we can find breathing but we can’t find air
that defective space under which
all our selves co-mingle

it’s in the air between
you and me baby
a special way
of exing your self
you’ve come to understand
the mask as an image
the image as a house of cards
a collapsible organ
in the centre of the chest

PAST SIMPLE ISSUE 6

Ladies and Gentlemen,

A special issue of Past Simple edited by Marcus Slease and Jim Goar is now available for your viewing and listening pleasure. Innovative British Irish and Scottish poetry.

An amazing array. Hurrah!

Poetry and some sound from:

Karen Eliot
Geraldine Monk
Peter Manson
Tim Atkins
Steve Willey
Augustus Young
Alyson Torns
Michael Zand
Alex Davies
Trevor Joyce
Ken Edwards
Fanny Howe
Amy De'Ath
Sean Bonney
Tom Raworth
Rob Holloway
Maurice Scully
David Toms
Randolph Healy
C. Walsh & B. Mills
David Lloyd
Peter Jaeger

check it out:

PAST SIMPLE

from Alien Memory Machine

Sent some poems from Alien Memory Machine over to The Beehive and they reshuffled them by some kind of algorithm or human hands? Must be read aloud to affect and make effects.

There are patterns (of sound and chunking and repetition).

Some new sense follows I think.

Check it:

The Beehive

education culture in the UK

Characteristics of teaching English in FE colleges

The course is generally delivered by a very limited number of staff, including part-time and sometimes temporary staff.

Staff in FE have heavy teaching loads, across all levels. A typical week for a full-time member of staff includes 24 hours of teaching, which may be in several different subjects and ranging from pre-GCSE to degree level.
Although preparation time required for HE teaching is generally greater, there is no allowance made for this.

Staff have no admin support and will be required to complete all admin associated with their teaching jobs themselves, including some marketing and selling of courses. This may include tasks such as writing and sending information letters out to individual students, as well as filling in registers, keeping course files, and making schemes of work and lesson plans.


Conferences aimed at FE lecturers tend to be focused around meeting government targets, linking with businesses, the skills agend…

from 2004-2005 manuscript (Never Mind the Beasts)

Of Our Cranial Love for the Lion

we were reading toward Bethlehem
suffice it to say we were tired elephants
we were reading toward Bethlehem
we were reading toward Bethlehem
with wet blankets looking for new insurrections
suffice it to say religion stinks
but really we were reading toward Bethlehem
we did not want the skin of the farmer
we left the doctor on the side of the road
we were reading toward Bethlehem
as part of a seminar on special problems
for honest mystics
we were reading toward Bethlehem with old texts
the old texts pointed toward Bethlehem
suffice it to say we were reading toward Bethlehem
suffice it to say we were reading toward Bethlehem
suffice it to say we loved the rocking wet breast moment
suffice it to say slouching
we were reading toward Bethlehem
slugging through old texts toward Bethlehem
with insurrections toward Bethlehem
suffice it to say reading toward Bethlehem
in love with the lion

revising manuscript from 2004-2005

Revising manuscript Never Mind the Beasts. Quite a bit different than my current work. A lot of the poems were published in journals like Backwards City Review, Columbia Poetry Review, Conduit, Diagram, Effing Magazine, Forklift Ohio, Shampoo,
Spork Magazine, Talisman etc. And read at Lucifer Poetics events.

Might send it out in a few months. feels good to revisit it. I can see it much clearer after letting it sit for five years.

from 2003 (Never Mind the Beasts)

II. Castle without King

after the leaving I shaved my head
my words squared off
I shaved my head
in dialogue
I
found

the pure joy of plumbers




V. Hotel of Lost Light

When hair covers the face like a tent of images.
When tires are broadcast in treble.

O, brother we are lost in a room with buckled flexi glass.

Our wet fingerprints refuse to dry.

The mind
is a magnet
& we cannot take leave
of our senses.

There’s too much blood
under the bridge &
the pigeons refuse to carry messages.

from the small notebook (rough drafts)

From Who Sleeps with Who

There is no deciding what breaks. My eyes take forever to adjust. The hard fish. A Bielsko Biala summer. Hand in hand.

Immediate heartbreaking magical combinations of the fragmented.

Be bolder Sisyphus. What are we humming? Like bedded with unlike. What bed doth rock our bones?

A moan under the tables. Our suffering is your suffering. This Tropicana elevator parrot music at the local Westminster Starbucks.

Hard cums round. Try not to rush the passage from comedy to tragedy. Life does a fine job on its own.

I need to retire to another room. The so called LIVING room.

That pancreatic rabbit the fox sorrow outside the night window. To dance to slurp to . . . . . . .
That boyhood dew that mildewed ceiling.

Who runs through these twists? Night the marker doth.

The child grows like many over yon town into auto sound. Nay knave. Looping knave.

Assuage the villainous levels of digressions. O're the lock smell

THAT CLUBBED FISH

THAT CLUBBED FISH

A man in heat.

I can'…

from Moving Pictures

From the North American section. This one takes found language from the serial Queer as Folk. Each poem takes its title from the main shooting location of the North American serial or horror film. Rough draft as always on this blog.



Pittsburgh

Queer as folk seem
to the Canadian
dollar he would
not have been
part of it as
one beast
torso porn
star naked
maid party
planner &
correspondent
advertising ex-
ecutive for Van-
gard

Moving Pictures and Alien Memory Machine

Moving Pictures has three sections:

1) Wonderland (A serial poem from South Korea)

2) London (poems written at or near tube stations since May 2008)

3) North America (poems moving through around with American serials and horror films)

Alien Memory Machine:

One long serial poem. 44 sections so far.

revision (from Moving Pictures)

Waterloo (South London)

Some of the
valves are working
harder. Than. They should.
Hold yr horses. Perk up. He leans
nearer toying with his clips.
the sexless
life of childhood I need
to go and do something
nerdy. Leaning into
the rancid. Sugar
packets square unstained
table wood. Clean. Protestant.
Choke cherry. I’m moving
away from the conveniences.

play

I want more intimacy. More play. More direct contact with in the flesh humans.

The dishes are staring at me. I am sticky and need to shower.