Wednesday, December 27, 2006

4 FRANCES KRUK









AMERICA IS DEAD. LONG LIVE AMERICAT.

Monday, December 18, 2006

m*aioWW!


I'm going to the United States of Americat for a period of 3 weeks. I may or may not be contactable Good giftmus, etc. 2007 awaits your destructions.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

fragilistic/sugar & shame

Sugar & Shame

I want sugar
But I shall never wear shame
And if you call that sophistry
Then what is love.

-Lisa Robertson – Debbie: An Epic

I was walking blind, not by love but by something like it I guess. Suddenly he moves lower and the other appears gesturing as if he wants me to suck him off, but, pre-empting it, comes, not on my face but on the gravel beside it. Hands, Gravel, face. 5) Folk singer Iris Dement tried to act interested, I wonder if she got my tapes: ‘Cmon now and say goodbye to our town’, etc., sung barely through tears at age 8. I don’t scream or do anything, I still don’t know why. I realise I have been sitting on sofas, in charis and policecars for hours with a soaking wet skirt. 13) Joanna Newsom was standing at a bar and overheard us say “I’m 99% sure that’s Joanna Newsom.” 14) The man that invented the Hoodie, in a bar in Hampstead. 2) Gillian Anderson, who played Agent Dana Scully in the X-Files and has surprisingly dry hands. Slow corrosion of something like dignity. Two men or were they boys younger than me me I was nineteen. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say 'life's a fact'. Gravel, hands, face. Tights were pulled down groping dumbly on the pavement. 1) Country singer Nanci Griffith who gave me a t-shirt at the Cambridge Folk festival in 1988 because I was sooooo cute. You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing, and you're terrified somebody's going to stick you in a cage...well baby, you're already in that cage, you built it yourself, and it's not in Texas or out east it's wherever you go, because no matter where you go, you always end up running into yourself" Then they find the cat and they kiss, moon river plays and the camera pans out. Twenty minutes later I’m on the floor soaking wet, naket, gagging. I pick up the bits of my broken phone and wander. You got no guts. Later I drink sugary coffee wrapped in a blanket on my living room floor, watching the last five minutes of Breakfast at Tiffany’s on repeat: "Holly, I'm in love with you" "So what?" "So plenty! I love you, you belong to me." "No, people don't belong to each other. People do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anyone's got for real happiness. Four Policemen sit behind me, patiently watching me rewind the tape and them saying ‘um, we can call the woman police officer if you want.’ Nobody gives me the right response so I sit in the dark listening [Tori Amos]. 6) 90s Girl band Cleopatra pushed past me at a bar. I turn my head to look at the pieces of my phone cracked three feet away from me. I'm like cat here, we're a couple of no-name slobs, we belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us, we don't even belong to each other" blah blah blah "you know what's wrong with you, Miss...whoever you are? You're chicken. Gravel, hands, face. I was walking blind, not by love but something like it I guess. Credits Roll. 15) JH Prynne who shared his coffee with me at a party. There’s a car and everyone’s shouting. Gravel, hands, face. Gravel, hands, face. 3) Bux Fizz member and Record Breakers presenter Cheryl Baker who twice mistook me for a waitress at Loch Fynes seafood restaurant in Sevenoaks, Kent: - once in June 2000 and once in December 2002, where I told my dad that I was in love with a woman named Jess, and, on an unrelated note, he said that if I wanted to be an actress I should dress more neutrally. 7) Judi Dench was standing next to me that day. Behind which leap the dead whom we forget and walk over. 8) Mike Fielding from The Mighty Boosh, even smaller than usual that night. I won't let anybody put me in a cage." "I don't want to put you in a cage, I want to love you!" "It's the same thing!" "No, it's not...Holly..." "I'm not Holly! I'm not Lula May either...I don't know who I am. They joke that I am overweight. Hands, gravel, face. 10) Judi Dench smiled at me from across the room 11) Tori Amos told me that she LOVED London on the phone in 2004. 12) Holly Hunter, overwhelmed on Charing Cross Road. The peak of a cap digging into my forehead was a barrier between us as the other held my legs. I realise I smell and need a shower. 4) Athlete Kelly Holmes who scorned me. I put all my clothes in separate yellow bags marked EVIDENCE and wonder absently if anyone will judge me for wetting myself. Ominous hardness and resistance below. It was about 3am, saying down the phone “I’m afraid” half as a joke because I was about to walk down a place called ‘Rape Alley’. Not forgetting costcutter which looms over the estate neoning the houses with an orange I always wished was pink but not on this occasion because it closes at midnight. 9) Dermot Mulroney’s sister, who had a whirlwind holiday romance with my uncle. Hands, gravel, face. Suddenly he moves lower and the other appears gesturing as if he wants me to suck him off, but, pre-empting it, comes, not on my face but on the gravel beside it. You got no guts. The peak of a cap digging into my forehead was a barrier between us as the other held my legs. It was about 3am, saying down the phone “I’m afraid” half as a joke because I was about to walk down a place called ‘Rape Alley’. Gravel, hands, face. Not forgetting costcutter which looms over the estate neoning the houses with an orange I always wished was pink but not on this occasion because it closes at midnight. 3) Bux Fizz member and Record Breakers presenter Cheryl Baker who twice mistook me for a waitress at Loch Fynes seafood restaurant in Sevenoaks, Kent: - once in June 2000 and once in December 2002, where I told my dad that I was in love with a woman named Jess, and, on an unrelated note, he said that if I wanted to be an actress I should dress more neutrally. Two men or were they boys younger than me me I was nineteen. 5) Folk singer Iris Dement tried to act interested, I wonder if she got my tapes: ‘Cmon now and say goodbye to our town’, etc., sung barely through tears at age 8. There’s a car and everyone’s shouting. Ominous hardness and resistance below. I realise I smell and need a shower. 2) Gillian Anderson, who played Agent Dana Scully in the X-Files and has surprisingly dry hands. Gravel, hands, face. 6) 90s Girl band Cleopatra pushed past me at a bar. Hands, Gravel, face. 15) JH Prynne who shared his coffee with me at a party. I pick up the bits of my broken phone and wander. You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing, and you're terrified somebody's going to stick you in a cage...well baby, you're already in that cage, you built it yourself, and it's not in Texas or out east it's wherever you go, because no matter where you go, you always end up running into yourself" Then they find the cat and they kiss, moon river plays and the camera pans out. People do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anyone's got for real happiness. 13) Joanna Newsom was standing at a bar and overheard us say “I’m 99% sure that’s Joanna Newsom.” 14) The man that invented the Hoodie, in a bar in Hampstead. Slow corrosion of something like dignity. I don’t scream or do anything, I still don’t know why. I won't let anybody put me in a cage." "I don't want to put you in a cage, I want to love you!" "It's the same thing!" "No, it's not...Holly..." "I'm not Holly! I'm not Lula May either...I don't know who I am. 12) Holly Hunter, overwhelmed on Charing Cross Road. 7) Judi Dench was standing next to me that day. Later I drink sugary coffee wrapped in a blanket on my living room floor, watching the last five minutes of Breakfast at Tiffany’s on repeat: "Holly, I'm in love with you" "So what?" "So plenty! I love you, you belong to me." "No, people don't belong to each other. 10) Judi Dench smiled at me from across the room 11) Tori Amos told me that she LOVED London on the phone in 2004. I put all my clothes in separate yellow bags marked EVIDENCE and wonder absently if anyone will judge me for wetting myself. 4) Athlete Kelly Holmes who scorned me. Credits Roll. Gravel, hands, face. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say 'life's a fact'. Four Policemen sit behind me, patiently watching me rewind the tape and them saying ‘um, we can call the woman police officer if you want.’ Nobody gives me the right response so I sit in the dark listening [Tori Amos]. 9) Dermot Mulroney’s sister, who had a whirlwind holiday romance with my uncle. Behind which leap the dead whom we forget and walk over. I realise I have been sitting on sofas, in charis and policecars for hours with a soaking wet skirt. 8) Mike Fielding from The Mighty Boosh, even smaller than usual that night. Gravel, hands, face. 1) Country singer Nanci Griffith who gave me a t-shirt at the Cambridge Folk festival in 1988 because I was sooooo cute. I turn my head to look at the pieces of my phone cracked three feet away from me. Twenty minutes later I’m on the floor soaking wet, naket, gagging. Tights were pulled down groping dumbly on the pavement. They joke that I am overweight. I'm like cat here, we're a couple of no-name slobs, we belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us, we don't even belong to each other" blah blah blah "you know what's wrong with you, Miss...whoever you are? You're chicken, like: hands, gravel, face. I was walking blind, not by love but something like it I guess.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

P-A-Y-A-T-T-E-N-T-I-O-N-!

"Under the pressure of sex and addiction, bodies explode or mutate, protoplasm is sucked out of cocks or nostrils, plots are hatched to take over the planet or nearest life-form. Borroughs anticipates Frederic Jameson's claim that an information society is the purest form of capitalism. When bodies are constituted as information, they can be not only sold but fundamentally reconstituted in respose to market pressures. Junk instantiates the dynamics of informatics and makes clear the relation of junk-as-information to late capitalism. Junk is the 'ideal product' because the 'junk merchant does not sell his product to the consumer, he sells the consumer to his product. He does not improve and simplify his merchandise. He degrades and simplifies the client. .' The junkie's body is a harbinger of the postmodern mutant, for it demonstrates how prescence yields to assembly and disassembly patterns created by the flow of junk-as-information though points of amplification and resistance.'
N. Katherine Hayles, How We Became Posthuman



In other news, a man spilled his coffee on my pink leggings on the train to work this morning.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

warburton wrath

DOWN with WARBURTONS CRUMPETS, a little more expensive than the supermarket own-brand but so DOUGHY and full of PROMISE you imagine them filling your empty consumer expanse warming your sad heart DRIPPING with PB and BUTTER until they get stuck in your TOASTER and you have to turn it off at the PLUG to FISH them out with a knife BREAKING the machinery and only the GHOST of a crumpet you ONCE KNEW, all chewed up and BITTY of course by then they've cooled DOWN and the butter won't even MELT over the MANGLED CORPSE of a crumpet you once dared to call your OWN and looking at that crumpet you are forced to face the DISGUSTING MESS of your own life and you crumple HOPELESSLY before the plate GAGGING AND WRETCHING unable to face your own FRAILTY AND COWARDICE when all you wanted was a tasty snack.








and whilst I'm here, down with not being able to understand FLASH MX and those lazy cyberpoets full of BROKEN LINKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Friday, December 01, 2006

Monday, November 20, 2006

La Langousite Est Morte





The 4th in a series of evenings celebrating experimentation and innovation in poetics and fiction writing.

The Langoustine est morte series continues with another night of eclectic literature, music and performance with an international, multi-lingual scope. This month features an all female line up with performances by Valeria Melchioretto, Sundra Lawrence, Sascha Akhtar, Sophie Robinson and Lane Ashfeldt. Hosted by Sascha Akhtar.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

a well-balanced three stanza poem reflecting on the 'Monday' phenomenon.

All Th ik8 s Ksskin ato KSin con ta ct i s mKaking m em Nervss .

Monday, November 13, 2006

you don't mind

if I flicker into a different network for a sec -
sexy like homebaked bread,
electrode on the raw skin where a fingernail should be -
that sort of thing -

do you?

Thursday, November 02, 2006

things that are good

1. Janet Cardiff's Whitechapel Walk. As experienced by Sophie Robinson & Rosheen Brennan on this very cold afternoon. Dark, intimate experience of the brutal loneliness and ugly perfection of London. Originally intended to be loaned out on a walkman from the Whitechapel Library and commencing there. Unfortunately the Whitechapel Library has given way to an ideas store able to contain a dance therapy section but not this amazing piece of work...BUT I have it on mp3 so if you email me I can send it to you, so you can transfer it to an mp3 player or burn it onto cd and do it that way. I can't stress how amazing this work is, unfortunately I lack vocabulary to do it justice right now.

2. archive of the now, an expansive site put together by Andrea Brady, containing many of the best poets working in the UK today. The site contains bios, recordings and examples of work from the poets, events happening in the near future, visual/digital work and more. Makes me tired just thinking about how much work went into this site, very cool. ALSO Andrea Brady gave a great reading at Openned tonight, as did Ian Hunt, who is reading at the archive of the now launch on Nov 9th, see site for more details.

3. Which brings me to....Openned. Their 5th night was tonight. I think it's a great event with a nice unpretentious atmosphere at the foundry, which manages to avoid the event traps of old man pub, sterile art gallery and stuffy academic seminar room well. Space for lots of writers, snippets of their work which leave you wanting more rather than expansive showcases, which also have their place. I like it. The next one is on November 29th, more nearer the time.

4. Caitlin Fisher
's hypermedia novella these waves of girls. Although it looks a little bit dated, it's a very cool piece. You have to double click the image to get the laughing to stop. Girls, girls girls.

5. The band Xiu Xiu (pronounced 'shu shu'). Queering the desperate emo lovesong, dirupting the 'alternative rock'/'post-punk' guitar standard with glimpses of the abyss filtered through computers. My favourite songs are Bunny Gamer b, sad pony girl, i love the valley OH, & dangerous you shouldnt be here. You can get them on itunes or amazon but probably not from a shop, or maybe from some shops I'm not sure.

6. The film Time of the Wolf directed by Michael Haneke and starring Isabelle Huppert, who I am in love with a litle bit. It's really uncompromisingly bleak, and probably an honest look at the future. Gritty futile doom. Maybe watch it on buy nothing day, or on Christmas day.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Elizabeth James' Albatross

Check out Elizabeth James' albatross. It's very cool. Very simple. Delicious. I particularly like 'sea thickens with dead quota' & 'the world my booby provides'. More later.







Note to self. Disgust in MODERATION. Maybe. (was that guy right about my reading, too many vaginas?) But everything is disgusting I can't help it. The world is pretty gross and nobody notices. My work is ************** these days, I've peaked. I don't even have wisdom teeth, I feel soooo inadequate. Charles Olson again tomorrow and I really want to dig maxipad out because I haven't written anything to show. WAIT A MINUTE I'm drinking lemsip and attempting to write poetry LIKE A***** MOT*ON! No wonder I'm staring at a blank screen. Better that than moccasins and 'how romantic it must be to be working class!'. What a fool.





Wednesday, October 18, 2006

LOVESIC.



LOVESIC: An exploration of punk antilyric, or a medical romance. Think digestive fluid all over sexual encounter at a motorway service station you'd rather forget.

Hot off the press! Grab a copy on Friday 20th & Saturday 21st October at the Small Publishers Fair, Conway Hall, Red Lion Square, London. Poetic Practice MA Bookstall.

Alternatively email me about getting a copy. Think I'm selling them for £3 ish.

Killin'Kittenish will also be available from the Yt Communications bookstall, and I am reading with Frances Kruk, Sean Bonney and Jow Lindsay @ 2pm on Saturday 21st.

Monday, October 09, 2006

killin'kittenish hits the stores!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My new and first book, Killin'Kittenish!, is available from yt communications as of today. Email ytcommuniaction@yahoo.co.uk to get your copy (a couple of quid I think), or come along to the Small Press Book Fair @ Red Lion Square London on 20th/21st October to get your hands on this and other Yt products. Also available:
Sean Bonney, Hex Progress
Frances Kruk, Clobber ("intimate & crude!")
Jow Lindsay/Francis Crot The Cuntomatic

Monday, October 02, 2006

viz

sum paintings I did, yeh.


Friday, September 22, 2006

4openned




Others = me, Sophie Robinson. Please come and hear me read, I'll be on for a few mins towards the beginning of the evening.

Monday, September 04, 2006

mal au coeur part 2 - winter

Of she and - . The dodo of civilization, the Marianne of modern consequence, three of you in me, freedom birds lip “crazy”, [speech. open. pounds.] feel your new lunar pigeon pulse crookedly beat, you’re no skeleton-powered culture, no business modernist; one musty window, one don’t-leave December, down with the future, for Baedeker, for poetaster, ending bubble of ‘i’, in my world of you a death, spit up skyward for half an hour. Face it you’re a syndrome, and with that we divorce, mutated. Arrive in decay in astronomy in willowy collaged biography. Touch becomes unclear binary, becomes meteor found east of bones, genuinely greedy. “Oh NO, Never exaggerated, never my unfairly referenced hell, I of hospitals, I who sings daily with fools, NO never I.” Joy, furniture, my own bohemian grouse they are all disappearing – that is to say, this is me, this is me at my best, this is me in my best light, in my sporadic light, my one blonde flight, subdued wounded sickening, late elephante beauty lustre, your clumsy wingbeat too. Blood, cut-ins. A preadator with a sure, close art. Naturalized ungainly, got no bronchial starting energy, guess we’ve been disillusioned since 1980, comedy disambiguation misspoken in Paris, with 8 Leonard Cohen songs including the one that goes ‘you’re living for nothing now’, i.e. we’re both doomed. You’ve gotten a bit smug and wanky, kodachrome princess of the pavement, let’s go queer, knee-deep in Bardot mousse, looking at you, little slippery eel in a planetary blouse it’s like so mistreated, in your mid-sixties now and sleeping rough through fall of oral majesty. Cold-circuited almost out of London at the point where I was cocked ready for ambitious leaps into yellow-beaked love of a kind. Educated horizontally, hydrocephalitic with cynicism of all things, stealing expensive soap with you but those days are over, not even on the phone. “I want to fuck and it’s my big dick. I want to write and it’s my big pen.” Thrusting remnants of a mouth, living destroyed publicly and taking on the gravitational role of ‘Blow Up’, noire hurt prettiest on camera, a neurofibromatosis in forever – limited ‘i’ was tense in lyric. Caught you on film, serrated with fondness I stood holding pure glass energy, the sky and grass having just enough space for you and flightlessness, poverty and physics all depleted even now when we are just hypothesized remains. What January killed, February might understand. Dr. Beautiful in a bĂȘte blue bikini, our last commercial on earth, the quiver of estates frescoed tiredly on laundrette walls, gasping for your sake. $1 of junk energy, magnetic yolk theory of possibility, my morbid was digested apathy, an x-ray void, a blue-grey wonderland destroyed, arose fat with clik-clak urgency like pavlovians to your scent. Self-parody of day-to-day living, fiancĂ© links feeling to river-bed aquaintance: Woolfian fearlessness. Option #2 is bourgeois comfort: brokenheart syndrome pizzaboxed and heated on category 8 for 13 minutes.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

mal au coeur 1 - body

Beneath is BODY: fertile as totality, a sensory abdomen, your proton-pump progesterone dissolving into mine. Who owns the beurocratic everyday? Material inserted from her night [vultures etc] into my crampy world matrix. Psychosomatic [incomplete] you are often scientific but attempt, diffusely, to exist within pagan counternarratives. In this ongoing laxative world there is deniable communal dependence, as well as tequila to lighten the mood. Antacids to linger in two subjects of division, professor to my thrush of longing, hoarding 90-95% of my anxiety, implications that aim hollow in bars and pubs, part-artist and moving towards menopause. I would swallow the nonrepresented content of your Darko days, only to be happily senseless and performing sexual processes. Your killing hound-dog and your neutralized soul and your crushed pituitary gland, all gone. Copyedited interpretations of your thoughts, cached. Clambering over to express mainstream [dis-]taste, you’re just frowning, unfamiliar with the art of groping. That gallery, though, was apparently the place where you chose to digest “life”, - [yoghurt, aeroplanes, all that shit] – and your boyfriend too with his tender impotent PM identity. Heart is now a network of scorched hair and dust and my cybermenstrual hormones are clots in the tufts, rotting in the reproducibility of my own rage and fear, merely the consequence of everyday poison and excess. Over-the-counter grids of doubt and omission. You have designed every action-still of my disintegration, chaque jour a blushing crucifixion of caffeinated artistry. Dream of us on the bed, experimenting with sensation ‘b’ and regurgitating prayers onto the duvet, far away from gestures of the clinical [both my puberty and your whitish-grey shadow of a pregnancy filed under discrete subdirectories] germinating information as “faith” and bathing in the acid light of migraines. Swabbed like political witches, bookmarkable and “yeasty”, mistakes blot our soft Fridays. Small wet-body, made night-black, licked like Situationist candy. Body – body made from Teflon and seaweed-swaddling, 24 hour fibre people pricked by me and others. Bored of gross-outs and painful women. Alien tongue with a spearmint texture, fatty overtime fantasies, pillowhugging of course. In part would like to be neatly gone, no funeral-song or memory, in part would like to be grinding on buses or at least eat fibre products soaked in dull green dairy and really taste. Climax cut thyroid-wise, scratching out of own skin. And if I should return, washed up like some administrative necessity? Silent printer-friendly skin, a doorway of disgust, how HIV of you. Kneading incalculable flesh of us, stomping it into the ground – history, identity, all gone because there’s a live wire from calf to femur to kidney and lung, molar, pancreas, palate and cortex that’s buzzing you in neon and it’s never going to stop. Desire – as is – all [indiscreetness], actually closer to a thin strain of song.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

suite of poems for emily dickenson

[or in Meryl Streep's words, emile dikens]


67: Ca s’appelle “New Order”

Savage, compounded, is sage, but
not for you who ne’er phones, [Ian] -
To sing countersyntactic desire
Requires sumo goneness.

Not one of all the pungent hollows
Who took the floozies toothless
Can tense the definition
So clitoral of vision

As she sickened – syntax –
[On whose forbidden format?]
Them disjunctive drones are treacly
Prose, heartbroke and brave!

241: Sham Convulsion

I like a loss of ‘authenticity’,
Because I know it’s chewed –
Women do not shave, consume
Nor confess, that stuff.

The eyelash trembles once – and that is Dior
Impossible to feign
The sweat upon the forehead
By Classly anguish strung.

315: I like you mostly late at night

He fumbles at your knickers –
Pawing gasplessly as tongue,
Before he even puts the music on.
He stuns you, knocks your knees –
Prepares your uptight nature,
Awaiting contact: don’t go vacant on me –
Your breath is bloody valentine
Your Brain – like television –
Secretes – one – caramel – drip
That scalps your naked sky –

252: Honeysuckle the Kids

I can warp grammar –
[whore!][poetaster!], yea –
Illiterately –
But, like, the least push of information
Breaks up my vivid –
And I slip – drunken –
Let no joystick – shine –
‘Twas the Night Scene –
All stolen!

Panopticism is only Panic –
Stripped, thro’ Disorder,
Till Wednesday, we’ll bang –
Give lube – to girls –
And they’ll buzz, like wires –
[Given the choice –
They’d just say – ‘Fat Cow!’]

Monday, August 14, 2006

4 poems.

she’s no tranny

“who has not asked himself at some tome or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?”
-Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star.

I saw a movie once and it took place in heaven. He’s not, like, 10/10 gorgeous, but still. Systems of exchange, bodybits all shining like dead soldiers. Look for the River, look for gaps in the horizon, look for gaps between each hair on my head. Roll over in bed and don’t stop. Listless rotisserie of weekend living, shunted by taxidrivers off Dean Street. I dream of neutral spaces. Meanwhile hang back avoiding shadows as if postboxes and ticketmachines were people. You’ve broken me here, moved on to the next girl and left me with nothing – I’m in burger king, yeh? Biding my time, not protesting too much, charging my phone, touching my sensitive spots, committing soft crimes in daylight. Who needs romance when you’re doing it up the bum?





snuffle me

skin-wrencher you
sore right thru me.

“think of spam and junk, think of plugholes and think of me” Bella Lugosi.

hungry
for
money
or
breasts

[trashmonkey!]

‘a girl like me’ is squirming
or else is just bits of paper
[trembliung in remembrance/sleeping all though dead]

big-boned
hairy-legged
‘i am a creep’:
squeeze me.





yr pathetic

“bt you got no rite to sit there sayin I abuse it, when u only sleep with grrls who say they like yr music.”
-The Dresden Dolls, ‘Backstabber’.

Female dissertation writers have this sense of bodies craving in. Art class & cleavage, like seeing yrself on television. Gathering speed then slit back upon.

Petrol - clad, urban symmetry makes us tremble in short skirts, knees and elbows atrophied, hair blowing around on waltzers, giggling like we’ve all had clitorectomies.

Everywhere there are Eiffel towers masquerading as electricity pylons so ‘though overweight men spit phlegm into puddles you can just smile & say ‘bonsoir’ ‘cos you know the truth. Ouija.





lustlaquer

bunny little
chicken o my
kitten you
sucker all
with tonguing
like you
never read
Lacan or
swallow proplus
‘til walls
c r a c k .

my skinnybeast –
my heartscuffer.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

How2

How2 - Spring/Summer '06. Go look at it. Esp. London Calling, because London is the best. [Better than Egham, anyway.]

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Killin'Kittenish!

Some random pages from Killin'Kittenish!, which is turning into an epic work...just click on the blurry crappy pages as they flick past you and a random page from the book will pop up. Lazy publishing? Surely not, sophie...



(TIP: left-click and select zoom in a few times, it looks much cooler.
Sorry again for crappiness.)

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

disproportionate

FORTHCOMING:

Killin'Kittenish!
: the TRUE story of a hermaphrodite temp who has 57 hours to save the world from a race of killah vampyres but soon finds that war, bully tactics, international capitalism, compulsary heterosexuality and some BIG NAME philosophers are gonna make her job even more difficult than she anticipated!!!



I'm so excited. It's half written in my notebook, and next week when I get my shiny complicated-looking MacBook thingy and steal some software for it, I will be able to finish and format. Forthcoming from somewhere. Maybe yt communications, if they feel like it. Maybe this blog.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Global Delay

for sean bonney.

Queasy is: sticking to floors & chairs or laughingly dribbled on stairs. Flaking out of cauliflower and storyboard nationwide are gluton and bumcheek sloppy with PVA, giblets quivering lustily in tubes and churches, licking arsecrack doesn't make you a big name in Ealing Braodway & if you piss yourself I'll just make you clean it up. 'Dry as a' or 'bone me' are not phrases coined at sea, if you know what I mean. Oh and the Police all carry stunguns and the ladies feed mini-milks to dogs & satelite dishes are pointed towards Mecca. Landlocked, save the spittle, we'll tramp daily cherries into brick and leave rotten old nappies to fester in parks below signs of enforced corporate patriotism. Nailing you (with an ordinary commercial picturehook, unles otherwise specified) to last week's cheststomping poster, I suddenly think: Better to beat me to death than this, crying "greedy little skirtlifter, she'll pay". Up the state.

to be continued...

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Pulsion Series





Where The Woodbine Twineth images.

where the woodbine Twineth - part one- silicone has no gap

click on the thumbnails to see big things.




Monday, June 19, 2006

mallow edge

dried with longing
eyeline: my drowning
was mirror love
sharp sorrows have cancer
station cleanliness
pretending - disconnect now.
fly world, nine memories
into and over
Crying is then last &
to write "boy" was like
what then?
echoes swallowed news,
like "how sad now?"
banging everyone
in the process.
When Colors I've not confused
stay to fade around,
tinged with outside
stormcloud dustings.
Sad spills everything
inside junkies and
one starry blink
causes despair on trains,
and in headlines.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

3:12am dangerous

dried with longing
eyeline: my drowning
was mirror love
sharp sorrows have cancer
station cleanliness
pretending - disconnect now.
fly world, nine memories
into and over
Crying is then last &
to write "boy" was like
what then?
echoes swallowed news,
like "how sad now?"
banging everyone
in the process.
When Colors I've not confused
stay to fade around,
tinged with outside
stormcloud dustings.
Sad spills everything
inside junkies and
one starry blink
causes despair on trains,
and in headlines.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

continuity shot (draft/scribblings)

accesorize your underarm
a greasy coin slips through
peephole holding
every touch i know
She quarters Mercury, oozes and all
overslept story conveyed
as reason gaggles metro
actually wish minutes
someone slacks, Making actress charming
idea untucked appears lasting
I pay like eyes
sex being was accented
more readily than deadpan
her alive shuffled love
something like a Chanel ad.

even my fringe quivers
anticipating a nauseous turning.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Thursday, May 04, 2006

not a poem or a plug.

"if you care about a particular political, social, or ethical dimension then what does it mean to be doing work that exists in rather an exotic form that most people don’t have access to? I tend to think the primary reason they don’t find it accessible is the training they’ve received, the pedagogy, and that training for instance in how to read need not be so restrictive that it makes people fear anything they can’t immediately make sense of. This is how the unintelligible becomes the ground of political bashing—what is not immediately understandable is automatically classified as dangerously alien"
Joan Retallack, interviewed by Redell Olsen

So how does this change, then? Should it change? This is the biggest issue for me with reguard to experimental poetics, and also something I have to resist when reading...that urge to skim over and think 'what can I get from this?'.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

where the woodbine twineth (sexdoll txt & image project)

w h e r e t h e w o o d b i n e t w i n e t h

Eva: You never believe me when I tell you things are real
.
(‘The Alfred Hitchcock Hour, episode 72, ‘Where the Woodbine Twineth’, 1965)

doll sings criminal
joint “A” is flavourless when on
a ‘she’ is felt both head and neck affected
imagination to the last
love’s purchase is up between skirts with himlines fraying:
the blood that would offer a ‘think’ choice has just been perverted.
The low, the available,
This mess she’s in –
Boys buy the same expressions because
Quietly always 300%dead?
Electrical personality affection face types and lube dollies a body acts as intelligence and
Disease attepts a ginger circuitry
All this and more.


Treat their dogs like kids,

Safe in a people of ‘he’ singular –
A cover-up-all excuse
Of virgin tipping_____silicone limited
Apparent bodies disturbingly play at non-betrayals
and this degrades his love and money
and the dolls, blighted, have soft problems with body articulation.
A convenient water-resistant emphasis on –
Fleshsex movement blurred for ¾ of an inch
A longlife sticky realness
Likeness is written in the creature beside him –
A head separation
Rubber construction tendencies
Biology thief admits some showcasing -
Continuous bodies and the plastic real of Whitman.


Beyond lies, she’s me

A realistic pliant alternative;
Silicone other begins, worryingly elasticating
selfsame stain resistant flesh
could not solid the abyss between
an artificiality recluse & an imperceptible monster
[people please clean the carnal paedophile]
the online fantasies about
backworld joints and liars with the writings –
all this and more.

The real thing is due
Putting the money aside for body type four
Writing entirely no-anal
Intelligent pocketmoney abyss
Bellybutton elongation
Customers should note: neck seam has been eliminated completely.
Silky flesh of ‘you’ is personality felt,
and manicured art is when eyes go beyond the normal handmade ‘I’ –
articulation to construction and reclose infinitely.
A healthier synthetic innocence,
a virginal thing, she’s redundant to the torso,
offering flexible vaginal purchases
An elastic between for singing –
Faces can be purchased separately.
A blood redundance to feel doll physically
Me because it didn’t have large breasts
I sing the body electric.



A creature also experiences
Physical human see-all phenomena
Of course it's intelligent and a cheap scare because they did not show doll moving for real
All vaginal viewings emphasise the ‘her’ – this is ‘A’
A reversing wrote desire
The ‘I am the people’ terminates at mid-thigh -
Now just Frankenstein the joint imperceptibly.
Fleshy made affordable this electrical limited me
Breasts degrade twice
I attempt an eerie lifelike.





[images coming soon...]
[come to the festival on saturday...]

runnymede festival

Runnymede International Festival, 22 April 2006

Royal Holloway, University of London, Egham, TW20 OEX




12.30-2.00: Poetry Reading by Rod Mengham, Andrzej Sosnowski, Tadeusz Pioro, Carol Watts



2.00-3.30: Poetic Practice: Readings/Performance/Video

( Frances Kruk, Stephen Willey, Oriel Winslow, Lydia White, Sophie Robinson and others.)



4.00-5.30: Poetry Reading by Robert Hampson, Drew Milne, Dell Olsen



7.30-9.00: Poetry Reading: Lee Harwood and Maggie O’Sullivan





(for more details about the workshops and the main programme please see the attached PDF)





Workshops on Saturday 22nd April:




10.30-12.00: Poetic Practice Workshop: Redell Olsen



This workshop will provide the opportunity to explore a range of process based approaches to writing. We will work with chance procedures and examine ways to

assemble texts using 'found' material. We will consider the visual possibilities of writing and text and explore alternative sites for writing both on and off the page.



£10/ £5 concs. 20 places: Advance booking essential.*



10-30-12.00: Fiction Workshop: Joe Treasure

(Author of The Male Gaze – Paladin, 2006)

£10/£5 concs. 20m places. Advance booking essential.*





2.00-3.30: Science Fiction writing workshop: Adam Roberts

(Adam Roberts is the author of several highly-praised science fiction novels.)

£10/£5 concs. 20 places. Advance booking essential. *





• Advance Booking 01932 425687



Full festival details: www.rfest.co.uk

Monday, March 20, 2006

angry now, freshly written.

overcome with a sense that

a sense that anything
with hair on is not
really a BODY,

angry now

she threw the
ceiling away
from the floor:

space

to

speak.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

paralysis, freshly written.

Your Ten Gentle Toes Always
(in my mouth?)

I stroke them once, twice through
your sock at the Cinema

dreamily; missing

You now.

Somebody fetch me
a recipe for


Breathing.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Monday, February 13, 2006

lego-lady.

some photoshop creations, with the aid of my new best friend, lego-lady.

Image hosting by Photobucket

Image hosting by Photobucket

Image hosting by Photobucket

Saturday, February 11, 2006

gender buttons

A Word
Recursive stooping creeps low discursive sick out the body of words cut them out and flush them, victories for the keeping.

A War
A ‘try-to’ re-clevering cleave knifed at a sheath bleeding inky on the margins bleating sickly through the markings.

A World
Reclusives sticking to the sides crashing walls out of time automated creatings grating skin onto pasta dishes rethought rethinking.

A Woman
Stomached on your stamping shouted ‘pushpush!’

A Work
Working ‘out’ to ‘in’ knocking on the page bouncing off the book.

A Word
Crmble carcassd hllwd uot – trn yr bak!

A Womb
Same shell different animal.

A Wasp
A followed out thought, an ‘i’ swollen out, a pollinated poem, a papercut, a laminated text.

A Written
qejnvakon, ksajdflin jfkj n ksjf e vikjaer fngkafnj kj asiuer n akj vakjerij ijsdf ikj fne d sndfa = unseen.

A Walk
Anti-statics matter metered progression thru-lines bonecrack livestretch.

A Wane
Mooning monthly, woman made real.

A Waist
A star glide, a single frantic sullenness, a single financial grass greediness.

A Waste
A gutterboat, many-craving lang masses sprawled in the dirt destituted.

A Wearing
A substitute for knowing.

A Wonderful
Dead inside the heart alive outside the page, a fiend for feeling a friend for freeing. Feminine sensation and welling creation.

A Waistcoat
Double-breasted.

A Wainscot
Packing in the wholes lining in the liminal a box of finished things think through the insulation. Six men in a room. Sex meant in a womb.

A Writing
A reading.