Thursday, November 25, 2010


I saw pictures of them dressing, all breathing,
all bare in the fires, the banks, the parlours,
the coding heat, the topic shakes, slacks,
looming ill over necks & ties, in my coat
made of feelings, in the semi-dark
of your smile I run away from naming.

The parlour has collapsed, is filling with snow,
mother is by the bureau, my schoolgirl god
in a coat made for crying, lips like thick
flames & she places her strange head upon
my chest & begs to bend to each amber flag,
hands about her ears in a clement gesture.

We fasten ourselves up like girls in parlours,
Shun sofa secrets, deaf words, these histories:
Domestic relics, my baby gods, now dead—
the sensation of it is gelatinous,
piles of cold carpet everywhere underfoot,
like snow – the room is filling with snow—

mother is by the door, & it is hard
to see her through the smoke, a sweet-smelling
smog pooled around us & we are melting,
we’re like honey – this is for you – I’m young &
I know nothing – I occupy all of your time.
I like having art poured into me wide-eyed.

Mother’s by the mantle, it’s too dark to see,
I’m freshened by hot bile, this nuance
of your love’s long guts glued onto me.
I like having money poured into me
with eyes closed or rolled inwards
in prayer, & that way I’m your trinketry.

Soft fists tumble onto me like snowflakes:
this is the louse of love, this is its bite.
I am now covered in a brotherly blue,
the ultramarine of fresh men – sticky, thick.
Snow piles in each tidy corner. Elsewhere
there are fires. Mother has left the room.

The police are on their way. It is too bright
to see. A series of arms appear
to wrap around each other in blind
solidarity. This is for anyone.
A Molotov cocktail sings. This is not love.
This is for no thing—

Monday, August 09, 2010

Animal Hospital

Animal Hospital

Some times like sin sugar that broke that crashes
Bruise of rib like rip off cloth and let salt
Winds scathe in eye in face I am sandy,
Long for ocean grind – but shy, but shy – “I
Don’t owe you any money don’t have to
show you all my things” – just live, okay? ‘Cause
all our money is etch-a-sketch, and I
Think too often about the forward times
When our things are out and old on the street,
When we are out of time, stink, are the laughed
At lucky ones or, worse, screaming in two
Different hospitals, species strangers,

This is the ailing
Of peace, the rearrangement of passion.
We do not kiss but strum ourselves apart.
The sun has its sins, the heart its heavy.
This poem should be longer, and more careful.
Give me time.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

new poem

Toward her, a cantata of grace (part one: suture)
For G.

If I were you and you were me I would
Turn and turn again, move my arms from left
To right, I would large I would small I would
Seek out all the danger. If I were me
And you were a tall blue thing a light coming
Out from the sides of all the sad then yes
I would stroke your ruffled feathers sleepy
And unknowing, blind in the bed which knows
Us, fucking or not – being us – your or
Me – is like getting away with it, laughing
then being slapped away like being told
we are too good – if I were you I would
disappear, would fright myself away – if
I were me I would beat myself across
Myself would find myself out and just say,
When you were a child you could not stay inside
And now you still must be caught and brought in
Clopping, cold and snotty from the wanting.
Play your games on a Wednesday scuff your dust
Do anything you would do if you were
you and I were me I would eat the whites
of your eggs your eyes and whisk the yolks out
to form themselves anew. Terror masses
around us – the whine of legitimate
lovemaking. I have accomplished only
you, am small and unable to shock. We
are here, chewing the courser fat to forget
the living freaks falling down like zips like
propositions – FRANCE I LOVE YOU in food,
sour and sighed, and if I were you I would
move to a society dead of western
grace – and yes we shall move with our
motivations for moving writ large across
the screen as in a silent movie. I
Scratch myself deep inside the thicket of
your charm and anything alright still
Remains tough scuffing your oxfords
Beyond frigidity the meaning of which
Is caught in my wing and we acre carrying
The sky as emptiness, sustained beneath,
Sour and communicative…nobody’s
Intimate taste is perverse, and a lusty
Burning has set in between my scars, a
Crippling freedom braided into us, skirting
Savagely the legitimating reports
Of our deaths. If I were me I would
Be a bloated male goddess, as emotional
As I am British. If I were you I would go soft
Under the night’s shadow, I would kill the
Prose, I would kill the film, I would sick up
All the silence. If you were me I would
Smell you automatically for
What you are, manhandled automatically
in the summer of individual problems, unable
To talk anything out in a meaningful
Or sustained way we die faster than all
The other discourses. I have been growing
This hair since I was eleven and I
Quite like it, as animals like their
Cellars. If I were you I would make
Myself my pastime, young and difficult
As I am. Constellations of honour
Arrange themselves above us as we eat
At the heels of poetry & I splay
myself dizzy with the effort of
Living like a sexy patriot spasming
down my spine. This light has never been in
my control, my living pose unearthed
and taking form in slow in fast inside
the pulse of your neck in repose,
rigid with freedom. If I were you
I’m not sure I’d stay, but that does not
Make your lascivious goodbye any more

Monday, January 11, 2010

The Other Room, Manchester, December 2009

I read atThe Other Room in Manchester last month, with Nick Thurston. Here be documentx. Great and provocative event, worth the train zoom up.

Sophie Robinson

Other | MySpace Video

Sophie Robinson interview

Other | MySpace Video

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Things To Love, 1

1. Amy King is the bomb, and her new collection Slaves Do These Things looks great, though I have yet to get my sticky fingers on it. I have been mostly addicted to 'The Always Song', featured on Rethink this week.

2. Pamela Klaffke's photography, esp the bestia parvulus and ladies of the balaclava series. Analogue joy.

3. Gaggle. 22-piece all woman alt choir. I can only listen to them for about 4 minutes without wanting rip my own hair out, but in limited doses I think they're fucking brilliant. Maybe it's my predictable, optimistic new years nicotine starvation but I LIKE CIGARETTES is my favourite (performed at Barden's Boudoir, where we went last night and had a grand ol' time...more on that....)

4. Tavi, my 13-yr-old fashion guru. Georgie thinks it's creepy. Soz.

5. Last week G and I managed to just catch Sophie Calle's Take Care of Yourself (Prenez soin de vous) at the Whitechapel Gallery, before the exhibition ended. I <3 Sophie Calle more than most things, but haven't seen much of her work exhibited before. The concept behind the exhibition was, typically for Calle, a matter of the heart - a lover broke up with her by email, signing off with the phrase 'take care of yourself'. Calle then gave the letter to a load of women, chosen on the basis of their skill/profession, and asked them to 'translate' the piece. The exhibition documents these translations from psychologists, police, actors, musicians, dancers, philosophers, writers, and a parrot - amongst many others - in a multimedia frenzy. The exhibition is well curated but was obv crowded on the last weekend of its run, and besides there's just too much text to read in one go. It reminded me of Roni Horn's Another Water in that respect, and the volume of responses, text, sounds, images and respondents - all repeating, in various way - the same page of text - all serve to highlight the gravity of damage done. I love the way that Calle externalises the personal in this way, making art of our need to repeat a story in order to grieve. And it's totes more productive than boring your friends with your post-breakup, wine-fuelled melancholy night after night. I bet that email guy is really kicking himself, but it was a bit of a foolish move, let's face it. Guardian Interview / extracts from book.

6. A bit late, but the Delirious Advent Kalender, co-ordiated by wonderous Dusie Press (aka Susana Gardner) has been such a yummy daily treat for me the last month. 25+ (extra treats for xmas day) audio poems - all up now, obv - gorge yourself. Like finding your advent calender, slipped down the back of the radiator on Dec 2nd, in early Jan. Except nothing's been compromised by improper storage. End of dubious metaphor. Faves include Gardner herself, Emily Critchley, Marianne Morris & Cathy Wagner.

7. Last night - Mofofest = whisky/bands/djs at Barden's Boudoir in Stokey. We saw a lot, but my faves were ultra styled electro Bunny Come - who must be complimented for their awesome dance moves and totally great stage presence despite having an audience of, like, 12 - and Chapter 24, who might well fill the small hole in my heart made by The Long Blondes breaking up. Happy dancing in sparkly pants with edge of unhinged lunacy. Just my cuppa.