sophie robinson

Sonnet 101

2012-01-03T23:27:00.002Z

why is everybody always writing
about fucking like me the more writing
to be done the less time to do the
necessary fucking for poetry

which is just as well when “at a bar” or
side by side alone & almost having
sex but in the end we change our minds ‘cos
work is early/harsh work makes you nervous

lines up the days & besides you don’t love
each other so much today as yesterday
& that dwindle’s dampened the itch to do
anything but write some stupid sonnet

frigid at the kitchen table no damp
itch to speak of no great love to leap off

from SOUVENIR

2011-04-12T16:17:00.000Z

i’m sick of love & sad for what I’ve lost:
that bullshit fix of nervy hands has gone &
rude spring’s a bully, sun & wavy cold air
& you are well, i having never been well i,
i want to meet you anew and be loved &
not thought of as silly – to you now i’m
a clown or a dog waiting to be put down
& so my breasts are hairy teats for cubs i love
& are not born, & not for you, my new nude
is atrocious & i wonder who you
think of in the shower, what wets your meat
if not my putrid body you once & gently
fucked & which i, promising it to you, have lost
the receipt for. go away for a long time

& meet me at the airport, run me a bath
as before with water from the kettle so
kind & we’ll shiver in two inches forever,
thigh on thigh never shrinking from the
moment but cycling it around the time
we do have, having been given each other, &
never unadorned or waiting to get broke.
i’d wait to die forever to have unlost
that time & die to lose it all again,
having taken too much, having got
love unspent not wanted & staid unhappy
inside the kettle waiting to be filled kindly,
touched on the cunt or met at the airport with the
ghosts of animal kingdoms still inside me.

parlour

2010-11-25T00:10:00.000Z

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—

Animal Hospital

2010-08-09T23:13:00.001Z

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,
Unknown/unknowing.

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.

meditations on an empty room

2010-07-26T18:26:00.000Z

from a

new poem

2010-01-12T10:02:00.002Z

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
Charming.

The Other Room, Manchester, December 2009

2010-01-11T12:44:00.001Z

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

Things To Love, 1

2010-01-10T15:53:00.003Z

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.

glove bark

2009-12-04T12:50:00.000Z

A regime devoted to time
embodied in the colour of a wall or running
repeatedly into yourself
spattering thighs; knee-deep in lard
breath-by-breath attack
starving for a digital release I
am accurate – moot musculature –
diligently flowing
outward away from posterity whipped
into relief the texture of
beaten leather;
suction cups, monster artists stuck to myriad
bathroom floors as a naïve
defence against anxiety –
Billie Holliday vox
tremors soaked in deep red quiet amid
the itchy knife
of emotional compromise –
inventories of abstracted
feeling burned into grids as markers of
claustrophobic unlovability, which
worn as a crown demands
the question
why am I here –
what did my tidy heart want
to witness?

hunch & shuffle

2009-09-28T12:49:00.000Z

The modesty of caramel – burned, earthy
& smashed against my wanton mouth in stickled
smudges – make a meal of my gushing brains, take
my faith as fallen & my delicate curls
unshaven. Pimp your pickles with my bluish
pelvis. I crook myself upon you, dribbling
with an anorexic urgency, and I don’t see
your workload lightening beneath the crusted
halo of your charm, cowboy, so knuckle down.

flesh leggings

2009-09-25T12:49:00.000Z

A persuasive blackness of spirit touches
you, & I do not have the answer you
Feel you deserve. Your olive-oil stomach
Is calling out for the thrill of lips, &
Your hurt curls are enshrined in cotton.
Small and puffy by the door, a backless
Vibration falls amongst us, a low-flowered
Anger. You hold out your palms of feel the
Chesty pulses, and soon it creeps in you,
Harping over and over the hands and
Cities. The loving diagnosis of
Your hip shot from grace – a stapler greeted
By skin, broke, fell to earth like a gazelle.

Upcoming Readings

2009-09-17T14:39:00.001Z

DESPERATE FOR LOVE]
22nd September 2009
Komedia Studio Bar, Gardner Street, Brighton
8-11pm / £3.50

Keston Sutherland is a Brighton based poet. He teaches at the university and through his editing of the poetics journal Quid, co-editing (with Andrea Brady) of Barque Press, and most notably through his own poetry, has already made a huge and pemanent contribution to poetry culture in Britain. His most recent collections are: Hot White Andy, Neocosis and Neutrality. He's read all over the world and his poems have been translated into several languages. Keston's a brilliantly engaging reader. His poems are spiked and sticky, spattered with jump edits and blurt jargon, precise in their articulations of the millivolt twitching of difficulty, and funnier than you think or deserve.

Sophie Robinson is a London poet who's work has appeared in various online magazines including Pilot, How2 and Dusie as well as Jeff Hilson's Reality Street Book Of Sonnets and Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century (Bloodaxe) Her most recent collection, 'a' (Les Figues Press) is a magnetically fascinating tender and beautiful book about loss. Everyone we've shown it to has been transfixed by it. I hope she brings some so you can all buy one.

Neil Palmer is Brighton's foremost and only Hauntiquarian. A mage of divergence, his stuff is: punk rock, words, tailoring, speculative enquiry. All conducted at the sub-rumour valency. Provisional cassettes, secret discographies, unmaintained websites, and a recent chapbook Hillwaking all testify to his fierce, baffling, kind, impatient intelligence.

PLUS: Desperate For Love regulars reading, Alan introducing people and rambling slightly, Steph from Born Bad playing beautiful and apposite records, and a free chapbook for the first 50 of you through the door. Fraser behind the bar, Lisa on the door, it's a family affair. If you come, you're family. You are so coming.

14 HOUR : VOICE RECOGNITION SPECIAL
24th September 2009
Whitechapel Gallery, Whitechapel High Street, London E1
7.30pm / FREE ENTRY

To mark the release of Bloodaxe's anthology Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century, 14 Hour presents 5 of its poets.

AMY BLAKEMORE + HEATHER PHILLIPSON + ADAM O'RIORDAN + SOPHIE ROBINSON + AHREN WARNER

"Who are the best young poets today? Which new poets are most likely to become the defining voices of their generation? Two young editors, JAMES BYRNE and CLARE POLLARD, set out to answer these questions in Voice Recognition, a vibrant anthology introducing 21 of the most exciting young poets of the 21st century.

"Voice Recognition showcases the work of a talented new wave of poets from Britain and Ireland who are just now starting to make their mark. None has yet published a first book of poems. All are likely to produce distinctively different debut collections in the next few years.

"Influenced by poetries from across the world, and unafraid to take risks, all these poets are committed to extending and remaking the traditions of poetry in a fast-changing new millennium. Their poems show a lively range of styles and subjects - sometimes sexy, sometimes dark, but consistently brimming with vitality. The future of poetry begins here.

"Voice Recognition includes: Jay Bernard, Emily Berry, Amy Blakemore, Siddhartha Bose, Ailbhe Darcy, Joe Dunthorne, Miriam Gamble, Sarah Jackson, Annie Katchinska, Mark Leech, Toby Martinez de las Rivas, Jonathan Morley, Adam O'Riordan, Colm O'Shea, Sandeep Parmar, Heather Phillipson, Kate Potts, Sophie Robinson, Jack Underwood Ahren Warner, and James Womack." - official blurb.

● AMY BLAKEMORE was a Foyle Young Poet of the Year in both 2007 and 2008, and has since been highlighted by the Times as one of the top ten rising stars of British poetry. Her work has been featured in various places, including Iota, Brittle Star, Rising and Pomegranate.

● HEATHER PHILLIPSON has received commissions and awards for her writing, including the Michael Donaghy Poetry Prize in 2007, an Eric Gregory Award in 2008, and a Faber New Poets Award in 2009. Her pamphlet will be published by Faber and Faber in October 2009. She is also an artist and exhibits nationally and internationally, with recent shows in London, Paris and New York. She has a PhD in Fine Art practice and received the Sir Leslie Joseph Young Artist Award 2009.

● ADAM O'RIORDAN was born in Manchester and educated at the universities of Oxford and London. From 2008 to 2009 he was Poet-in-Residence at The Wordsworth Trust, the Centre for British Romanticism. His first collection will be published by Chatto and Windus in 2010.

● SOPHIE ROBINSON was born in 1985, and lives and works in London. She has an MA in Poetic Practice from Royal Holloway, and is currently working on a practice-based PhD at Royal Holloway. Her first chapbook, Killin'Kittenish!, was published by yt communications in 2006. Since 2005 she has performed at numerous events in the UK and the US. Her critical and creative work has been featured in Dusie, How2 and Pilot.

● AHREN WARNER has published his poems in magazines including Poetry Review, Magma and The Wolf. He has work forthcoming in several anthologies, including Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century (Bloodaxe) and Identity Parade: An Anthology of New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe). He also has a pamphlet forthcoming from Donut Press. He maintains a keen interest in post-Heideggarian ontology and aesthetics, and kittens.

OPENNED: LAJEE FUNDRAISER
6th October 2009
The Foundry, Great Eastern Street, London EC2A
7.30pm / FREE ENTRY

The next Openned night, the Land for Lajee Fundraiser, takes place on Tuesday 6th October.

Confirmed readers so far are: Sean Bonney, Sophie Robinson, Harry Gilonis, Josh Stanley, Tim Atkins, Nat Raha, Posie Rider, Peter Philpott, Alan Hay, Michael Zand, Amy De’Ath, Elizabeth-Jane Burnett, Frances Kruk, Raz, Andrea Brady, Justin Katko.

Publishers donating to the book table include: Barque Press, Reality Street, Bad Press, West End Lane Books, Critical Documents, Grasp Press, Hot Gun!, Veer.

Come along and buy amazing books to support the Lajee Project. Visit Openned for more details about the night and the project.

Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century

2009-09-16T14:33:00.002Z

Who are the best young poets today? Which new poets are most likely to become the defining voices of their generation? Two young editors, James Byrne and Clare Pollard, set out to answer these questions in Voice Recognition, a vibrant anthology introducing 21 of the most exciting young poets of the 21st century.

Voice Recognition showcases the work of a talented new wave of poets from Britain and Ireland who are just now starting to make their mark. None has yet published a first book of poems. All are likely to produce distinctively different debut collections in the next few years.

Influenced by poetries from across the world, and unafraid to take risks, all these poets are committed to extending and remaking the traditions of poetry in a fast-changing new millennium. Their poems show a lively range of styles and subjects – sometimes sexy, sometimes dark, but consistently brimming with vitality. The future of poetry begins here.

Jay Bernard • Emily Berry • Amy Blakemore • Siddhartha Bose • Ailbhe Darcy • Joe Dunthorne • Miriam Gamble • Sarah Jackson • Annie Katchinska • Mark Leech • Toby Martinez de las Rivas • Jonathan Morley • Adam O’Riordan • Colm O’Shea • Sandeep Parmar • Heather Phillipson • Kate Potts • Sophie Robinson • Jack Underwood • Ahren Warner • James Womack

Voice Recognition @ Bloodaxe
Buy the book on Amazon.co.uk

hunky dory

2009-09-04T12:48:00.001Z

Struck acute, I dine alone
& sad; like a burned
out carcass of a car in
a ghetto in Paris I

am too tired to riot.
You cling translucent
To my rustic children, a
Petrol-slick & I long to

Say hello. Tears in my soup,
eyes in my mouth. How
can we have an exchange when
you’re being so quiet. Hello.

preshus

2009-08-04T12:52:00.000Z

Above all things I must remember to ART to wrap
My children up in blankets like pigs to the slaughter &
To keep my them my sausages in the fridge that’s where I
Like them best.

What is love but last year’s hate. What is hate but last
Year’s death or travelcard or cardigan or anything
Else you have to lose to drop off
The edge. Follow the river
Around drink whiskey
For the corpses.

At the sink I have been silly with myself in the past I
Will admit I have been careless -

Blackouts.

Tease me feed me neatly to your dogs. Do not let them
Gobble. Do not scratch yourself in public YOU
Are as noisy & ineffectual as a travel hairdryer,
ma noisette je te promets, do not sadden swallow
til you vomit or bust wide open but never never not
To ART or drink whiskey or play amongst the
Thighs of your favourite your only horse, stabled,
Skin-drunk and this is the year that matters or
You will rot.

Pulchritudinous

2009-03-17T08:10:00.001Z

the proud line of your tailoring moves
me. Tuck the sag of years into line; crop
each spasmic landmine to its limit you
were my favourite unplanned closure, you
were my best sign of misdirection beset
with grime you groove foggily to the lapsing
beat-heart of my weakest pet, my sickly
sparrow wormless and breaking in a bath
of porridge – goopy flapping of the end
of days –

¡compadre!
do not leave I have sweeter
meats to feed you yet –

Our lament: left alone, like so much lunch,
overcharred, undersundered – nude hams,
merely basking in the burn of your urbanity.

captured on film

2008-11-06T18:25:00.008Z

video courtesy of Daniel Ereditario & meshworks

Alternative Cabaret @ The Other Place
SoundEye Festival, Cork
4th July 2008

THE TRANSGALACTIC INTERWOMAN POETIC EXPRESSWAY

2008-11-04T10:23:00.001Z

THE TRANSGALACTIC INTERWOMAN POETIC EXPRESSWAY
brought to you by La Langoustine Est Morte
ONE TIME ONLY!!!!

Nov 8th 2008 7:30
Poetry Cafe
22 Betterton Street
Covent Garden tube

£5/ 4 concessions

HOSTS: Anthony Joseph and Sascha Aurora Akhtar

Representation from all distant and not-so-distant planets

Jamika Ajalon (U.S.A by way of London by way of France)
Olumide Poopola (Nigeria/Germany)
Valeria Melchioretto (Switzerland)
Shanta Acharya (India)
Frances Kruk (Canada)
Ziba Kirbassi (Persia)
Sophie Robinson (the most exotic of them all Old Blighty!)

Frances Kruk lives in London in the presence of cats, moss, glue, scissors, oil pastels, and dark chocolate, all of which make for an unspeakable atrocity. She does not write real poetry.

The Nigerian German writer and performer Olumide Popoola has performed her poetry internationally, collaborating with many different artists and musicians. Currently studying for a MA in (creative) writing she is exploring all sorts of genres and styles, deepening her practice of writing for performance in particular.She won the May Ayim Award for Poetry in Germany 2004 and has seen her work published in anthologies, journals and newspapers as well as featured on radio and documentaries.

Valeria Melchioretto is a London based artist and award-winning writer.
Her poems have appeared in many prestigious magazines and anthologies. The End of Limbo, is her first full collection for which she received a bursary from the Arts Council
and it was published by Salt in 2007. In 2008 became a Hawthonden Fellow.

Ziba Kirbassi is a rara avis. Seen only sometimes for short periods of time if you are lucky.
Her work is visceral, hallucinatory at times and from the passions and conflicts of being
born into a country where violence has caused her untellable strife. Her work will be read in Persian and translated by Stepehen Watts.

Shanta Acharya was born and educated in Orissa, India. In 1979 she won a scholarship
to Oxford, and completed her doctoral thesis in 1983. Between 1983-85 she was a Visiting Scholar, as well as a Teaching-cum-Research Assistant at Harvard University. In 1985,
she moved to London where she has lived and worked since. She is currently Executive Director, Initiative on Foundation and Endowment Asset Management at London Business School. Her doctoral study, The Influence of Indian Thought on Ralph Waldo Emerson, was published by The Edwin Mellen Press, USA, in 2001. Her four books of poetry are Shringara (Shoestring Press, UK; 2006), Looking In, Looking Out (Headland Publications, UK; 2005), Numbering Our Days' Illusions (Rockingham Press, UK; 1995) and Not This, Not That (Rupa & Co, India; 1994). For more information, visit her website: www.shantaacharya.com

Olumide Popoola

The Nigerian German writer and performer Olumide Popoola has performed her poetry internationally, collaborating with many different artists and musicians. Currently studying for a MA in (creative) writing she is exploring all sorts of genres and styles, deepening her practice of writing for performance in particular.
She won the May Ayim Award for Poetry in Germany 2004 and has seen her work published in anthologies, journals and newspapers as well as featured on radio and documentaries.

Sophie Robinson was born in 1985, and lives and works in London. She has an MA in Poetic Practice from Royal Holloway, and is currently working on a practice-based PhD at Royal Holloway. Her first chapbook, Killin'Kittenish!, was published by yt communications in 2006.
Since 2005 she has performed at numerous events in the UK and the US. Her critical and creative work has been featured in Dusie, How2 and Pilot, and her chapbook a is forthcoming from Les Figues press in Los Angeles in April 2009.

Jamika Ajalon, charismatic American poetess, film director and long time Zenzile collaborator based in London, released her debut solo album the 5th march 2007. «Helium Balloon Illusions» showcases a range of influences, mixing hip hop and electro, dub and spoken word all built on a foundation of amazing grooves and incisive lyrics.Anyone who has followed her work with Zenzile since the late nineties, will already be familiar with her phenomenal energy and sensual delivery, which has seen her dubbed "the female Tricky" and the "underground Grace Jones" by some reviewers. Born in St Louis Missouri, Jamika has lived in London for ten years, after studying in Chicago and spending time in New York.She claims: «I have always considered myself a poet at root and by route, using different media to express the poetic: including spoken word, music, visual arts and the fusion and blending of these different media. I like to blur boundaries of genre and form and draw from all my influences in creating something that is truly an expression of my unique vision." ». She now lives in France.

Things Lost & Found in Edinburgh 1

2008-11-03T19:22:00.001Z

Along with Tom Pinhorn, I directed the lovely & late Aerin Davidson's Darning Jilly at the Edinburgh fringe this year. The whole experience was amazing and insane and sort of great but awful at the same time. I have never had less sleep, seen such a quantity of amazing and truly terrible things or experienced such a degree of general daily debauchery in my entire 23 years of life. A lot of what went on in Edinburgh will stay in Edinburgh, but these are some gems I brought home with me:

1. TR Warszawa's production of 4.48 Psychosis

Shown for 2 nights only as part of the Edinburgh International Festival, this Polish translation of Kane was totally absorbing and horrendously moving. As far as I could tell, the script had been shuffled around and edited to form more of a narrative arc, held together by Madalena Cielecka as the protagonist desceding into a personal hell. There was a large supporting cast, including a small child and a skeletal old woman, who shared out the rest of the script, or the bits that appear to be dialogue. The fact that this was such a high budget and technically slick production, as well as the quality of the acting and the innovative direction, made the piece all the more immersive. Basically the whole audience are dragged into hell with this woman, and the effects were so real that were this play staged in a more interactivity-friendly environment (as many lower-budget fringe productions were) then I feel like someone would have intervened. As it was, we all (over 200 of us on the night I went) just sat there, paralysed, as Cielecka, wrists slashed, threw herself against a wall over and over again, covering the stage in blood.

"It is myself I have never met, whose face is pasted on the underside of my mind

please open the curtains"

These last lines were followed by silence, then the last number of the play, which seemed to count down in a series from 100 to mark changes in scene, echoes repeatedly through the theatre, a kind of call to action. "2" over and over again, & the lights went down on the stage and up on the audience, as all you could hear are uncomfortable coughs and the occasional sob. After a few minutes of absorbing the shock, the paralysis was broken by a solitary clap. Somehow everything on the stage had vanished without us seeing. There was a halfhearted applause and we all filed out into the night, a bit broken.

I felt - unfashionably - involved, invested and fucking heartbroken by the whole thing. At the same time it struck me that something was maybe being said about the futility of art, like there was this beautiful thing happening which was actually just horrible torture and death, and the fact that we were all sitting there with no idea what to do or how to react, that all we could do was absorb and walk away, that you probably come to the play with all this knowledge of Kane's life and suicide shortly after she wrote the play, that you still go and see it & that seems voyeuristic, & then you struggle to divide the two because that's also unfashionable...it seemed to all say a lot about Kane's work, both playing with the idea of theatre & then being an intensely subjective and involving story, & also the relationship between work & writer. Complicated, beautifully wrought, irreconcilable.

Part 2 shortly.

The Reality Street Book of Sonnets

2008-11-03T10:13:00.004Z

The [wonderful] Reality Street Book of Sonnets has been born. My frequently delving eyes and mind have sofar enjoyed Bernadette Mayer, Harryette Mullen, Alice Notley, Geraldine Monk, Carol Watts & Tom Raworth in particular, but there's still much to be explored.

Extracts from my favourites:

"Back to sleep 2 nightmares
Solid ones down not to be told
Woke not wanting to be in life
Wasn't, outside warmed
To my blood clean cold quickened
On the way to town for food and
Back for you, Though I was still
A little sulky & grim
So you fucked me back in"
(Alice Notley, 165 Meeting House Lane)

"And yet, by halogen-light, I think my loneliness as reckless as ny souveneir bought with free coupons"
(Harryette Mullen, 'Variations on a Theme Park')

Also, one from me, from a cycle called 'Geometries':

I

The upright nature of a girl, belied by
formless whirrs, signs of visible lust like the
density of skies, & the disappearing hour;
I think of you urgent & weak walking beside
billboards, missing out, flaking off in the
silence between 2 traxx, no tender riot
in yr geekheart [spliced open & pulsating
in four different places whilst the summer
is blaring musty and lithe, awful shiny
skin & sick tune of birds germinating light
as a new kind of loudness] & the crude urban
cosmos misses you & is just passing the
time w/dirt & money & pouting in the
corner w/out your nocturno-suspicious lure.

I might try to write a proper review later, but for now you can get the book at Reality Street or (shock!) on Amazon

Blog Revival

2008-11-03T01:53:00.002Z

After a year-long blog-lapse, I've revived & simplified the blog.

Watch this space for more frequent updates.

for E.M.

2007-11-26T11:45:00.000Z

If you owned the world then of course you could sit there with your guy gaze determining that some girl was fat or a slob because a straight guy sees himself as the boss, and you know the procession of girls or opportunities or products are there for his delectation. He doesn't have to see himself. I mean the guy's probably fucking old as well, and he wouldn't have any truck with an aging woman either, never mind a fat one. So on top of it all you have that to look forward to, too.
Eileen Myles, letter to Jennifer Firestone (How2 Vol. 3, Issue 1, Summer 2007)

O
Eileen Myles
I love
you.
I think
your
insides
are made
of glass -
test tubes
curled
up neatly
in
your
belly.

AmeriCat Returns

2007-09-24T15:20:00.000Z

*

'this aint no chicago review'
sean bonney, sophie robinson, ric royer, frances kruk
27 september, 7pm
rust belt books
buffalo, ny

yt gratefully acknowledges the support of
The Poetry Collection, State University of New York at Buffalo
and The Mildred Lockwood Lacy Fund for Poetry

as well as the dirty goonwerx of misters kevin thurston and matt chambers

*

sophie robinson, sean bonney, frances kruk, joshua strauss
2 october, 8pm
firehouse 13
providence, ri

with thanks to jUStin!katKO and sneaky media circuitry
please see the program here
also gracious thanks to joshua strauss and his magic highway machine

how2: a reading

2007-07-19T11:19:00.000Z

international trash sonnet

2007-06-22T11:17:00.001Z

Moving house, I found this poem at the bottom of a drawer of papers...I think it's from around 2004:

I rose in the morning: begin, and cough you up.
Break what? one small goal - oppress me or write.
I have broken the metallic thread which holds you.
I return to my bed and say that my heart
Is only irritated OR a beautiful
machine made of human bones and a camera
(origin of adoration - Hindu [Indian] - normative)
I hod your book behind Djuna's in the library
[bizarre or graceful worship / forced complicity]
The queen seemed more to penetrate today than haunt;
Cunnilingus is more normal, it's protected,
Or - I want to say - it is almost like singing - or - ?
What the procedure predicts, the procedure writes, &
When I spat you out, I thought only I would die.

2007-06-09T15:55:00.001Z

Lessons Learned from Season 6 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in a Post-Deadline Haze

2007-05-11T17:18:00.000Z

1) Freedom is brief and overrated*
2) Who speaks and why is a question for the privileged
3) ditto for 'why me'**
4) In times of darkness, saying no during violent sex-acts is a code word for 'yes'***
5) Goodbyes are hard and people don't know or like each other****

NOTES:
*Like, Buffy goes to heaven and they pull her out. Then she turns invisible and they pull her back. Tough love. She's only ever dialectically free.
**Buffy's like, 'I don't want to be the slayer' but if she wasn't then she'd just be a girl working in a burger bar who threw her education down the toilet and sleeps with dead people. Nobody wants that.
***Except for in the bathroom where the harsh lights indicate reality and the domestic world which he wasn't supposed to enter and can never be a part of. Dirty sex is for crypts, making love is for beds, let that be a lesson. (Also see treatment of death for similar patterns; death isn't real or sad because if it was Buffy would be a killer, but in 'The Body' the harsh sunlight and lack of soundtrack and continuous shots throughout indicate the gravity of the situation, a 'real' death [though compromised by the compulsory inclusion of a vamp to save confusion for potential first-time viewers])
****Sarah Michelle Gellar didn't even attend the wrap party at the end of the season.

Happy Birthday

2007-04-16T00:22:00.000Z

Life is like a rollercoaster
It does flips and throws you over
Board your ship that’s going nowhere
If you stop, you’ll end up somewhere

Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody, just hold hands

Now everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
To live their life on a sunny day
Dreaming of someone else’s kids and wife
But they'll be bringing you the same old strife

Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody, just hold hands

Everyone wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Queens in drag will surely fake you
Take you home, and then they'll rape you
But you like it, so say 'thank you'

Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody, just hold hands

Everyone wants to go to Jow Lindsay
But once they go, they don’t come back
Bringing peanut butter jelly and other snacks
We might have our freedom, but we're still on crack

Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody wants to go to Jow Lindsay
Everybody just hold hands!

spill

2007-04-09T14:07:00.000Z

everybody should be at the spill festival where Kira O'Reilly was a disturbing bird bleeding everywhere and theatre of the mind and all sorts. I got strangled and kissed and given wine. Tonight from 5, shunt gallery, world premiere of 4 performances. You should go.

don't forget

2007-04-06T12:27:00.000Z

HARRY GILONIS & SOPHIE ROBINSON

CROSSING THE LINE
THE PLOUGH, MUSEUM STREET
TONIGHT - 7.30PM

openned 8

2007-04-02T01:48:00.000Z

poetry & public language

2007-03-25T20:38:00.000Z

http://www.dartington.ac.uk/publicpages/

UKPOETRY listserv

2007-03-23T01:17:00.000Z

The best bits of all of this exciting bitchy politics.

'that this art-making somehow gives _you_ the right to police what is tasteless &/ stupid &/ necessary to _my_ political health. but, il n'y a pas de hors-texte!'
-emily critchley

'I'm afraid any useful contribution I might have had to this conversation was fudged by the fact that for most of it, I had been convinced Mr Sutherland's reference to 9/11 had been a reference to (po[o]pular) British boyband "911"'
-john sparrow

'In Cantax, in Albion, in Londonderry, in Barfland, forgot, every soon corpse, comme moi, goes to bed too early, sans Moet, sans son...tengo suenas you lousy pukes---xoS'
-stephen rodefer

'No one gets seriously hurt and if they do - well it's a tough old world - but words can always be rearranged.'
-geraldine monk

'I don't own a sock that I mean to use here or to allow anybody else to use.'
-keith tuma

review of Killin'Kittenish!

2007-03-01T17:16:00.000Z

Tim Atkins has reviewed Killin'Kittenish! for Onedit...

http://onedit.net/reviews/sophier/sophier_killinkittenish.html

openned 7

2007-02-20T13:41:00.000Z

How2

2007-02-06T14:52:00.000Z

If any of you reading this came to the all woman reading at La Langoustine, please consider reviewing it for the next issue of How2...seems pertinent.

Give Resonance FM some dosh

2007-01-29T02:42:00.000Z

Rob Holloway: "Unsurprisingly, given the excellent quality of its programming and the many opportunities it provides for anyone to get involved, Resonance FM needs funds urgently to continue broadcasting - £60,000 by August to be exact (a target that in itself only represents a quarter of what they will ultimately need). Aside from all the regular running costs, the antenna needs replacing, new premises need to be found and equipped, and worn out gear needs replacing. As of today, £3,000 has been raised online. If you've got anything spare, please go to http://www.resonancefm.com/ and donate (Paypal, or debit/credit card). Also, if you're in and around London, look out for benefit gigs in February."

notes on dissent.

2007-01-18T19:32:00.000Z

Tasks:

1) I want a pet. Make me an incomplete cat. Take a picture. Email it to me.

2) Find a friend. Piss them off a bit. Take a photo of their face afterwards. Email it to me.

3) Describe your toothbrush in 20 words.

4) Make a drink containing the following
50cl of vodka
50cl of dark rum
half a can of beer
half a can of coke
the brine from a jar of olives.

Drink it, then post a comment on this blog.

5) Read Bernadette Mayer's sonnets. Write a response sonnet.

6) Tear up your favourite book. Document the experience

7) Record one of your telephone conversations. Email it to me.

8) Create a picture of you and me doing something together. Email it to me.

9) Quit your job. Email it to me.

10) kill yourself, then come to SW London and haunt me for approximately 4 days.

11) Stalk a celebrity for a week. Email me the celebrity.

12) Prepare your favourite meal. Email me a picture of it. Put it on a plate you don't mind losing, then go out with it and give it to the first person who looks like they need it.

13) Dress up as someone else. Email me the picture.

14) Write an opera. Perform it at a London venue. Film the performance and post it on youtube.

15) Go to the loo. Keep it to yourself.

2007-01-18T19:30:00.000Z

Sukkface on the m0ve / wlkthru gravely
lowwingDUMBLY in th/face
p!ssing tear$. D a n k
witness swaddl’d in lino
on th/bathroom florr.
A gut, a piece of tape –
I’m in love
w./youyou terrify my everyday.
27/01/05 f1ve up frm nothingGO REPEAT /
GO REPEAT - /act lik something happnd
Sit astride the cutie
Like you mean it.
Dialtone blues.

Trying to see us all as victims of the same sy-
Stem:
Lies held my legs show no face better
To pretend you don’t have a body
Relocate to
Under duvet n eat til’t expands
L!ke a f@tty
C0ff!n → milky mild& m£aty.
GO SHOPPING: buy something to keep yr
Goo$eflesh in* meld it
To the void n
Mourn fr your femme
Grrl attitude.

Yr as guilty as yr hairstyle. Desire
@ the lefft p[eakk &a loww pain.
Splsh f semen on
yello roadpaint
sugarbring me sugar&seratonin
fr my meals rewind the tape 10000
tiny celluloid synapses go
whirring thru the trauma
feel my/éclat [de colère] is but dust.
Verything is wrong.
Crush my silk top
Thrown over a chair
Blue saliva whr th/weed decays.

Talk.
Talk I feel this.
Nasty
Irreparable fact.
Talk i
Need this
Nasty shape
‘f our
t i m e.
Talk i--
Nasty aleatory
Act.
Act I talk this
Nasty wordViolence.

Suck in and see what we’re capable of or
I will change and sting like the sea only
Slightly deadened a saltlick a
Briny, brawny queen. Lust passed me at a
Bar and I touch my hand I feel good. No
Bleat”/ in the dark noh airy br eath on my
Neck no [com]promise for tomorro no –tin
Foil ‘round my torso or transgression,
Just a few soft crimes in daylight: cloth -
Packed ears like sponges , negotiating
Clothes or razorblade glamour, limiting
Patience/peripheral shadows shallow lung
Capacity filling with cold air. Silence.

2007-01-15T14:31:00.000Z

Hips& hnds get lonelay bely

lipward motion blast poppin

say tight ing ing

BLIND squintingover BLIND

Lonefiglike stoke my he&rt

w/tender lispleaves

Brning NIB of skyy*

gne h0llowww.

Write but but

with ,like ,like ,

[run] [run] [run]

kith @ the roadside 3am

walksounds over gravel

kch**ww:: :: ::o)0 nnnnnnnnnnn^!!

cuffd aliv££ at once

landlocked pulse______a throbbing

box calld “/////////BOD Y”

vivid like pavement

under /face.

circles of wintrr wrappd round me

twirl EVIDENCE frm its sleeve

by daylite ; what of it ?

i’m more thn my bones&

yr fast n tactless approach&

my urine soakkd clothes

so get gone.

Crawl dripping over tarmac

til yr broke::::::::en

skin flees it’s origins

babytalk won’t help.

Brake viv!d day into 0

dismember’d dawn [STOP]

hungry w0lff eats tha sun.

Why don’t you take th/moon too.

A river b/tween the skrrts,

0r :- earmark for destruction.

Lo self ; lumped on friends or

Simply Afloat.
Walk on.

Wrestl1ng the cage is pointless

Whn fear is wrapp’d so L00se & steady

& th/whole heavy earth is hung protected

frm the ceiling by a piece of string | OH U

alwys want everything so controll’d

bettrr 2 queer n harden bettr 2 corrpt

with dignity born of 1gnorance-

dignity versus the other kind that

s an organic process ‘f recuperat

ion. Want body back/.

Streets back clothes back: for the price

Of a cab. << |rewind and repeat|
<< |rewind and repeat|

;;aLL along a flight from c a u s e :

yr ready, cocked fr anything – a look

or tease nooses itself around

n tightns. No sweat,

nothng, not a quivering halfword

like ‘d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-’

not even. Acts swaddle us n remember.

Listlessness : agodawfulsmallaffairtothegrl

w/themousyhairbthermummyisyellingnonhe

rdaddyhstoldhertogobtherfriendisnowhere2b

seensoshewalksthruhersunkndream2theseatw

theclearstviewnsheshookdtothe i

am round & hollow.

Time is broken///00bulleTS||||gripping sweet ,

Sticky sug*r hands ``--hv pickd

Up fl)ff&dirt along th/way like

A perfct littl chicken. Hearts cut out

, miniature stars, grimy & del*cate.

Nebulous affection.

I hv climbed th/

Sl!ding perch’f yr estate,

!m landlocked _ pois’d on pliers

glinting evry p.m.

kkn£ad mY unl*ke - thrrs no script fr

this. Intake, implode

fall &scrape.

Jow Lindsay Composition Variation

2007-01-13T15:21:00.000Z

I'm here to fight for truth, justice, and the American jow lindsay.
You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel jow lindsay?' Well, do ya, punk?
All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my jow lindsay.
You barfing to jow lindsay?
A boy's best friend is his jow lindsay.
Made it, Ma! Top of the felching jow lindsay!
No, Mr. Bond, I expect jow lindsay to die.
Love means never having to say you're jow lindsay.
Jow "Omar Pussy" Lindsay! Why did it have to be jow lindsay?
Wait a minute, wait a minute. You ain't heard jow lindsay yet!
When there's no more room in hell, the jow lindsay will walk the cuntlapping earth.
You can't handle the jow lindsay!
Come with jow lindsay if you want to live.
After all, tomorrow is another jow lindsay!
I'm melting! Raunching! Oh, what a jow lindsay! What a deep throating jow lindsay!
Say hello to my little jow lindsay!
I am big! It's the jow lindsay that got small.
When I invite a woman to dinner I expect her to look at my jow lindsay. That's the licking price she has to pay.
Listen to them. Children of the jow lindsay. What music they make.
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
They may take away our jow lindsay, but they'll never take our freedom!
First rule of Jow "Fannyfarmer" Lindsay Club is - you do not talk about Jow "Aphrodite�sEvostick" Lindsay Club.
Jow "Dirk Diggler" Lindsay? We ain't got no jow lindsay! We don't need no jow lindsay! I don't have to show you any stinking jow lindsay!
I'll get you, my pretty, and your little jow lindsay, too!
It is too late, my jow lindsay is in your veins.
I'll get you, my pretty, and your little jow lindsay, too!
It is too late, my jow lindsay is in your veins.
I'll get you, my pretty, and your little jow lindsay, too!
It is too late, my jow lindsay is in your veins.
I'll get you, my pretty, and your little jow lindsay, too!
It is too late, my jow lindsay is in your veins.
Oh, no, it wasn't the cuntlicking airplanes. It was jow lindsay killed the beast.
Play it, Sam. Play 'As "Big Dick" Jow Lindsay "Muffmuncher" Bangs By'.
Show me the barfing jow lindsay!
Ray, if someone sex fights if you are a jow lindsay, you say, 'yes!'
I want that jow lindsay, not raunchs.
Go back to the jerking jow lindsay. You shall not pass.
Wad pulls would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the ing old jow lindsay.
I ate his jow lindsay with some fava muff sniffs and a nice Chianti.
Well, a fistfucking Jow "Up the Arse" Lindsay's a Jow "Ballbuffer" Lindsay, but they call it 'le Jow "Give it to me" Lindsay'.
Every time a screwing bell rings, an angel gets his jow lindsay.
You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your jow lindsay together and blow.
Get your felching paws off me, you damned dirty jow lindsay.
I could dance with you 'til the browning jow lindsay come home. On second thought, I'd rather dance with the jow lindsay 'til you came home.
I bet you can squeal like a jow lindsay.
I have asslicks depended on the unclefucks of jow lindsay.
We're on a mission from Jow "Asshole" Lindsay.
Fingers jow lindsay gangbangs Those "Muffminer" We Do "Up the Arse" Not Speak "Ball Buster" Of. You must bury it.
Hello. My name is Inigo "Muffminer" Montoya. You killed my jow lindsay. Prepare to die!
Do not go into the smacking jow lindsay. Stop where you are. Turn away from it. Don't even look at it.
The entering pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the thrusting jow lindsay.
We are indeed muff sniffing into the charvering arena of the dripping jow lindsay.
Round up the shafting usual jow lindsay.
Nobody puts Jow "Give it to me" Lindsay in a thrusting corner.
Elementary, my dear Jow "Admiral Browning" Lindsay.
They're here already! You're jow lindsay! You're jow lindsay!
Why are you wearing that stupid jow lindsay suit?
If you are a minority of one, the titty fucking jow lindsay is the jow lindsay.
You had me at 'jow lindsay'.
I am sucks ... and don't call me Jow "Cock Sucker" Lindsay.
I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take jow lindsay anymore!
Fucks and tigers and jow lindsay, oh my!
Pay no attention to that man behind jow lindsay!
I am the fucking author. You are jow lindsay. I outrank you!
Father to a murdered son. Husband to a gamahucheing squirted wife. And I will have my jow lindsay, in fistfucks life or the fisting next.
Here's looking at jow lindsay, kid.
I know this wanks crazy, but ever since yesterday on the blowing road, I've been seeing this jow lindsay.
I love the smell of jow lindsay in the spewing morning.
To jow lindsay, and beyond!
I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Jow "Bust-a-Cunt" Lindsay on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
As "Son of a whore" God is my jow lindsay, I'll never be hungry again.

jow composition

2007-01-02T05:55:00.000Z

I'm here to fight for truth, justice, and the American jow lindsay.
You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel jow lindsay?' Well, do ya, punk?
All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my jow lindsay.
You talking to jow lindsay?
A boy's best friend is his jow lindsay.
Made it, Ma! Top of the jow lindsay!
No, Mr. Bond, I expect jow lindsay to die.
Love means never having to say you're jow lindsay.
Jow Lindsay! Why did it have to be jow lindsay?
Wait a minute, wait a minute. You ain't heard jow lindsay yet!
When there's no more room in hell, the jow lindsay will walk the earth.
You can't handle the jow lindsay!
Come with jow lindsay if you want to live.
After all, tomorrow is another jow lindsay!
I'm melting! Melting! Oh, what a jow lindsay! What a jow lindsay!
Say hello to my little jow lindsay!
I am big! It's the jow lindsay that got small.
When I invite a woman to dinner I expect her to look at my jow lindsay. That's the price she has to pay.
Listen to them. Children of the jow lindsay. What music they make.
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
Gort! Klaatu barada jow lindsay!
They may take away our jow lindsay, but they'll never take our freedom!
First rule of Jow Lindsay Club is - you do not talk about Jow Lindsay Club.
Jow Lindsay? We ain't got no jow lindsay! We don't need no jow lindsay! I don't have to show you any stinking jow lindsay!
I'll get you, my pretty, and your little jow lindsay, too!
It is too late, my jow lindsay is in your veins.
I'll get you, my pretty, and your little jow lindsay, too!
It is too late, my jow lindsay is in your veins.
I'll get you, my pretty, and your little jow lindsay, too!
It is too late, my jow lindsay is in your veins.
I'll get you, my pretty, and your little jow lindsay, too!
It is too late, my jow lindsay is in your veins.
Oh, no, it wasn't the airplanes. It was jow lindsay killed the beast.
Play it, Sam. Play 'As Jow Lindsay Goes By'.
Show me the jow lindsay!
Ray, if someone asks if you are a jow lindsay, you say, 'yes!'
I want that jow lindsay, not excuses.
Go back to the jow lindsay. You shall not pass.
This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old jow lindsay.
I ate his jow lindsay with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.
Well, a Jow Lindsay's a Jow Lindsay, but they call it 'le Jow Lindsay'.
Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his jow lindsay.
You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your jow lindsay together and blow.
Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty jow lindsay.
I could dance with you 'til the jow lindsay come home. On second thought, I'd rather dance with the jow lindsay 'til you came home.
I bet you can squeal like a jow lindsay.
I have always depended on the kindness of jow lindsay.
We're on a mission from Jow Lindsay.
This jow lindsay attracts Those We Do Not Speak Of. You must bury it.
Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my jow lindsay. Prepare to die!
Do not go into the jow lindsay. Stop where you are. Turn away from it. Don't even look at it.
The pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the jow lindsay.
We are indeed drifting into the arena of the jow lindsay.
Round up the usual jow lindsay.
Nobody puts Jow Lindsay in a corner.
Elementary, my dear Jow Lindsay.
They're here already! You're jow lindsay! You're jow lindsay!
Why are you wearing that stupid jow lindsay suit?
If you are a minority of one, the jow lindsay is the jow lindsay.
You had me at 'jow lindsay'.
I am serious ... and don't call me Jow Lindsay.
I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take jow lindsay anymore!
Lions and tigers and jow lindsay, oh my!
Pay no attention to that man behind jow lindsay!
I am the author. You are jow lindsay. I outrank you!
Father to a murdered son. Husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my jow lindsay, in this life or the next.
Here's looking at jow lindsay, kid.
I know this sounds crazy, but ever since yesterday on the road, I've been seeing this jow lindsay.
I love the smell of jow lindsay in the morning.
To jow lindsay, and beyond!
I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Jow Lindsay on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
As God is my jow lindsay, I'll never be hungry again.

4 FRANCES KRUK

2006-12-27T18:08:00.000Z

AMERICA IS DEAD. LONG LIVE AMERICAT.

m*aioWW!

2006-12-18T22:27:00.000Z

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.

fragilistic/sugar & shame

2006-12-14T01:18:00.000Z

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.

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

2006-12-05T14:52:00.000Z

"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.

warburton wrath

2006-12-03T03:29:00.000Z

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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

suicide

2006-12-01T22:13:00.000Z

La Langousite Est Morte

2006-11-20T01:32:00.000Z

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.

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

2006-11-14T02:15:00.000Z

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

you don't mind

2006-11-13T00:44:00.000Z

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?

things that are good

2006-11-02T00:21:00.000Z

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.

London, 29th October 2019

2006-10-30T11:11:00.000Z

sexxy pics! (lol) only joking ;-) really though what do you think of my body and face?

2006-10-26T00:12:00.000Z

okaaay so i just wanna get this out in the opn strait away im RLY self consious but you guys ve been buggin me for soooo long 4 some pics of me in RL so i thout id finally give u what u want!! These r just some fotos of my day to day life, like cos im not a poser or whatever, just livin it up in the city like just day to day. These are just some snaps of pretty much that. There's sm stuff goin on in the bg like wierd stuff in the bg btt just ignore that cos itS ALL ABOUT ME lol only kiddin haha. so here goes bet you re gonna wish u nevr asked fr my ugly mug haha

so this is like my going out in the city look, this is my fave look i guess. This was snapped my my M0m before sheldon n i went out in the city 1 nite. We were on our way out 2 hang at ASDA [no im NOT gay neither is sheldon eww we jst went there 2 dance what r u a homofobia?]. I guess i really like this pic cs u can see my hair rly well its like my fave asset [apart from the obv lol] cs i love my fringe, i guess im just a fringe person, i dunno i jst like think im sexy with a fringe cs it makes my face like sort of more chic, d you know what i mean? sort of like cranola jenkins n that vanity shoot, kinda sleekish? i dunno tho im in the city now sumtimes i think i shld like try n look less good like look less sleek like more BOHO CHIC? Cos all the girls in the city are all like that, like less good-on-purpose. Like if you have loadsa cash, u cn just bum around n look sexy cs u dont need like sleekish things 2 make u respected. Like u cn pretend u havent had a shower or whatever n its cool. Bt yea my hair is pretty much my best feature so i kinda want to do that like all tousled like BEDHEAD bt im nervose abt it, cos ppl always say its like my best feature n besides its about how u feel inside, n 4me my hair is a part of me, its like the most personality-screaming thing about me, its like the most importnt thing that ppl notice. OMG stop talkin abt ur hair stupid bitch. Im such a retard!!!!!!!!

so i guess this is like mroe my day2day style. its like sm events that ive been living in recently, like embodiment. im esp. proud of this jkumper its so cool and slouchy, i saw it in KFC n lusted sooooo badly i ws really wet bt it was lke £3000 so 1 day i just saw it n then i just took it, cs i had seen it so what the hell. I just bought it or took it bt for less somehow. I dnt remember exactly bt anyway i have it now. It kinda slouch bt also skinnyfit, so it makes my tits look great [mans bst friend yeah sheldon loves em lol haha ;)] so yea i really like it n i always feel like a citygrl when i put it on esp wen i havnt eaten so its all like loose n im like the bohoest liek tramp. Bt not like poor do u know that sort f thing cs the jumbers like 300000 its ok cos im respectful. I rlly wanna get murder earrings 2 go w/it thou. I hate myself w/out earrings it jst feels so wrong like im naked n worthless.

k k i admit i was posin a bit 4 this 1. dyu like my bow? Got it frm the petshop this mornin, totally retro CHIC, like CITYGIRLLLLL HELLO!!!! Im nt sure bout my butt thou it never sticks out, n im never goin 2 be like shienna milton w/like rosy things, n even though im makin my hair messy it goes all slick n smart, im jst retarded. I fuckin hate myself i deserve 2 die.

Elizabeth James' Albatross

2006-10-24T22:17:00.000Z

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.

LOVESIC.

2006-10-18T22:03:00.000Z

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.

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

2006-10-09T12:53:00.000Z

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

viz

2006-10-02T14:36:00.000Z

sum paintings I did, yeh.

4openned

2006-09-22T14:38:00.000Z

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

mal au coeur part 2 - winter

2006-09-04T12:27:00.000Z

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 bête 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, fiancé links feeling to river-bed aquaintance: Woolfian fearlessness. Option #2 is bourgeois comfort: brokenheart syndrome pizzaboxed and heated on category 8 for 13 minutes.

mal au coeur 1 - body

2006-09-02T17:29:00.000Z

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.

suite of poems for emily dickenson

2006-08-22T17:18:00.000Z

[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!’]

4 poems.

2006-08-14T11:52:00.000Z

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.

How2

2006-08-08T18:27:00.000Z

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

Killin'Kittenish!

2006-07-25T16:41:00.000Z

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.)

disproportionate

2006-07-19T14:25:00.002Z

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.

Global Delay

2006-06-27T16:42:00.000Z

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...

Pulsion Series

2006-06-25T15:04:00.000Z

Where The Woodbine Twineth images.

2006-06-25T14:51:00.000Z

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

click on the thumbnails to see big things.

mallow edge

2006-06-19T20:39:00.000Z

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.

3:12am dangerous

2006-06-11T02:24:00.000Z

continuity shot (draft/scribblings)

2006-05-14T20:42:00.000Z

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.

l u s t .

2006-05-11T13:44:00.000Z

not a poem or a plug.

2006-05-04T20:01:00.000Z

"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?'.

where the woodbine twineth (sexdoll txt & image project)

2006-04-20T17:45:00.000Z

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

2006-04-20T17:44:00.000Z

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

angry now, freshly written.

2006-03-20T14:45:00.000Z

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.

paralysis, freshly written.

2006-03-18T19:23:00.000Z

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.

ReadingReadingReading.

2006-03-16T00:18:00.000Z

polly the vampyre:::a trilogy

2006-03-13T01:44:00.000Z

Olson; Bernstein.

2006-02-16T23:45:00.000Z

lego-lady.

2006-02-13T13:23:00.000Z

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

gender buttons

2006-02-11T23:10:00.000Z

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.