London, 29th October 2019

Elizabeth James' Albatross

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







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

LOVESIC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

viz

sum paintings I did, yeh.

4openned

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

mal au coeur part 2 - winter

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

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

[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.

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

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

Killin'Kittenish!

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



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

disproportionate

FORTHCOMING:

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



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

Global Delay

for sean bonney.

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

to be continued...

Pulsion Series

Where The Woodbine Twineth images.

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

click on the thumbnails to see big things.

mallow edge

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

3:12am dangerous

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

continuity shot (draft/scribblings)

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

even my fringe quivers
anticipating a nauseous turning.