Onions, Potatoes


        

Only elemental seeming this moment,
I hide my ground-root person at work
talking to a coworker, realize it, ashamed
of fear drove it. Back at my desk, from your 
office a message—a flare of your being
in daylight: Get potatoes and onions
on way home. Grinning, we stir fry
them full-toot steaming after work’s
grimaces. Human shouts and car bleats
jump roof onto our small back porch, air
not sea-breeze fresh, more bat-breath
strange. Food tasty. Then walk a quieted
sidewalk with you knows me, streetlight on
pumpkin-orange dress hints your shape.
Above, your face, even gentler voice.

 

 

George Shelton

 

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Ice Dance

We are time-poor cash average jumble sailors walking uncertainly
in the shining wake of S Class cruisers’ wheel ruts
A woman with a radiator under each arm is spinning
Uncontrollable on a random iceflow caused by somebody
who thought that boiling water might help three hours ago

God walkers droving their unwilling masters forward
across fishbelly moraines of freezefoot waste shiver
Their godshit stains pristine glaciers with their word
where the drinking congregation picks cards and mouth prayers

An ironic Iceland van with ‘vegan’ on the back sits abandoned
in three inches of snow, joined by another from Morrison’s
displaying plump roast flesh with all the trimmings
and a table full of plastic packed crackers
waiting to be shared between Brexit riven relatives

Their drivers lost on the suburban glacier meet tearfully
and strike up a spirited rendition of Torvill & Dean’s Bolero routine
Laszlo dragging Gary gracefully through the black slush along the bus route
before taking him confidently into a hold, raising him to the skies as an offering

The horizon is a round and frosted cake
that I stab at from 2 miles away with a massive fork I found in a skip
in order to gorge on imaginary dried fruits soused in brandy
My dizzying hunger forces me to go full Bambi
smashing my knee on discarded white goods hidden in a drift
Shivering chip shop trash cat lapping at my blood
The queue for A&E starts across the road
monitored by a gladding live tweeting local MP
who comes to check on my progress smiling all the while
She watches me heal of my own accord, checking my immigration status
with the Home Office on her retro Blackberry

Blackberry, black cherry Coke, pour some cheap rum in it for warmth
Black ice, this hunger, this dance across low sun English tundra
Standing dutiful in fealty at the spin of wheels overcooking on glacé corners
Could have walked, could have been standing where I stand
Black humour, thin ice abyssal, a precariat red bill deep waiting  
to lose our feet if we become complacent in our walking

We slip, we fall, and call for help that maybe comes, maybe doesn’t
Sinking slow beneath the surface to join with the fossil record    
When the sun rises more and the snows melt and the cars return
when we are forced from our desire lines
back to the uneven safety of the pavement
there will still be black ice waiting…

 

 

Barry Fentiman Hall

 

 

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The Truth About ‘Net Zero’: A Diabolical Agenda Sold as a Saviour Formula


‘Net Zero’, what does it mean? Does anyone know? Who dreamt-up this slogan?

Put together, these two words don’t actually have any meaning. ‘Net’ is usually used as a shortened form of ‘netto’ (netto/brutto) a term used in accountancy describing a sum of money remaining after tax or expenses have been deducted.

So what could ‘Net Zero’ possibly mean? That nothing will be left once zero carbon has been achieved?

The term seems to ape, no doubt for good reason, the one chosen to describe the blackened hole in the ground left after the devastation of 9/11: Ground Zero.

Look at it this way, by reducing carbon dioxide to nil (zero carbon) all plant life dependent for its growth on this natural gas, will die. By extension, all humans and animals dependent upon the oxygen that plants produce, via the conversion of carbon dioxide into oxygen, will also die. Basic biology reveals that is indeed the case.

So what the inventors of ‘Net Zero’ seem to be suggesting is that the objective is to end all plant, animal and human life by 2050. Or have I got something wrong? Have ‘they’ quietly dropped CO2 as the arch baddie of the past three decades – and are now trying to make simple ‘carbon’ the source of all our woes?

This is, after all, what they did by surreptitiously shifting ‘global warming’ into ‘climate change’ a couple of decades ago. A classic slight of hand by the cabal spin doctors.

Let’s scrutinise the history a little more thoroughly. The World Economic Foundation (WEF) is acting as lead player of the project known as ‘Stop Global Warming’. A project which states that a deadly form of anthropogenic ‘warming’ is being caused by the burning of fossil fuels, and that the stated need is therefore to completely dispense with all fossil fuels by 2050.

But doing a little elementary research reveals that what one sees coming out of factory chimneys, in ubiquitous media photographs, is not CO2. It is mostly water vapour, plus nitrous oxides, carbon monoxide, methane, water vapour and various forms of particulates, with noxious CO2 forming less than 5% of these emissions.

This corroborates with scientific tests done on the composition of the upper atmosphere, which find that man made CO2 makes a contribution of just 0.04% above natural atmospheric CO2.

So what the perpetrators of ‘net zero’ are doing is to take an essential component of nature, without which neither we nor plant life could survive, and make it into a demon, responsible for causing catastrophic changes to the world’s climate.

This is, of course, an outrageous conclusion to come to; but should its outrageousness cancel out its logic? Could it be that all two thousand ‘scientists’ employed by the International Commission on Climate Change’ (IPCC) failed to get a pass in biology at secondary school – and then went on to become Emeritus experts on climate change?

The fact is that ‘Net Zero’ is telling us that ‘we the people’ are to be wiped-out, along with the flora and fauna of the planet; while the elite cabal running this deception racket have created their own unique CO2 subterranean storage ecosphere, of thriving plants, pure water and all the nutrients needed to carry on pretty much as before. Maybe better?

If psychopaths form a majority of the cabal that runs this planet – and that looks probable – then announcing that The Great Reset/Green New Deal has adopted ‘Net Zero’ by 2050, has a certain logic. Because to a psychopath, sentient people are strange unreal beings, their emotions and feelings being incomprehensible and alien.

Therefore, looked at from the perspective of the psychopath, among the first thing to be done to ‘save the planet’ would be to find a good reason to get rid of the anthropogenic (human) causal agent behind the ‘destruction of the planet’ wouldn’t it?

But in the meantime, Mr Schwab and his aspiring team of henchmen want us ‘to be happy’, and have therefore found it helpful to remove all our private property and wealth and keep it for themselves – once the depopulation process is well enough advanced and provided there is little or no resistance to their ploy forthcoming.

Our ‘happiness’ will of course, be due to the fact that Herr Schwab and his main advisor Noah Yuval Harari, have studied the bible, and taken note of the words of Jesus Christ “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

So they will kindly do the removal of the riches job for us, liberating us from our private wealth and therefore releasing us from the material ties that prevent us attaining a higher state of consciousness.

One can see by uncle Klause’s patronising attitude to his hand picked dictators that he is proud of having found such a convenient way of opening heaven’s gates for humanity and thereby simultaneously ‘saving the world from global warming’.

Killing two birds with one stone is a sought after achievement for the soulless psychopath.

Achieving ‘Net Zero’ must be done with a smile. After all, making people believe that ‘to save the world’ they must first of all abandon their accustomed diets and instead chew on greatly superior laboratory raised and processed chicken thighs, garnished with a sprinkling of ground insect bodies and a special side dish of genetically modified hydroponically raised tomatoes – may not be easy. So a big American style smile should do the trick.

However a frown may be necessary to convey the seriousness of the fact that if cows are allowed to remain part of the farm animal kingdom, their survival will depend upon wearing Covid style ‘methane blocking’ masks recently awarded a special environmental prize by King Charles 111 for their contribution to slowing global warming.

But ‘a smile’ may once again be necessary to convey the fact that farmers who tend the fields are to be replaced by armies of robots, leaving the human element to be ‘cared for’ by 5/6G powered Smart Cities. Places in which every need will be catered for, by an all seeing all doing digitalised electro magnetic grid known as the ‘internet of things’. An electro magnetically charged version of Big Brother which will monitor human activities 24’7 and no doubt administer a sharp shock on anyone who steps out of line.

All this, you understand, is just the precursor for we ‘non psychopaths’ to be upgraded into chipped and cloned cyborgs, known as Transhumans.

Selling this one may not be so difficult, as the sales slogan will be “Let us do your thinking for you.” And since a rather significant proportion of mankind seems largely incapable of meaningful thought, it may be quite easy to sell them the added convenience of letting a piece of tech take over what’s left of the onerous task of having to activate one’s brain cells.

By 2050 these Transhumans will be needed as servants in the psychopaths’ underground palaces. The psychos having drained the planet of oxygen and having already killed-off a large percentage of humans via weaponised vaccines and a plethora of special laboratory designed diseases.

Not a pretty tale to tell, I’m afraid. But can anyone categorically tell me I’ve got it all wrong? That it is not the elite cabal dream goal to have a clinically sterilized and ‘purified planet’ by 2050 – in what amounts to a kind of ‘eugenics of man and nature’?

Is this the image that Net Zero is supposed to conjure-up? To sufficiently incite us to give-up our lives for whatever it is supposed to stand for? Ground Zero mark 2?

There are demons on the loose. They thrive on chaos and fear. They muddle-up greenhouse gases, methane, carbon and whatever other elements of nature they can sell as speeding-up the arrival of Armageddon. It’s a sort of game – in which, at any time, any one factor can be pointed-up as the evil agent of planetary destruction.

They get their greatest kicks form subverting the trajectory of human life into becoming the reverse of what evolution intends. They like to distort language and the meaning of words so as to create a twisted version of reality.

Thus, ‘Net Zero’ is a diabolical agenda sold as a saviour formula.

But once we know this, we are more than half way towards defeating it. Awareness is the crucial first step of our collective liberation.

 

Julian Rose

 

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, writer, international activist, entrepreneur and holistic teacher. He is Co-founder of the Hardwick Alliance for Real Ecology HARE https://hardwickalliance.org/ Julian’s latest book ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind – Why Humanity Must Come Through’ is strongly recommended reading for this time: see www.julianrose.info

 

 

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A Folktale from the New Revolution

 

After the printing press and the seed drill, there was nowhere else to go, so the King proclaimed a competition to change the world that rang throughout the land. There were heralds in village squares, notices on church doors, and obligatory fittings for glass slippers, though the latter could be a mistranslation. There might have been TV specials, but the date is uncertain and anachronism is tantamount to arachnophobia, and nobody wants a spider in their glass slipper. After a year and a day, a picaresque adventure, three wishes, and rather more anthropomorphism and suspension of disbelief than a modern audience can tolerate, all the would-be inventors lined up amongst the trumpets and rosy-cheeked rustics. Three cheers! Each cocky lad held his own machine for making clouds, each identical to the others and just as useless. Woe! cried the King, and had his Fool beheaded. But a token trope of a fine young lass in man’s array stepped out of the crowd with a glittering device. More cheers! More trumpets! Declare the Fool a saint! What does it do? cried the King and the commoners, and even the dead head of the blessed Fool. This, said the maid with eyes as bright as glass slippers, and her words ran like spiders throughout the land.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

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Gerry Ranson and Mule Freedom Music PR

www.vivelerock.net

https://www.facebook.com/MuleFreedomPR

Gerry works with ‘Vive Le Rock’ magazine and promotes a nicely eclectic range of music performers as ‘Mule Freedom’. Here are some of his latest prodigies, with some ‘observations’ on their latest albums from Alan Dearling:

Neverland Ranch Davidians


This is an album full of music that rises from the swamplands of the USA. It conjures up a Stephen King-type of range of sounds. Often feral, veering from the short, screamer-style punkish tracks in the style of The Cramps into lengthier rumbling tracks, full of fuzz-filled intensity and menace. This is a trio courting controversy. As Mule Freedom’s PR sheet suggests, “The Neverland Ranch Davidians don’t care a hoot for the niceties of popular culture, their chosen moniker a collision referencing two late 20th Century icons, Michael Jackson and ‘Waco Saviour’ David Koresh.”

At their darkest, they are pretty formidable. That’s their strength. They are grungy and seemingly from an alien planet. It’s in their darker tracks like the opener, ‘The Gospel’ and ‘Stigmata’ that they excel, and in the never-benign, ‘Aqua Velveteen’ with its lines like:

“They said, is it a boy? Is it a girl? Whatever it is, it’s Aqua Velveteen.”  

‘Aqua Velveteen’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnGqahPKI74

A clue and a touchstone for NRD’s is that frontman, Tex Mosley was conscripted to play with his band, The Neighborhood Bullys by none other than Suzi Quatro on her ‘The Spotlight’ album, which included a version of Goldfrapp’s ‘Strict Machine’ that reminds that how at her best Suzi can make the Velvet Undergound sound like MOR-music!  Some of the tracks are fairly predictable punk soul-band fare, like ‘Rat Patrol’ and ‘Fat Back’, but their version of the Ray Charles song, ‘I Believe to My Soul’, is exquisitely warped and twisted. They would make an interesting support band for somebody like Dr Feelgood…there’s certainly something of a riot going on…

If you enjoy ‘uncomfortable’ music played with menace and originality, this is your Trip!

Tex Mosely adds: “Rock ‘n’ Roll is still respected and celebrated in Europe, so we were happy to catch the ear of a cool Euro label like Heavy Medication” (which was established by American ex-pat in Warsaw in Poland in 2018).

 

The Higsons: Run Me Down – the complete 2Tone Recordings

Forty years on from the release of The Higsons’ single, ‘Run Me Down’ we have the Record Store launch of an album of tracks recorded for Jerry Dammers’ 2 Tone label. Charlie Higson and his mates had formed the band at East Anglia University in 1980 and were part of the New Wave of post-punk music which gave a nod in the direction of earlier ska music (and indeed The Specials). Charlie’s vocal stylings are reminiscent of the slightly sneering cocky-boy sounds of much punk and 2 Tone music. It’s a tad off-kilter, but the overall sound of the Higsons still sounds quite vibrant and fresh over 40 years on. Punk-funk. Hi NRG. Big, brash brass, good beats, rumbling, funky walking bass lines and syncopated drums. There is one heck of a lot of going on. Plus a generous helping of ‘oohs and ahhs’ on the vocals.

The release features three versions of ‘Run Me Down’, but for me, ‘Ylang Ylang’ is probably the standout, and most interesting track. Real odd rumblings in the jungle.

“Sleeping all day – in a tent drunk…

Take my love and run.”

Charlie Higson has become a successful TV scriptwriter, featured on ‘The Fast Show’ and elsewhere, and Terry Edwards is a go-to session musician and performs with Simon Charterton and friends in the ‘Near Jazz Experience’.

‘Ylang Ylang’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ji2vCdodLVw

Angus McOg: Cirrus

Tinkling piano, falsetto vocals. Aural images of floating clouds high up in the sky. A lot of tracks drift along with Antonio Tavoni (aka Angus McOg) singing in an intonated Italian English. Americana UK magazine reviewed the new ‘Cirrus’ album as:

“Melodic and easy-going indie folky Americana.”

That sounds pretty accurate. The music is often elliptical, lilting and rather under-stated. It’s pretty, it glistens and is largely easy listening. It’s full of gentle soundscapes, perhaps offering a reminder of John Martyn or solo Robin Williamson’s Gaelic music. But if John Martyn provided ‘Grace and Danger’, McOg provides just the ‘Grace’ part. There’s some beautiful trumpet parts from Enrico Pasini and greater signs of vigour on the track ‘Chances’, enlivened by some guitar histrionics.

But, this is not really my musical bag. If you like musical lightness…then maybe it will be for you.   https://www.facebook.com/angusmcog/

CUT: Dead City Nights

Also hailing from Italy, CUT is an outfit whose music should be played LOUD! They have produced the tracks on this, their seventh album, without being able to take them out on road-tests with an audience. But, they should not be worried. This is a strong set of post-punk rock ‘n roll. Singer Ferruccio Quercetti says: “We are waiting for you to show up on the ‘Dead City Nights’ tour to rediscover these songs in their second life on stage.”

It’s really easy to picture the band in full flight, sweaty, noisy and surrounded by pogoing, manic fans in a musical mosh pit. They have a jazz undertow imbued in their music, plenty of hypnotic repetition, blends of Hawkwind riffs, intertwined with strangely idiosyncratic Talking Heads’ vocal phrasings. Discord and dis-chords. It’s easy to imagine Ferruccio ferociously screaming, “You’re all going to Die!” The album is like its title: Dead City Nights, full of grungy nihilism. Darkness. As in the track, ‘Sacred Path’, “I’ll never kill the pain.” This ripples over into the concluding track, ‘All Dreams are Gone’ with splintering sounds of a train-time rhythm sounding a bit like ‘Pretty Vacant’.

Refreshingly dark sonic attacks, whispered lyrics live from the crypt, walls and wails of feedback in a Dead City Night…and as Ferruccio says: “…everything is still dark around us…but at least we have made sense of all this night-time.”

Prepare to be unsettled…and enter into the dark, horror-worlds of CUT!

‘Dead City Night’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndvcRYrSl9M

 

 

 

 

Alan Dearling

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Lynch Mob

Eraserhead, Claire Henry (120pp, BFI/Bloomsbury)
Good Day Today. David Lynch Destabilises the Spectator, Daniel Neofetou (93pp, Zero Books)
Twin Peaks: The Return – It’s a Wonderful Lie!, Gino C. Mongelli (340pp, Amazon)


Claire Henry’s book in the wonderful British Film Institute series, each of which focuses on an individual ‘film classic’, is a thoughtful and individual look at David Lynch’s unsettling late 1970s black and white film Eraserhead. A claustrophobic 89 minutes of surreal and shadowy unreality, set mostly in windowless apartment rooms in an industrial dystopian town, it is both intensely funny and horrific and has continued to elude deconstruction and meaning since it was first screened.

One thing it did do was present many of the tropes Lynch has continued to use since: doppelgängers, decay, parallel universes, and bizarre, fragmented stories. Henry convincingly talks about Lynch in relation to Francis Bacon’s paintings of sliding skin and facial disfiguration, which is a brief consideration of how Eraserhead has influenced and informed many other films.

In the first chapter Henry considers the role/motif of ‘The Baby’ in the film, writing as a pregnant mother as she does so, but also considering fears relating to parenthood and Eraserhead‘s nightmare extended family, as well as how the film’s models were made and the industrial city and soundtrack produced. Chapter 2 moves onto a consideration of how the film is contained within a brilliantly conceived, constructed and mostly implied world. Viewers are immersed in this world from the moment the film starts, with no explanation or notion of reality; and they do much of the creation of the world for themselves.

Eraserhead is hyper-real in many ways, with Henry suggesting in her third chapter that the inability to summarise or explain the film, whilst viewing or in retrospect, having watched it, produces a dream state or psychological transformation in the viewer. ‘The Viewer Becomes the Dreamer’ is the bold chapter title, but the discussion also encompasses Lynch’s practice and use of Transcendental Meditation and how it informs his film-making. The chapter is the most intriguing and ambitious here, but also the most confusing, whilst the following chapter considers the film as ‘The Ultimate Midnight Movie’.

Here, Henry charts how the film’s notoriety and cult status gradually evolved, originally because of a distributor’s and film scheduler’s stubborn dedication, then word-of mouth acclaim, followed by re-releases to follow-up fans’ interest in Lynch’s work as he achieved fame (or notoriety) with the likes of Blue Velvet, Mulholland Drive and Twin Peaks. Gradually, Henry argues, Eraserhead has been subsumed into a whole body of work by Lynch, just as the term ‘Lynchian’ has entered the vocabulary of film criticism. The book is an intriguing addition to the BFI Film Classics library, although I do wish they had used a film still on the front, not the awful drawing that they chose.

Daniel Neofetou’s book – published back in 2012 , but which I have only just come across –  is not so much a discussion of Lynch as a political or sociological treatise which uses Lynch’s films as a critical lens or example. It is basically an argument for recognition of the complexity of life and individual interpretation and belief, set against the then emerging authoritarianism and moral outrage the likes of David Cameron was promoting in 2012. Neofetou’s writing is intriguing and difficult as he struggles to make claims for what was once called postmodernism: no absolute truths, only relative or personal ones; the questioning of values, linear history (as opposed to various and often conflicting histories), ‘fundamentalist positions’ and ‘religious imperialism’. At times touching on gnostic ideas, and admitting to a resulting instability and lack of knowledge, the book ends with the positive suggestion that we must learn to question and understand for ourselves rather than rely on what is accepted or common knowledge.

Although Claire Henry is critical of those who seek to explain and/or summarise Lynch’s films and art, and I might question – whilst admitting to being intrigued by – Daniel Neofetou’s appropriation of Lynch to discuss philosophy, it is Gino C. Mongelli who most embraces the Lynchian in his disorganised, rambling and at times mind-blowing volume, which is as ridiculous, addictive and strange as Twin Peaks: The Return, ostensibly the book’s subject matter, was.

Mongelli does not try to summarise and explain everything, he carefully presents various – often conflicting and contrasting – ideas which might explain what is going on. At various points it is suggested that the viewer is dreaming the whole thing, or a character is, or that there might be a difference between a character dreaming or being dreamed, or the notion that perhaps the actors themselves are outside the Lynchian world they are acting in. Who is who and who is what? Why does Lynch love The Wizard of Oz so much, and does it hold the key to the series? (Probably not, to be honest.)

There is time travel, absence, superheroes, gnosticism, demonology, magic, the holy grail, chains of associations, mind-blowing ideas, ridiculous propositions, conspiracy theories and confusion. Once we understand what ‘reality tunnels’ are (I still don’t) we apparently should be able to embrace the fact that ‘[i]n Lynch’s work, miscommunications and failures of understanding are often used to describe the confusion’. Mongelli also suggests that ‘the way you look at the world means you either find gibberish or meaning’ and that ‘[w]e must try to make sense of it all ourselves’, ultimately buying in to Lynch’s reliance on intuition and ‘inner knowing’ to ‘discern more of the greater pattern at work’.

Whilst at times I longed for Mongelli to tell us where the ideas he re-presents came from, rather than just name the (often obscure online) authors, I loved trying to make my way through his potpourri of info-dumps, theories, observations and comments. If at times I skipped a few pages (I am not going to engage with Ken Wilber’s ideas ever again, having been hassled by some of his ‘disciples’ who were more like aggressive cult members!) and simply sometimes failed to understand the suggested connections, It’s a Wonderful Lie! is the kind of book I like: one that produces more questions than answers and is entirely appropriate to its subject matter.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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Zephyr Sounds Sunday Sermon No. 113

Steam Stock
 

Tracklist:
Ennio Morricone – The Strong
Rev’ Willie Green & the Clovertones – Didn’t it Rain
Bob Dylan with Joan Baez – The Water is Wide (live)
Sufjan Stevens – Jacksonville
R.E.M. – You Are the Everything
Kate Bush – Watching You Without Me
Tony Joe White – Elements and Things
Louis Armstrong and His Band, Dave Brubeck, Lambert, Hendricks And Ross, Carmen McRae – They Say I Look Like God
Gram Parsons – Brass Buttons
Smashing Pumpkins – Crush
Jim Ghedi & Toby Hay – Bright Edge Deep
Arthur ‘Big Boy’ Crudup – That’s All Right
Nina Simone – See Line Woman
Elliott Smith – Oh Well, Okay
Roxy Music – If There is Something

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TO OUR SIBLINGS IN THE STRUGGLE

TO OUR SIBLINGS IN THE STRUGGLE:
(PROJECT PHOENIX, TAKE 2…)

Now is the time to talk to each other, to speak to each other, to define ourselves as we are. But above all, (and now more than ever) it’s the time to act… Logically, as it concerns our lovingly and rabidly anarchic nature, we are more than decided to combat this authoritarian pestilence to the end. And to move (firmly!) on to destructive Direct Action, against all of this senseless, criminal, and fascist comedy; facing off these disgusting powers and aberrant “spectacle” that is designed to let one of our most beloved among us die in a harsh medieval style prison regime… Valiant and armed to the teeth, daring insurgent accomplices, anarchist comrades from all latitudes: we were persecuted and shot down, in these years of death and lead, and even then we battle on. Not only have they not defeated us, but we’ve grown, in numbers as much as in conscience and will to attack… There’s not much else to say. Fuck banners, self-indulgent demonstrations, and inoffensive slogans and chants in front of the disgusting embassies of the murderous Italian state… It’s time to demonstrate to what extent are the threats made by our anarchic hordes, real and palpable (((A)))

IF COSPITO* DIES, WELCOME TO HELL, all across the planet…
(* Since 20 October 2022, Alfredo Cospito, a 55-year-old individualist anarchist, imprisoned for years for various actions publicly claimed by himself, has been on hunger strike against the 41bis detention regime and the life sentence to which he has been subjected for several months now.)

THERE WILL BE HELL TO PAY,
(Urgent and Armed Poem…)

And… who will pay,
if our Alfredo dies?

We already made a list:
Let’s spread it around, people!

If they tie our wings,
We’ll rip-off their heads!

If they take away our dreams,
We’ll be their (worst) nightmare.

A river of blood will flow,
It will drown them very soon.

Yes. We’re “The Anarchists”:
The usual suspects.

We’ve lost so much already,
That no one will be able to defeat us!

Can they command the wind?
Can they order the clouds?

We’re the birds of the storm.
That’s what they’ve made us/we’ve become.

For Santiaguito Maldonado; and for
Sole, Edu, el Urubu and many others.

We anarchists have Memory
That has been more than demonstrated!

It’s a memory that is Present in the Struggle,
And against all forecasts.

A gale of vindication; and
For the love/rage of people in revolt.

Who they thought was dead, and doesn’t shut up.
They’re waiting right around the corner.

Let’s strike them, comrades: there.
Where and when they least expect it!

Loving (Insurrectionary) Cells shine on these warm nights.
BROTHERS AND SISTERS, WE WILL ILLUMINATE THE DARKNESS:
THEY WILL NOT BE ABLE TO STOP US.

Expect us.

PD: Vengeance is a dish best served cold. Let’s take good care of ourselves… @:-D

Juana Rouco Nucleus
Virginia Bolten Nucleus
Pascual Vuotto Nucleus
Joaquín Penina Nucleus
Amanecer Fiorito Nucleus
Salvadora Medina Nucleus
González Pacheco Nucleus

Pampa Libre Cell
Informal Anarchist Federation
International Revolutionary Front
FAI/FRI onwards!!!

(Reprinted from Anarchist News, https://anarchistnews.org)

 

 

The Collective

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From Sylhet to Spitalfields

 


Bengali Squatters in 1970s East London

Shabna Begum

This book explores the hidden history of the Bengali squatters’ movement. Faced with institutional discrimination in council housing and the existential threat of the National Front, hundreds of Bengali families in 1970s East London decided to squat, taking over entire streets and estates.

With the support of the Race Today collective, squatters formed the Bengali Housing Action Group (BHAG), which organised support and vigilante groups to keep the community safe. Using oral history interviews and archival research, this book looks at the Bengali community’s contribution to this little-known episode of East End history, and how it can inform present-day housing struggles.

‘This important and inspiring book recovers the radical history of the Bengali squatters’ movement active in Tower Hamlets in the 1970s. Through sparkling vignettes of the individuals involved, Begum provides deep insights into the forms of solidarity that sustained the movement and the political differences that also characterised it. It’s a powerful contribution to working-class and multicultural histories of Britain.’
     – Gurminder K. Bhambra, Professor of Postcolonial and Decolonial Studies
        (Global Studies), University of Sussex

‘Shabna Begum has written a brilliantly nuanced and long overdue study of the Bengali squatters’ movement in 1970s London. Through foregrounding varied and vivid voices of Bengali women and men of different generations and experiences, she demonstrates how their claims to dilapidated houses, as they faced down violent physical and institutional racism, were integral to a shared struggle to establish their rights as equal citizens.
   From Sylhet to Spitalfields captures how the battles for housing of British Bengalis and their allies were, in different ways, framed by anticolonial imaginations and the Bangladesh Liberation War.’  
    – Georgie Wemyss, Co-Director, Centre for Research on Migration,
        Refugees and Belonging (CMRB) at the University of East London


‘For too long, Britain’s postcolonial migrants have been neglected by histories of squatting and housing campaigns. From Sylhet to Spitalfields brings to life the community-based anti-racists that struggled for housing in East London, and a home in Britain. Begum’s moving accounts and sharp analysis are crucial for understanding how the right to housing is bound up with freedom from racism.’
     –  Adam Elliott-Cooper, author of Black Resistance to British Policing,
      
Manchester University Press, 2021

‘Begum covers a fascinating yet neglected aspect of British South Asian history. The book details, with great vigour, the necessary political activism Bangladeshi communities engaged in in the 1960s and 1970s to forge a better life for themselves and those who came after them.  An engaging read, reflecting on and critically evaluating the historic political activism that has shaped the lives of British Bangladeshis in the present.’
    – Taj Ali, Industrial Correspondent at Tribune magazine

‘As a child of parents who made their first home in an East End squat and who were actively involved in this important but long overlooked social movement, Dr Shabna Begum’s book offers a compelling and long-awaited social history. A richly researched document, this book is not only an important historical record but gives a voice to the slowly forgotten activists who were in danger of becoming forgotten faces in fading photographs of the period.
   The struggle for equality took place with the backdrop of far right nationalism; Begum’s record reminds us how hard won some civil rights are. This book is a fitting testament to the struggles of a generation which was forced to appropriate a home out of necessity and neglect in the heart of Brick Lane, and from the humble origins of this squatting movement went on to build a key place in British society.’
    – Dr Halima Begum, CEO Runnymede Trust

To order visit https://lwbooks.co.uk/product/from-sylhet-to-spitalfields

 

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Rant

 

 

Mike Ferguson

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Interview with Henry Rollins

 

 

In this interview I talk with all round artistic individual Henry Rollins. Henry was frontman for Black Flag and then his group Rollins Band. He is a writer, he has acted, he is many things. Above all else Henry uses his voice to speak truth to Power.

A somewhat solitary and mysterious individual he has never shied away from human expression and a deep sensitivity in his service to others. 

Above image by photographer 
Ross Halfin
rosshalfin.com

website for Henry Rollins
henryrollins.com

publishing company
twothirteensixtyone

YouTube 
Official Henry Rollins

Rollins Band :: Live @ Auditorium Flog, Florence, Italy, 6/11/92
watch on youtube

Rollins Band (BBC 1993) [05]. Live Footage in Birmingham,UK
watch on youtube

Henry Rollins on Alcohol, Drugs and His Reagan Era Tattoos | Ep. 5 3/3 ARTST TLK | Reserve Channel
watch on youtube

Spotify
Henry Rollins

KCRW
kcrw.com/music/shows/henry-rollins

Instagram 
henryandheidi

Twitter
henryrollins

Britannica
britannica.com/biography/Henry-Rollins

Henry Rollins 
Good To See You Tour (2023) 
ticketmaster.henry-rollins

Thoughts on buildings and uses of spaces?
It is the story of the city dweller. How does one live a comfortable/functional life with limited space? Space equals freedom equals income. For years, I lived in very small places. Now I live in a place with a fair amount of space, nothing grand, but I still live in a small space mind-set. I have always appreciated smart use of space. When I started touring Europe a lot, I was taken with the high ceilings in some of the rooms I saw on the continent, how rooms catch natural light, how they light via artificial light. Almost all rooms I see I try to figure out how to arrange a workspace.
Are you interested in engineering? 
If so what types? 
Not really. Not that it’s not an interesting field. A lot of things go over my head, aspects of build and structure falls in that category.
Is Art powerful? 
I think it can be quite powerful. It’s great to see kids at galleries stare at paintings or sculpture and you see all the wheels turning as they think new thoughts and interpret the work as they see it, they realize they have an opinion, an imagination. That’s the kind of power I’m talking about. A young person feels like he or she doesn’t fit in with their family, or schoolmates, then they see the work of an artist, and suddenly, they have somewhere to go, a world opens up. Art considered this way, it is very powerful. I wish more priority was put on connecting young people with art. It could be part of national defence spending.
How does music impact culture? 
In America, Jazz music is part and parcel of the Civil Rights Movement. Punk Rock kept Rock and Roll from dying and launched some of the best music ever made in the Western World. I think music impacts culture by opening up young people’s minds and makes them better adults. It can be a tool to promote integration. I don’t think music can stop a war but it informs and is the stuff of culture.
Give your definition of the word Thespian? 
Someone who acts.
Are you interested in nutrition and diet? 
Yes. I have found that the better I eat, the better results I get. More energy, less stress, less depression. In my line of work, there’s a lot of expectation and obligation. I’m always looking for anything that will help me do my work better and good ingredients going in has been helpful. The older I get, the more it matters.
What books do you read? 
History. Books by journalists like Robert Fisk, books about bands and musicians. Pretty much anything but fiction and literature. I gave that up many years ago. I miss it but I think all that’s behind me. I have a different consideration of time now that I’m older. For me, literature, which I love, from a time when I knew less, seen less. In a way, my curiosity and experiences have kind of ruined me for fiction.
What subjects interest you? 
American politics and the history of political corruption in America, music, records, record collecting, travel, climate change, world history, presidential and writer’s biographies.
Describe yourself? 
Nobody from nowhere. Opportunist. Dead for many years.

 

 

 

 

Joshua Phillip

Rorschach Art Publication 
rorschacharchives.blogspot.com

 

 

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Looking and Seeing

See Saw: a series of poems on art, Adrian Buckner £8.00, Leafe Press)

‘Poems on art’ – i.e. Ekphrasis. Wikipedia tells us that ‘ekphrasis… is a vivid, often dramatic, verbal description of a visual work of art, either real or imagined. Thus, “an ekphrastic poem is a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art.”‘ Which, if correct (and I am in no position to argue) the poems in Adrian Buckner’s chapbook are not exactly ekphrastic, because they do not describe, and they are not dramatic – so we can leave that one behind.

But… Wikipedia goes on to say that ‘Ekphrasis has been considered generally to be a rhetorical device in which one medium of art tries to relate to another medium by defining and describing its essence and form, and in doing so, relate more directly to the audience, through its illuminative liveliness.’ I’m not sure I totally understand that – ‘describing its essence’ strikes me as a bit of academic-sounding tosh – but ‘ekphrastic’ perhaps is the word for Buckner’s poems in See Saw after all.

I don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter. I’m not sure why I’m even mentioning it, except that the book’s subtitle might lead one to think that the poems in it are ‘about’ art, and ‘about’ certain paintings. And they aren’t, really. Rather, they are poems in response to paintings, and while the connection between painting and poem is necessarily and understandably close, we are neither talking of descriptions nor, strictly speaking, of interpretations, but of a creative consequence and, for the most part, poems able to stand alone without a painting to help keep them on their feet.

As such, they don’t require of the reader any knowledge of the paintings, although there are maybe a couple of poems where knowing the painting is more than a little bit useful and, anyway, the more you know the better, and looking up the paintings – before, during, or after reading the poem(s) – is an additional bonus pleasure. Indeed, the poems make you want to see the paintings – not so you can ‘get’ the poems, but because the poems strongly, and rightly, suggest that the seeing will be more than worthwhile. And that ‘seeing’ will be wide-ranging, because the paintings referenced span the best part of seven centuries.

The poem from – and I’m going to use ‘from’ rather than ‘about’ or ‘after’ – Fra Angelico’s ‘The Decapitation of St Cosma and St Damian’ is a perfect example of a poem that ‘works’ without the reader needing to know the painting. I quote it here in full:

     When I am called to account at The Hague
     I will say I was obeying orders
     Like the three lads on crowd control rota

     Look to the front row for the guilty
     The self-absolving gestures

     The more in sorrow than in anger
     Exporters of rational governance

     Through a swing of the sword
     A drone strike in the desert

Yes, there is a reference to the painting in the guilty looks of those in the front row, but it’s not a distraction, and the poem brings a chilling 21st century resonance to a 15th century painting. Similarly present-day chilling, and reminding us (if we need reminding) of the eternal darkness of some male intent, is the poem from Artemisia Gentileschi’s ‘Susanna and the Elders’:

     Be in no doubt Susanna
     We mean to invade
     More than your personal space

while Domenico Ghirlandaio’s ‘Old Man and Boy’, a wholly different painting and poem and kettle of fish, finds the poet commenting wryly on audience perceptions and writers’ productions:

     Touching
     They will call it

     And go on to write their novels
     Their brief lyrical poems

Buckner has looked at these paintings long and hard. The poem from Perov’s portrait of Dostoevsky captures perfectly the look in the subject’s eyes:

     I am not posed in the darkness
     I look from the dark
     Into a man’s soul

The poems I’ve mentioned so far might be described as fairly concrete in their mode of response to the paintings, but others, such as for example the poem from Karl Schmidt-Rotluff’s ‘Flowering Trees’, which concludes

     My heart’s flame
     My heart’s ease

reflect with a larger degree of abstraction, while another, the poem from Raoul Dufy ‘s ‘The Avenue du Bois de Boulogne’ is closer to  being more explicitly ekphrastic by directly mentioning what’s in the picture. Elsewhere, the artist himself makes an ‘appearance’, when Lowry’s ‘Seascape’ evokes his imagined voice or, if not voice, then thoughts:

     Tempted was I
     To put a little black dog on the shore?

     Perhaps a shivering family
     Enduring an awkward exchange?

This round-up of the varied approaches that the poems take explains what, in part, knocks me out about them: the range of response and tone of articulation Buckner achieves, from the chilling to the playful – and how pretty much always it’s a response not of the predictable kind. In that sense they are telling us that our encounters with art neither have to be what the textbooks and guidebooks tell us they should be, nor do they have to be po-faced and completely ‘serious’. They are saying that looking and seeing and using our imagination when engaging with art transcends classroom correctness and whatever someone else might tell us is the way to do it.

But all of that is something of a side issue to the fact that these are pretty much faultless poems that are a delight, an absolute pleasure to read.  They may be ‘brief’ and ‘lyrical’,  but they are also wonderfully executed and, to mix art-genre metaphors, note perfect. The volume concludes quite beautifully, and tellingly, with Fiona Rae’s ‘I need gentle conversations’:

     What the world needs now
     Is gentle conversations

     It’s the only thing
     There’s never been a picture of

 

 

      © Martin Stannard,2023

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Ladies and gentlemen!

 

PARADISE DERANGED

La beaute sera CONVULSIVE ou ne sera pas – Andre Breton

 

 

Please try to forget – if  you can – those heretical convulsionnaires, dismissed by Diderot as ‘a sect of fools’, derided by experts of the day as an unfortunate by-product of the ‘moral inferiority’ of women.

More profitably, consider Baudelaire who said inspiration ‘has something in common with a convulsion’ and, he noted further, all sublime thought is ‘accompanied by a more or less violent nervous shock which has its repercussions at the very core of the brain.’

The essential, constitutive qualities of ‘convulsion’ may be detected in the oneiric aura of Paquita Valdes, as described by Balzac in La Fille aux Yeux d’Or.

 Balzac wrote: ‘there was something sombre, mysterious, sweet, tender, constrained and expansive, an intermingling of the awful and the celestial, of paradise and hell…’

Again, consider a landscape from Flaubert’s Salammbo: ‘An immense mass of shadow lay spread out before them, containing vague crests that looked like the gigantic waves of a petrified black ocean.’ 

A more recent example, ladies and gentlemen, may be the up-tempo classy yet anarchic mambo-cha staccato interpretation of Frenesi by Edmundo Ros with vocals by Caterina Valente – perhaps the ideal musical expression of convulsive beauty on account of its predominant sense of ‘apparent gratuitousness’ (Breton).

Finally, it was Garcia Lorca who reminded us that it is not a matter of theatrical intonation, dynamic vocal flourishes, skill or virtuosity, ‘but of a style that’s truly alive.’ Just like a little girl the poet saw one day in Puerto de Santa Maria singing and dancing a ‘corny Italian song… with such rhythms, silences and intention…’, that ‘she turned the Neapolitan gewgaw into something new and totally unprecedented…’ She has duende

Convulsive Beauty is paradise deranged.  

Thank you for listening, and

Goodnight!

 

 

 

A. C Evans

 

 

 

.

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SAUSAGE LIFE 263

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which swears at the radio, even when it’s not on.

MYSELF: Knock knock
READER: Come in.
MYSELF: it’s a joke, stupid. Just say “who’s there”?
READER: Oh. Right. Go on then, who’s there?
MYSELF: Thérèse
READER: Thérèse who?
MYSELF: Thérèse drinks, Thérèse cakes, Thérèse Cuban cigars….
READER: God, you just can’t resist having a go, can you?
MYSELF: I’m a creature of habit, as the mother superior said to the heroin dealer.

TELEPATHETIC
The Clairvoyent duo Medium and Large return triumphantly to Upper Dicker Empire this month, having completed their sellout world tour of West Hartlepool and Darlington lap dancing clubs. The pair have asked me to inform fans that their recent merchandising sensation, The Road Congestion Tarot App is, predictably, sold out. However a voucher for a free psychic interaction with ‘Blobby’ their unique tea-leaf reading satnav is still valid until June 30th. Simply send a stamped self-addressed envelope, enclosing your car’s registration, your destination and a complete cup of tea (not just the leaves) to Medium & Large Ltd, PO box 666, Luxembourg, and remain in the car.

MAY DIVORCE BE WITH YOU
At Hastings Crown Court, a decree nisi has been awarded in the case of Mrs Onya Byche of Upper Dicker, who accuses her husband of mental cruelty. Eric Smorgasbord the solicitor acting for Mrs. Byche, a sufferer from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, told the jury that “on several occasions when his wife had been called away in her capacity as septic tank night-supervisor at the Upper Dicker sewage reclamation farm, she would return to find that Mr. Byche had, with malice and aforethought, superglued all the furniture to the ceiling, but in slightly different relative positions. As a result Mrs. Byche suffered severe anxiety attacks, causing her to act irrationally. After one such incident, when her husband had also glued the couple’s miniature Pomeranian poodle Ecoli, to a ceiling-mounted sofa from which he was forbidden, she called the fire brigade, who, from an extended turntable ladder, managed to drown the dog and accidentally flood the two upper floors and basement of the entire building.” The case continues

NEITHER A BORROWER…
Herstmonceux library, unlike libraries all over the country which are being closed, is actually to be renovated at great expense by celebrated architects Allfore Doone of Glasgow. One controversial change to the original plans, is to house all the talking books in a separate purpose-built soundproof section so as not to disturb the other books.
Also promised is a full excavation of the library’s Victorian catacombs, where non-payers of overdue book fines were once sent and chained to the wall to await a flogging from Andrew Pendulum, the notorious head librarian.  

…OR A LENDER BE
The recent story of Dylan Amlwg-Hiliol the Welsh taxi driver who borrowed a lawn mower from a neighbour and modified the engine to power a drone which he then used to smuggle wet wipes into Wormwood Scrubs, has reminded me of a regrettable personal experience. I once lent my sewing machine to an acquaintance for “a quick trouser alteration job”. Unscrupulously, before returning machine they used it to insulate the loft, completely rewire their house, and drain a septic tank. It was never the same after that. 

HANGOVER BREAKTHROUGH
In the search for a pain-free morning after, is mayonnaise the new Alo Vera?  Professor Gordon Thinktank, local inventor and wine buff, may be on the verge of a breakthrough. During a fact-finding trip to the Norwegian city of Fosnavåg he observed that people who had consumed the pungent local mayonnaise Håakenhurr (made with enzymes extracted from the testicles of Icelandic Herring which have been buried in volcanic mud for two years), before embarking on an ill-considered Scandinavian bender, were totally headache and nausea-free the next morning. “Traditionally,” Thinktank told us, “the citizens of Fosnavåg celebrate the long dark evenings between Tuesday and Sunday by drinking enormous quantities of illegally brewed fish-based vodka until they lose consciousness, yet unlike their Swedish cousins, the consumers of Håakenhurr, are rarely seen green-faced and vomiting into a hedge on the way to work in the morning.”

STUFFED
Hastings & St Leonards Warriors FC were beaten 8-0 last Wednesday by Gaelic League champions AC Bangor Beehives, ending their Lil-Lets Cup run of one game.  Relaxing after the game in Bangor’s famous karaoke n’ wine bar the Shinto & Shellaille, big-hearted Beehives’ manager Darragh Bigheart said, “Football is a game of two halves, or in Pat Hennessy’s case, eleven pints. Let’s face it we gave the Warriors the old one-two, followed up rapidly by the old three-four, a system I have been developing with the lads since yesterday afternoon. After a detailed video analysis we saw that what the Warriors lacked was midfield strength in their back four. We exploited their lack of depth at the front by staying deep, whereas they pursued a dead ball strategy with Craig Cattermole acting as a fake number nine. In a long ball game, the ball is played long, as opposed to a short ball game, where a shorter ball is used. We exploited this by playing all our short balls long, and increasing the length of our shorter balls. Their only quality player was Dutch defender Ruud van Smoot, but groin-kick specialist Liam Finnigan neutralised him by removing the top layer of skin on his shins. Football is a man’s game. Lets face it, some of these skirt-wearing foreign types are not averse to supping stout out of the wrong side of the glass.”
The big-hearted gealic supremo was later strechered off after a fan accidentally trod on his hand.

 

 

Sausage Life!

Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

 



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Three Poems

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paying respects at the wrong funeral

Wouldn’t it be funny but beautiful
If I went to the wrong funeral
And paid my respects anyway

By blessing myself
Then finishing it off with an air kiss

And after that we all realised
There is but one love in this life

And it is us

 

When she said goodbye to me forever

Her kiss
On my
Cheek

Hit me
Harder

Than any
Punch

 

The only time God was scared

They’ll never be able to explain it
As well as you did

That the search for your own truth
Came from many fears

That even God was scared
That you would tell it

 

 
 Paul Butterfield Jr

 

 

 

.

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from six coffees with a madman

 

coffee #2

 

The next city is no fun. It is all rivers and muds and boats and sundials and wild ponies and apple orchards and Plath’s grave (Hughes). We do not pick at the thread we left, instead put new sheets on the stripped bed and beginning our motions again. Today is the day for new lovers! A river muscles by my feet, taunting me with excess strength. I tell my lover, do not worry, for I am even stronger than this river– I have so many,      hundreds of muscles.

I am bursting with myocytes.

The frog laughs at me, and I…

Sip.

(mmm)

Looking at his hand, awestruck… simply and, may I admit, cleverly, redefine desire. It is no longer a strong feeling of wishing something to happen. It is no longer the blind man that craves sight.

In due course, I will write to the papers and let them know of this extraordinary discovery:

‘Redefinition Of Bodily Desire’

I am the best columnist in all the land. I’m actually fairly famous – I tell my framed lover. Actually, really, QUITE famous. I smoke menthol cigarettes with the celebrities. We crunch glass in bleeding mouths and dance on tables before the flies wake up. Tight trouser tango on the bathroom floor, noses full of stallions and eyes darting around; we talk all night long about how popular everybody is. Earnest forthcomings nip at our heels, we just humbly kick them away. Beige cocktail parties are kind of my thing – you know?

Really, rather famous… I glance back. He looks tremendous in this new location.

My love for this stranger sits in a neat space outlining his grey hand.

I do not touch it for fear of allowing the tetanus (which has been chasing me since birth) to get inside. The tetanus freezes your muscles in time, I am aware my photo frame man inherited the clostridium tetani when he was first created, so am careful not to upset him with my real lies (he will surely rea-lise).

I know he has a heart of galvanized steel, so it will NEVER cease to beat inside his tense state. Poor, poor creature… I am so very kind and loving and sweet and sensitive

If only inland revenue could see me now!

The taxman redefined society three years ago. Death of the working class was the political driving force. Turned us all into       troglodytes, it did. Turned us into (pre)

                                                            socialites.

The hierarchy of rich and poor is something I wish neither to climb up nor slide down. I am happy where I am; in the coffee shop of beginners, sipping beside my blank lover. We don’t let society hold us back. We don’t let dentists hold us back. We sit only on yellow chairs.

I love the man in the frame according to how much I owe the bastard tax man.

 

 

 

Blossom Hibbert

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The Thing With The Morning Glory


 
Remind me why I less often opt for 
this lane that features a violet footnote
to the summer; they call her the Railway creeper.
(What’s your story, Morning Glory?)

I piss, salt against salt, a few yards after. 
Words like ‘yonder’, names like ‘Ella Fitzgerald’
Are thought-written on the wall.
A dog sniffs its possession.
I can read ‘Mansion’ on the ruins.

The way time wipes its hands
on the back of my jeans
wind sips away all the moisture
but a neurotic stink remains. 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

 

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SAUSAGE LIFE 262

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which makes its own bed then persuades someone else to lie in it

READER: Just remind me, you still don’t believe in astrology do you?
MYSELF: Absolutely correct. Along with fairies, God and David Icke.
READER: So you probably haven’t heard about the sad passing of Mystic Meg, the all-seeing Sun psychic who failed to predict the demise of the News of the World?
MYSELF: My scepticism has so far not affected the output of my radio, nor the avalanche of garbage coming out of social media, so I have indeed heard the devastating news. But of course it can’t have come as a surprise to her.
READER: That, if I may say so, is a typical reaction. You’re a Virgo if I’m not mistaken and prone to mistrust, joylessness and despondency?
MYSELF: As a Saggitarius with Spleen rising, I refute your accusation. So much so that I have commissioned Her Mysticness to write the astrological predictions for the next Sausage Life, from beyond the grave.
READER: Don’t be ridiculous
MYSELF: I won’t if you won’t.

CRICKET NEWS: WOOMERA THRASHING “MORAL VICTORY FOR ENGLAND” CLAIMS BASMATI

The shock innings and 300 runs defeat during the Australian tour by Woomera Consolidated Insurance under 17s XI, was described by England captain Wally Boomerang as “a moral victory” for the national team. Later, during the traditional Woomera Cricket Club Dinner and Drinking Competition where he was giving a speech, he set out the reasons why: 
“It was like a battlefield out there. The Woomera bowlers threw the ball really hard, making it difficult for our batsmen to hit. Sidebottom (H) got one on the arm at one point, which stung quite badly. The dressing rooms were damp, which made our pads heavier, also the benches near the boundary had been recently painted which made some of the lads feel a bit sick, especially after the over-chilled lager they gave us at tea, instead of tea. Our wicket keeper Taki Wakajawaka got an ice cream headache and missed several easy catches as a result”

SWISH SWOOSH

“The bats were narrower than we are used to in England, and some of their players deliberately stood in places where they could catch the ball when we did manage to hit it. The Woomera first slip, Bruce Wallagooner made personal remarks to our batsmen which cannot be repeated in a family paper, but I would like to reassure fans by putting the record straight. None of the lads is openly gay, or would do anything inappropriate with any kind of marsupial, let alone the one specified by Wallagooner.”

MATTER OF PRIDE

“Many people have questioned my decision to declare at 19 for 7 on the first day, but for us it was a matter of pride. I shall be handing in my written report to the Aussie Cricket Board tomorrow, when I fully expect the result to be awarded to us on moral grounds.”

WAR IN A BILLABONG
Team Manager Dave Barraboise added: “Some of their bowling would have been more at home in the muddy trenches of Ypres, or the heartless arenas of Ancient Rome quite frankly. The Woomera fast bowler Bruce Hogmanay kept a live budgerigar in his pants, and would terrorise our batsmen by pulling it out and pretending to bite its head off.  As for our sluggish performance, it is worth noting that despite the 90 degree temperatures, the Woomera players presented us with thermal underwear at their welcoming ceremony the day before, and some of the lads felt compelled to wear it out of politeness. That’s why Stokes kept fainting.”

 

COVER-UP HALTS MAYORAL FUNCTION
The scandal that has become known as Gardengate refuses to go away. During a lull in Hastings Mayor Derek Windfarm’s speech to the Upper Dicker branch of the Ancient & Unctious Order of Oriental Buffoons on Thursday, a voice was heard shouting “You can’t sweep this under the carpet!” (a comment thought to allude to a previous scandal referred to as Carpetgate), causing Mayor Windfarm’s wife Wanda to glow with embarrassment.
Simultaneously, several inordinately large lewdly-shaped turnips were hurled at the mayor’s podium to cries of “Show us your veg!”, which was the signal for a great deal of ribald laughter from the assembled Oriental Buffoons. Determining exactly which Oriental Buffoon was responsible for the ill-timed comment proved impossible, since members are required to wear huge inscrutible japanese noh masks to all official functions.
Police took away CCTV camera footage of the  incident for further investigation
ITS A FUR COP
Duty Sergeant Gary Cummerbund of Upper Dicker Constabulary said later: “Make no mistake about it, suggestively shaped vegetables this large don’t grow on trees. We suspect that criminal gangs, possibly of Chinese or Italian or Albanian origin are responsible, although we cannot rule out Al Qu’aeda, the Japanese Mafia or the Yardies this early in the investigation. I appeal to members of the public to be on the alert for any fluctuations in the dimensions or sexual ambivalence of their vegetables, however small”.
“Vigilance” he stressed, “is of the essence, not to mention Mum being the word. Remember, careless talk costs lives.”
LOOSE LIPS
When the subject of Mayor Windfarm’s alleged involvement in the scandal was raised, DS Cummerbund would say only this: “Many factors in this case are not what they seem. Rumours abound, often clothed in a thick fog of theatrical smoke, and surrounded by a maze of distorting mirrors. That the impeccable character of our Lord Mayor and his fragrant wife Wanda should be besmirched in this disgraceful fashion is a matter for the finest legal minds in the country, namely Messrs Shattier Gobb Hadaway & Shayte, the soliciters currently acting for His Worship at this juncture”.
“I would also add” he added, “that neither my own lifetime membership of the Ancient and Unctious Order of Oriental Buffoons, nor the senior position of Grand Imperial Wizard held by Mayor Windfarm, have any bearing whatsoever on the objective and unbiased neutrality of this investigation. It is time we all moved on and put an end to this matter.”
Detective Sergeant Cummerbund is 18 stone 5lbs and his wife runs a Jag.

©guano associated press

 

 

 

 

Sausage Life!

Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

 



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Children Of The Sun – Dead Can Dance

We are ancient
As ancient as the sun
We came from the ocean
Once our ancestral home
So that one day
We could all return
To our birthright
The great celestial dome
We are the children of the sun
Our journey’s just begun
Sunflowers in our hair
We are the children of the sun
There is room for everyone
Sunflowers in our hair
Throughout the ages
Of iron, bronze, and stone
We marvelled at the night sky
And what may lie beyond
We burned our frames
To the elemental ones
Made sacrifices
For beauty, peace and love
We are the children of the sun
Our kingdom will come
Sunflowers in our hair
We are the children of the sun
Our carnival’s began
Our songs will fill the air
And you know it’s time
To look for reasons why
Just reach up and touch the sky
To the heavens we will sing
We are the children of the sun
Our journey has begun
Are we older children
Come out at night
And even soulless
Great hunger in their eyes
Unaware of the beauty
That sleeps tonight
And all the queen’s horses
And all the king’s men
Will never put these children back
Together again
Faith, hope, our charities
Breathe slow, our enemies
We are the children of the sun
We are the children of the sun

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The Government Just Took Away YOUR FREEDOM

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WITNESSING

Is it preacherly
to do and say ill
and be well spoken of?
Old Testament Christians,
you enlighten yourselves
with darkness,
you hide yourselves
in nakedness
and find fault with
my future and my fate,
my fortune and my alms.
Why haven’t your mirrors
given you harm?
Character and behavior
are aspects inner and outer
of singular identity.
You post your guards
and fund their arms
while New T
aw,
but in our retreat,
we’re not deserters
but rather warriors
seeking a firmer hold.

 

 

Duane Vorhees

 

 

 

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MIDGES

 

Midges on a summer evening
Meet to share new verse

Perhaps their circle is too esoteric?
‘Mere parasites’ I hear

But their sociable circular buzzing
Is annoying only if you draw too near

‘Man continues making mess and money
But has no wings’ most midges say

‘And we are mankind’s muezzin   –
Time they ceased their dervish dance to duly look within

Or nature will discard them from her kin   –
The truth is dawning as their night is falling

They will whirl about for re-admission
Just as holistic nature shuts her gate

And we shall feast on leavings from their plate’

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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Sinking Suella


Like a reverse shepherd she stands
Dispelling flocks into darkness 
For there is no light from Suella 
As she seeks to wreak the same spell 

As unpriti Patel, whose monstrous heart 
Made air ugly and so Braverman casts 
Dense reflection across the shallow 
But sin-streaked poisoned well. 

These two women share the same race 
And now we’re all running, hot on the tail 
Not of migrants but possibly reason itself. 
For to me It is not about who has the right 

To whichever land endures trespass, 
Nor is it about shelter and the sharing 
Of earth to stop stealth. Instead it is about 
Decisions, dictates, and the ruination 

Of standards. This is a current time without
Boundaries, starting perhaps with the wall
From which Berlin healed it’s long wound;
A time in which Russia’s iron curtain 

Was lifted and which Vladimir Putin 
Has ruffled across a carpet of blood
As kids fall. And so the question extends 
As it always does with the human: 

What are we to each other 
And in the most basic sense; do we care?
From the Christian concept to the Jews 
House of meeting; from the brotherhoods

Within Islam and the sisterhood of all girls
How can these two women adopt the same 
Bastardy in their bitching and in what 
Climate can any nations flag be unfurled. 

This is an obvious piece. 
There is no sophistication at all 
To its message. It’s lines are short,
Even standard. But beneath the brief 

There’a a sea which has its own rules 
About who it grants passage. You are not
Poseidon Suella. But are you a Canute?
Each wave’s free. Before the brink 

England sinks when such empty hands 
Begin pointing. With these directionless 
Sails and Aunt Sally’s heading the ship

Nemo flees. 

                  

                   

                                              David Erdos 10/3/23

 

 

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RAQUEL

 
She never came to Hyde in person
We had to make do with her deerskin bikini
And running from dinosaurs
One Million years before Jesus
The film, and the poster. She was
Miniaturised in Fantastic Voyage. Stood up
For herself in 100 Rifles, Hannie Caulder
I liked her in Westerns, her shirt unbuttoned
There were questions about her politics
And if she had come to Hyde
There would have been a few of us
Holding up placards about Vietnam
But I’d have kissed her, if she’d asked me
 
 
 
 
Steven Taylor
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THE POCKET BURN

 

 


On Richard Cabut’s Disorderly Magic & Other Disturbances

(Far West Press, 2023)

 

Cabut is a Dickensian Punk, a poet sifting spells in dark gutters,
There the brew which breeds poems of piss and spit, spite and stars
Lay collected in rain through which he stares; a kind of Richard Hell
Trawling Hackney, before venturing to West End for remnants
Of Lydon in London and the empires of dark in lost bars.

This small, burning book, courtesy of Far West Press sees stares
Steaming. With George Ives’ take on justice he tracks
A ‘negative girl’ through the streets. With Bibliomancy as muse,
His poems, as with his prose, persuade fires to re-route
From ruins and make every road along which we stumble

And roam incomplete. Francis Bacon bestows in a Soho doorway.
Angels fall, frying into the sin-soaked pan of the world. ‘Dharma Jack’s’
Ghost starts a trail that Vicious’ Punk primed pose fails to follow.
While, the ‘toothless writer of West Way’ observes how solids states,
Sedimented, start to seep like spit stirring the blood on the tongue

Of the girl who seeks to piss in a pool and sink into this city,
Full of blister slashed magic and the barrage and burn of old beats.
Cabut conjures the past and by implication the future.
He seeks ‘the unalloyed feeling of heavy hymns’ and as he traverses
the strange energy of the streets.’ This is the manifesto one finds

When covered and spined the young writer, posed like a mix
Of Breton and Artaud is placed into print by the sage
Who has lived through time’s loss of a more visceral London,
One which Punk painted. A different Ground Zero, grime gained
Before Café Nero, ‘where the moon is made of tears

..and Shapeshifters and Shoplifters have been immortalized
In Dick’s Age. Which is where we live now. Having papered
Over the cracks with used Kleenex. Snot and spunk staining
The re-birth that was, now still-born. Cabut’s magic revives.
It literally reconfigures. And one can see him wild-eyed

And speeding across the diary of days he has torn.
He is ‘mingling dreams, ‘ while lifting myth’s mask to stare
Harder. He is metamorphosing the message that indulgence
Grants, for escape. As he could clearly tell even then,
That the China shop is the problem, and that the Bull

Raging in it is always the martyr before it rushes
Towards fate’s red cape. Blood appears on bed-sheets.
The internet soon malfunctions. ‘Delicate malice’
Challenges ‘fragmented discourse.’ Sentences splice.
Word as rush blood and bolster. Verbs alone carry meaning.

As adjective addicts eagerly chase each wild horse.
Cabut’s is a new poetry. It is Trocchi and Thomas Stearns’
Try at Cockney. But in this warped wasteland, energy
Trumps elegy. Mishima throbs. The Aylesbury Estate begins
Aching. These pocket-sized burns are a bible that would turn

White City black easily. There is a new mould on Mars
That gives it the same sheen as Mitcham. Watch the shade
Of Rimbaud run riot across each of our ruined zones.
For these conjurings blaze. The size of the book is important.
At the span of a hand you can hold it as a shield which shapes

Those alone. ‘Bright sad stars’ fall. ‘Feelings Get Bleached Out.’
And the music that fuels Richard’s rhythms is play-listed for us,
Thankfully. A series of girls pass and merge, while retaining
The hold they had on him. His youthful flush of hair and bright
Beauty attracting them and us sets love free. For as a laureate

Of the dark, Cabut contains stars. The spit glistens.
If God is in his typewriter, or in that of any who write
He can see – angels and ache and past Polish tempests.
There is dead brother Faustin and the trail of a brass band
Up the stairs. There is ‘the impossibility of return’ in this

And in all our trespasses. And yet, dear dark Dick as Detective
Is hot on the trail of the flare which burning backgrounds begat;
His poems cinema them all into being. Like Crowley’s wisps
Of sex-mist and wonder Richard can rouse spirit-guides.
Which is what this book bares. It is a travel text for those tested

By the inadequacies of the present and by what it continually
Fails to provide; perhaps the star that Sid sought. Or the one
Which pin-pointed Jesus for Judas. In this book, what the truth is
Remixes ghost-music with Cabut’s care and his heart.
For relatives lost, as Danuta’s handbag lays open.

Dunstable is blown towards London courtesy of ‘The Old Windmill
In Amsterdam.’ That old song steers and soothes. The heat
Of hurt is soon Savlon-ed.  The slap of lubricant lowers the thrust
And trust love can span. And yet the cold gathers fast,
Richard regards it now as a mirror. ‘The assemblage of memory’ 

Mars him, but he can toast it too, with wit’s cup.
He watches a lost river wind ‘flooding the bank of a future
Which might have been.’ Snow is falling. He writes his world,
And yours also, and then he ‘went quickly down the path,
Pulling my collar up.’ Snow can burn, too. Cold bites.

Love attacks us. But as we spume into gutters.
There is also the life-blood from which each new age
Can now sup. Place Cabut’s face in your hand. And then
In your pocket. What the Far West delivers is a delicious dog
Who barks at you and for you, too:  Art’s hot pup.

 

 

                                      David Erdos 21/2/23

 

 

https://www.farwestpress.com/far-west-books/p/disorderly-magic

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Marmaduke and I

…………


            (“I remembered also the pearl for which I was sent down into Egypt…”)

            It was only the first night, yes, the very first.
            You must understand that I only took the job because of the hours. I sleep. I mean, I sleep a great deal – during the day, because for whatever reason I can’t sleep at night.
            Actually, I have a good idea what the reason is. I’m a fugitive – from myself. Yes: from myself. Oh, that sounds so melodramatic. However, it’s why I can’t sleep at night. How do I sleep during the day, then? I don’t have explanations for everything.
            So, a nightwatchman’s position seemed a solution to my inability to work during the day, although I admit I wasn’t all that keen on the place: an animal laboratory. Beggars can’t be choosers, I told myself. I like animals, as it happens. Ah well, I told myself; ah well.
            I entered the laboratory and started to turn the lights on. I hadn’t even finished doing so when I heard a little voice call out:  ‘In these shadows you look surprisingly like one of my brothers! He was much smaller, of course.’
            It was a voice not just faint, or quiet, but also high-pitched. A child’s, perhaps… or so I thought.
            ‘Where are you?’ I called out. I couldn’t see anyone, although I’d turned all the lights on now.
            ‘Over here, my brother… my almost brother! At the back, and to the left.’
            I went there. There were only cages. Nothing else.
            And then the voice came again… it came from one of the cages.
            Only one cage was occupied… and it was occupied by a mouse.
            ‘Hello, my brother!’ exclaimed the mouse, its front paws on the uppermost bars so that it was standing.
            ‘I must have fallen asleep somehow! A mouse can’t be talking to me! It’s a dream, right?’
            ‘You’re asking a mouse?’
            ‘That does seem a little silly, doesn’t it?’
            ‘All right, as this is your dream, why don’t you describe what’s going on for me?’
            ‘Well, I’ve come to work, I have my work clothes on, although my work clothes aren’t really any different from what I normally wear… T shirt, jeans, an old jacket, socks and boots. I have a bag with a box of snacks and a bottle of mineral water…’
            ‘Any dark chocolate?’
            ‘Yes, as a matter of fact…’
            ‘Yum!’
            ‘…and a cheese sandwich.’
            ‘You eat the sandwich, but give me the chocolate. I need all my strength for what we’re going to do.’
            ‘Which is what, pray tell?’
            ‘We’re getting out of here!’
            ‘And why should I help you do that? I’ll lose my job, you know, and I’ve only just started.’
            ‘You’re my brother! You really look like him… only a lot bigger, of course.’
            ‘No one’s ever told me I look like a mouse before.’
            ‘There’s a first time for everything. Take it as a compliment!’
            ‘OK, but before we go any further, how on earth do you speak English?’
            ‘You think I should be speaking Japanese?’
            ‘No, I mean how are you speaking at all?’
            ‘I picked it up from watching TV and listening to the radio. Whenever a TV or radio was on in any home I stayed in, I’d listen and learn. It’s amazing what you can pick up that way.’
            ‘My head’s spinning! Let’s change the subject: why do you want to get out of here?’
            ‘Would you like to be stuck in a little cage? Would you like to be experimented on? They put horrible drops into our eyes that hurt dreadfully… they even inject cancerous cells into us… and, O, so much else! And all as experiments! You probably write experimental poetry… well, these are real experiments, and they’re painful, and they kill!’
            ‘How did you know I’ve written experimental poetry? And how do you even know about such things?’
            ‘Ah, a little mouse told me. No, come on, I was guessing: you look like you’d be the sort who’d write that stuff, and as for the rest, well, I listen to the radio and watch TV, as I told you. Ian McMillan’s my favourite for presenting what you call ‘poetry’. But then I’m a mouse, remember.’
            ‘I suppose it’s for a good cause, the experiments, I mean. Not experimental poetry… well, not necessarily, anyway.’
            ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything: you’ll be telling me next that there isn’t a God.’
            ‘Is there a God?’
            ‘Of course there is!’
            ‘But if you say there isn’t a God, is that a belief? Or simply a denial of belief?’
            ‘For an almost brother of mine, you’re not terribly bright. I don’t say that unkindly, needless to say. Of course it’s a belief – but an impoverished one!’
            ‘I can’t believe you really learned to speak English from listening to the radio and watching TV.’
            ‘Believe whatever you like. By the way, what do you plan to do when you grow up?’
            ‘Hey! I’m thirty-six, you know… Besides, aren’t you quoting from a film?’
            ‘And so, what do you want to do?’
            ‘What cheek! Besides writing experimental poetry, I have some ideas for short stories… For example, ‘Ghost of a Chance’, which is about how a chance event releases a ghost into the living world…’
            ‘Uh huh.’
            ‘Then there’s ‘The Loneliest Wombat’. It’s for children. I can even recite the beginning: “Wanda lived alone. She rarely left whichever hole she currently resided in, apart from when looking for food. She had no friends. Or rather, none that she saw any more.”’
            ‘You’ve memorised that! Bravo! But is that all there is of it?’
            ‘So far!’
            ‘As soon as you entered the room, I had you pegged as a loner…’
            ‘Well, yes…’
            ‘And as a loser!’
            ‘Hey, do you want me to help you or not?’
            ‘Would it help matters if I said you seemed like a highly successful person?’
            ‘I don’t suppose so.’ I sighed. I knew the inevitable was going to happen. ‘After I’ve picked the lock on your cage…’
            ‘You can pick locks?
            ‘I’ve done a few more things in my life than write experimental poetry and work as a nightwatchman. So, after I’ve picked the lock and released you…’
            ‘If you want to know where this mouse is going next, that depends on you, doesn’t it?’
            ‘I’ll lose my job.’
            ‘So?’
            ‘What will I do then?’
            The mouse looked at him steadily.
            ‘We’ll go off together. We’ll have adventures… and fun. My name is Marmaduke, by the way.’
            ‘I… I… I…!’
            ‘Couldn’t you leave a little note saying, “We did this, not your nightwatchman”, and sign it ‘The Animal Liberation Front’?’
            ‘Yeah, but what about me? Why didn’t I stop them?’
            ‘There were too many of them. OK, let’s add a PS: “There were fifty of us. And we’ve taken your nightwatchman hostage. Expect a ransom note in a year or two.”’
            ‘It beggars belief, but I can’t think of anything better, due to my head swimming!’
            ‘Write your note, and let’s get out of here!’ exclaimed Marmaduke.
            We went back to my little flat, my rather humble… no, OK, squalid little flat in South London. But we knew we couldn’t stay there long.
            Marmaduke was not impressed by my… humble place. For example, he inspected the cupboards in the kitchen. ‘Cans, cans… rows of cans… canned soup, canned meat, canned tomatoes, canned fish… cans!’
            And then I remembered my former philosophy tutor, Gwen. She’d recently written to say that her husband Andrew had died. And she’d said I was welcome to come and stay any time I liked.
            She was in Bridport. Which is in Dorset.
            So Marmaduke and I took the Weymouth bus. ‘How much for one, to Bridport?’ I asked the conductor.
            ‘Two, actually’, said Marmaduke, who was in my coat pocket.
            ‘Make up your mind, son – for one or two? And why the silly voice?’ the conductor said peevishly.
            ‘Just one’.
            The journey seemed to take forever, although altogether it can’t have been more than three hours, including a fairly long wait somewhere… I was too out of it to notice where.
            And when we reached Bridport, we had to get a taxi from the town centre.
            I’d become a little apprehensive. I mean, despite our recent correspondence, I hadn’t actually seen Gwen in quite some years.
            I rang the doorbell. And the door opened.
            Gwen was much as I remembered, only older… tall, slim, stylish… long hair, now grey… good looking… so good looking, I’d always thought… a small cigar in her hand.
            ‘Hello, Gwen’, Marmaduke said. ‘We’re home.’
            ‘Ah, I’ve been dreaming about you both! And now you’re here.’
            We were talking over drinks a little later, Gwen with red wine, me with white, and Marmaduke with water.
            ‘Time and eternity are not opposites, at least in the sense of being within the same system and on the same plane’, said Marmaduke. ‘Space and infinity can be seen in the same way.’
            ‘That’s.. ah, interesting’, said Gwen.
            ‘You didn’t get that from watching TV!’ I said.
            ‘Yes.’
            ‘OK, who said that?’
            ‘No idea. I was eating some dark chocolate I’d rescued from a mouse trap, so I missed the opening credits. And then I was… well, I’d rather draw a veil over this, but it involved the missus. That’s how I missed the closing credits.’
            But after going to bed, and after a long sleep, I woke… woke to find Gwen’s bungalow in ruins, and Gwen gone, and Marmaduke nowhere to be found. Were they ghosts? Am I haunted? A cold wind blew through the ruins, and dust and cobwebs were everywhere. A beam collapsed, and then another.
            No. I hadn’t really woken at all.
            It was a dream… and perhaps…  a dream of a film I’d once seen?
            And now I really woke.
            ‘Dear me, you have slept a long time!’ said Gwen. ‘It’s lunch time now.’
            ‘And I have a special treat’, said Marmaduke. ‘Dark chocolate! Well… courtesy of Gwen.’
            Oh God, I must be still dreaming, I thought.
            I pinched myself.
            Gwen and Marmaduke were still there.
            Ah well, I thought, it could be a lot worse… in fact, it couldn’t really be better.
            Home. I was home.
            ‘You know, I think I’ll write about our adventures together.’
            ‘What will you call it?’
            ‘How about “The Mouse that Soared”?’
            ‘Ha! Good – but I have an improvement for you.’
            ‘Yes?’
            ‘ “That Mouse Who Soared”.’
            ‘Done.’
            ‘No, I have an improvement as well. Call it “The Mouse and His Half-Brother Who Soared’”, said Gwen.
            ‘So be it!’
            But I didn’t. Because Gwen had another idea:
            ‘No, I think you should call it “Marmaduke and I”.’
            And so I have.

 

 

© David Miller 2023

 

 

 

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The Snails of Neruda

On viewing the shell collection of Pablo Neruda

Within the wounds of the sea, 
the hardly negligible pain
in the breath of her infinite acceptance,
her secret joy persists
 in these little houses of snails, the least of her hidden
consignments where the highest
 skills of her pure delight parade
 solely to the eyes of fishes
 and the shape-shifting octopus.
And when the soft life within withers
or is sucked out for food 
as we all must someday feed the other
and what remains is only the poem
that life has inscribed on its house
the shell in its precise cacophony
 that the wordless symphony of the sea
deputizes to the shore where the poet 
in heartbroken love again as always
stoops to collect another talisman
to decode the tangle of his soul 
another spiraled and patterned affirmation
from those upheaving currents 
the hidden depths upon which 
his very life depends.

 

 

David Fetcho
 
 

 

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         Instant         

Do I mutter looking down, passing
opposite direction on the sidewalk?
You might help me up, fallen. Might
knock me down, gotten up—a hint,
last week the stray bullet punched
a daylight instant in a young woman’s
heart. That tragedy shrinks
my ambitions? An anvil dropped
on my bunched and squirming
piglet dreams? Maple, cherry,
or poplar hardwoods against this
soft-headedness, their leafy
cell work prettier than gray matter
stuffed under a haircut. Maybe
below the city on a train pushes against
shafts of ancient, stinking atmosphere
she imagined fresh life with trees other
air pushes, in shade minnowing around.

 

 

George Shelton

 

 

 

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New Year’s Eve

New Year’s Eve
And the man who was You Boy
Walks straight backed steady
Out of the pub well before Midnight
So he’s spared the Auld Lang Syne,
Has only one thing in mind:
To go back
So he walks between lopsided gateposts

Ignores a DUE FOR DEMOLITION sign,
Scans the moonlit schoolyard,
Stoops
Selecting a stone
Then it’s arm back
Take a run up
Throw stoop throw again again again

And pane after pane after pain
Shatters.

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Bruegel El Viejo,detail by Pieter Bruegel the Elder

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The END of the Line (revisited)




The city of London was a Paradise once:
Green Park, Forest Hill, Wood Lane, Bushey…
Where animals lived in harmony with nature:
Heron Quays, Barkingside, Goldhawk Road, Hendon…
And humans lacked the tools for mass destruction.

Their numbers thrived; with habitat and food for all:
Buckhurst Hill, Blackhorse Road, Lambeth North, Frognall…
And homo “sapiens sapiens” looked on in wonder and awe:
Hornchurch, Angel! Isle of Dogs, Bayswater…
Paying tribute to fellow beings with place names.

But fascination soon turned to exploitation:
Shepherd’s Bush, Chalk Farm, Snaresbrook, Stockwell…
And man was bent on killing his animal brother:
Kilburn Park, Battersea, Bow Road, Hatch End…
Making money from his flesh and blood.

Capitalism killed off all Compassion:
Mansion House, Highgate, Elephant and Castle, Bank….
He abused till there was no tomorrow:
Oxford Circus, Bond Street, Burnt Oak, Harrow…
While the heavens despaired over man’s Free Will.

London was soon emptied of her creatures:
Queensway, Kingsway, East Ham, West Ham…
As Church and State betrayed earth and creature…for Transcendentalism:
Parson’s Green, Canons Park, Abbey Road, Blackfriars…
And concrete, material ‘values,’ were preached and flourished.

Until all that remained was a distant green memory:
Oakwood, Elm Park, Greenford, Heathrow…
In a deathly, nether world, gone underground:
Imperial Wharf, Chancery Lane, Manor House, Morden.
Hurtling towards the End of The Line

 

 

Heidi Stephenson
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

This poem was first published on International Times, 9 October, 2014.

The End of the Line

 

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OM NAMAH SHIVAY!

Heroism with machoism,
Yet believer of pacifism,
Lord Shiva in Hinduism,
Known for Your powerful magnetism,
Your angry behaviourism,
Expressed in Tandavism,
Your dance specialism,
Drank poison to protect each and every organism.
And destroyed the demonism.

Shred of tiger skin as a dress code,
Ash as main ornamentation,
Toxin in throat,
Ganga in matted hair,
Lord of lordships,
Creator of meditation,
Trident as weapon,
Pellet drum as an instrument,
Third eye produces extra sense,
Destroyer of evil,
Creator of the creation,
Innocence in character.
Resides in the mount of Kailash,
Father of devotees.
The oldest monk,
Seeing everything with eyes closed,
The unconditional lover,
Recluse of all time,
Weed as relaxation,
Crossed legs for concentration,
While churning of sea,
Distributed Amrit to all,
Drunk Halahal,
Kept in throat,
Screamed in pain,
King of paradise,
Pastime at crematorium,
Lord of spirits,
Divine of soul,
The source of power,
The power of devotees,
The sacred sound
Who exists but not
Father of sense,
First of mantras
“OM NAMAH SHIVAY”.

Crescent Moon and the Ganga,
With serpent around your neck,
Your three eyes make,
Your appearance an exceptional.
Meditative and yogic mannerism,
Innocence with asceticism.
The prayers of devotees with full devotional,
Are answered with mysticism.
My poeticism
For Lord Shiva
The most auspicious dynamism.

 

 

 

 

Bio:- Monalisa Parida is a post graduate student of English literature from India, Odisha and a prolific poetess. She is very active in social media platforms and her poems have also been translated into different languages and publish in various e-journals.
She has got 100 international award for writing poetry. Her poems have been publishing international e-journals “New York parrot”, “The Writers Club” (USA), “Suriyadoya literary foundation”, “kabita Minar”, “Indian Periodical” (India) and “Offline Thinker “, “The Gorkha Times “ ( Nepal), “The Light House”(Portugal), “Bharatvision”(Romania), “International cultural forum for humanity and creativity”(Aleppo, Syria), “Atunispoetry.com”(Singapore) etc. And also published in various newspapers like “The Punjabi Writer Weekly(USA)”, “News Kashmir (J&K, India)”, Republic of Sungurlu (Turkey)” etc.
One of her poem published an American anthology named “The Literary Parrot Series-1 and series-2 respectively (New York, USA)”. Her poems have been translated in various languages like Hindi, Bengali, Turkish, Persian, Romanian etc. And she is the author of the book “Search For Serenity”, “My Favourite Grammar”, “Paradigm”, “Beyond Gorgeous”.

 

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Extracts from The Unspeakable by Joseph Suart



An essay written to support Kate Walters’ solo exhibition
The Unspeakable at Studio KIND in Braunton North Devon, February 2023.

The Greek word, ‘Kore’, derives from a root meaning ‘vital force’ and ‘refers to the principle that makes plants and animals grow’ (Agamben & Ferrando 2010 p 6). The Kore is any untethered girl or woman whose sexuality may be yet budding or budding again and again. It is used to refer as much to any unmarried woman who may be sexually active as to one who has not yet awoken to her sexual life. It is also used in reference to those who are old yet still powerful, ‘children with white hair’ such as the Erinyes.

We have here the story, and the images, of a form of human life that ‘does not allow itself to be “spoken” in so much as it cannot be defined by age, family, sexual identity or social role’ (Agamben & Ferrando 2010 p7). The story was communicated in language only in so much as it is heard as a poem sung from the poetic realm.

The poetic realm is imaginal and it speaks directly from the body to the body. But what if Persephone, daughter of the goddess of fecundity, was overwhelmed by her own burgeoning exuberance and sexuality as it pushed up from inside her like an iris budding in the morning? Pushing up and calling towards the Earth around her with the Sea-breeze and the Sun-warmth. The warming Earth, and the Sun and the Sea, are calling back and drawing the budding upwards and upwards.

She is with friends on the cliffs in the warm Spring sunshine, a gentle sea breeze is ruffling the down on their arms, playing around their ears and their knees as they laugh and bend to smell the flowers, picking them in abundance. It is in delight that she is drawn into the face of the flower, kissed into kissing and infiltrated by that irresistible scent; it tickles her nose and slips itself into her, sending a frisson down through her body and out over her skin, spreading and awakening her. What can this be that is stealing over and through her as never before? She doesn’t know what is happening and she can’t stop. Everything is different: the way it looks, the way it feels, the way she feels. Everything is new. Again. Each time she opens her eyes and feels her skin respond. And she is aching for more of it but doesn’t know what it is. This is like it is the very first time. She puts the pomegranate seed in her mouth and nuzzles its sharp flavour with her tongue till it sweetens and creeps down her throat. She is not the one she was before. Everything is gone. No one saw it happen and no one knows where she is. She has disappeared.

And with that sexually creative sensuality comes the silent knowledge of death, unnoticed until too late. Unavoidable. Necessary. Is Trauma what happens when a god takes possession of us without our consent?

‘With Death as my advisor’: prayer child arising from a falling vulva with a contained challenge of aliveness and tension in the line and expression

Trauma: not only the result of annihilatory treatment in the Death Camps.

Trauma: also the silent and unnoticed introduction of death, slipping in where it was least expected and in the very moment when we are opening our budding selves up to the world. The butterfly.

Even if predicted, the unknown event lies in wait until long after it can no longer be avoided.

Trauma: unspeakable.

In the story of Wolf Alice a young girl is found in the woods by the nuns and rescued back to their convent. She is filthy and goes on all fours and huddles growling in the corner snarling at them. She doesn’t hear words of love, and never has, but she has felt the tongue of love from her wolf-mother. Though named by Wolf Alice, is she not also vitalised by Kore and so Persephone by another name? Is she not ‘the bud of flesh in the kind lion’s mouth’ (A. Carter 1979)? Untameable, she is given to the Duke who feeds on the dead, exhuming recent graves in the local churchyard at night, lurching off with a recent-bride’s torso slung over his shoulder. Death is all around her and she is unafraid. She watches the moon waxing to full and is awoken by the bleeding between her legs. The Duke of Death is ambushed and shot. And Wolf Alice, newly emerging into herself under the gentle caress of her own care, is able to share that loving touch with him. Her loving tongue soothes him as he struggles to survive the wounds of murderous intent inflicted by the humans ambushing him from the Church.

In The Remnants of Auschwitz Agamben delineates that which eludes being captured by words: the trauma of annihilation. In The Unspeakable Girl Agamben’s exploration of the Eleusinian Mystery rites appears to present an alternative understanding of Persephone’s trauma as being one that leads to an experience of ecstatic re-birth. The essence of this experience refuses colonisation or interpretation, is not restricted to an elite or retained for the select, but is open to all. It cannot be transmitted or described; it can only be experienced in the body. The Kore, the young girl, the essence of vital life, is re-born from the trauma. This is Wolf Alice. This is also Little Kate being brought back to an enlivened beingness through the tiny ink drawings and the paintings.

The paintings in this exhibition of the Unspeakable are like still-shot images from a renaissance of life out of the trauma of the once lost. They pulse with life caught momentarily in an eternal present, balanced between an impossibly uncertain past and a tremulously reached-for future. In Kate Walters’ work presented in this exhibition we see these images being nursed into being out of the inchoate uncertainties of her own traumatic experience which is both hers and that of all of us who, confronted with the shock of the not-understood, continue struggling towards awareness, continue pushing and being pulled towards the sun.

As we can see in the texture and gesture of line, colour and medium, embodiment of ink or oil pigment, these moments of suspension are both powerful and fragile, constantly eluding us and on the point of disappearing. 

Our experience in that ‘semantic void’ is to witness and to have testimony of that moment impressed upon us primarily in, not through, our body’s senses. These works are themselves unspeakable because they have to be understood in the moment of being that is held in the body. They are also moments in which seeing the Medusa becomes revelatory rather than deathly.

Little Kate, as she comes into view through the ink spilling itself over the typed words of little books, brings with her something from her past and ours that gets reworked in the very act of her formation and this process of vitalization, of renaissance, appears almost epiphanic. It is for this that Little Kate is also Kore, Persephone, kissing the flower thrusting into her whole face, overwhelmed by her own sex and so vulnerable to being captured and exploited by the male gaze of patriarchal power and having to find an Eleusinian way to resist.

Agamben writes with reference to Averroes (aka Ibn Rushd) that ‘imagination delineates a space in which we are not yet thinking, in which thought becomes possible through an impossibility to think’ (Agamben 2007 p55-6), and that thinking is made possible by uniting (copulating) with the phantasms/images of imagination and memory, ‘which are the ultimate constituents of the human and the only avenues to its possible rescue’ (Agamben 2007 p56).

The image suspended and charged with time requires an experiential union within the poetic and imaginal body of the artist and thereafter of the witness. This is the place where meaning comes into being, where soul is made and where psychic reality is enabled to emerge. The psychic reality of who each one of us experiences ourselves to be, the collective psychic reality of our daily cultural experience, is formed by this unfolding process.

(Edited by Kate Walters March 2023)

Bibliography
     ‘Agamben & Ferrando 2010’ refers to:
Giorgio Agamben & Monica Ferrando The Unspeakable Girl, translated by Leland de la Durantaye & Annie Julia Wyman. Seagull Books 2014 (ISBN 978 0 8574 2 083 1)
     A Carter 1979 refers to:
Angela Carter The Bloody Chamber. Vintage 2006 (ISBN 9780099588115) (quote is from p. 146)
     The Remnants of Auschwitz refers to:
Giorgio Agamben Remnants of Auschwitz Translated by Daniel Heller-Roazen. Zone Books 2002 (ISBN 978 1 890951 17 7)
     Agamben 2007 refers to:
Giorgio Agamben Nymphs Translated by Amand Minervini. Seagull Books 2013 (ISBN 978 0 8574 2 094 7)

The Unspeakable by Kate Walters
25th February – 17th March 2023


Open Wednesdays to Saturdays 12:30-17:30
Free entry
 
 
‘Trauma is the necessary encounter with an unavoidable catastrophe.’
      – Jesse Selkin
 
Kate Walters’ exhibition of watercolours and oil paintings, accompanied by sketchbooks and poetry, gather together works from the past twenty years as she has moved closer to, and away from, traumatic events in her life.
 
Kate has recently begun to focus on her inner child, supplying her with a number of sketchbooks in which she can explore, as Little Kate, many partially remembered events, and the pathways to healing that creativity and attention can bestow. These paintings explore the important roles of eros, bodily knowing, dreaming, animal protectors and shamanic knowing in penetrating the areas revealed by awareness brought through trauma.

For more information head to www.katewalters.co.uk

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Night Tripper

This show features tracks by

Quicksilver Messenger Service, Country Joe and the FIsh, Screamin j hawkins, Jimi Hendrix EXP, Willie Nelson and more.

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Unsung Hero: Phil Bayliss (1951-2023)

 

A brief celebration from his friend Alan Dearling

Early morning, by email, Phil contacted me about a music review we were working together on. He then went out for his customary morning run on a Wednesday a few weeks ago. Returned home, had a heart attack, was placed in an induced coma. His life-support was turned off the following weekend. He was an organ donor. Vikki, Phil’s wife told me: “The wonderful thing that has come out of it, is that Phil has been able to donate his kidneys and liver to help save the lives of three others. Various medical teams were on hand around the country to receive the organs and the patients were in theatre waiting.”  I later heard that his eyes were also donated to new recipients.

I met Phil first as one of the original co-organisers of The Grizzly, an inspirational and marginally bonkers all-terrain race which has become one of the most over-subscribed long-distance running events in the UK. From the late 1980s he quickly became a close friend. We holidayed together, went to gigs and festivals (and did our share of after-exercise pints), and ran and walked many hundreds, indeed, thousands of miles together. But he also acted as my copy-editor and inspirational supporter and colleague. He worked with me on social policy books, my two novels and books about festivals, new Travellers, environmental projects and cultural diversity in Africa, Turkey and Australia. And for over ten years Phil assisted me with my music and arts articles and reviews for ‘Gonzo’ magazine (www.gonzoweekly.com) and more recently for ‘International Times’ (www.internationaltimes.it). For me and these magazines he was one hell of an ‘unsung hero’. I’m missing dreadfully his cheerful companionship, encouragement and creative criticism, interspersed with deviations into reggae and blues music, books, films and other interests such as his visits to the subversive ‘Dismaland’ (partly curated by Banksy and the KLF) and the on-land oil rig/play park. These are his pics.

Like myself, Phil had a number of ‘lives’. He had been a journalist, a community education teacher and adult educator, photography tutor, gained a doctorate, and latterly was an innovator in training for prison educators based from Plymouth University. For many, he was lifelong sports-person, helping in organising, running, swimming and cycling events. He was motivated to strive to be the best he could be, and trained hard in swimming and cycling to achieve his ambitions to participate in a number of Iron Man challenges around the world. He particularly enjoyed our shared adventures as part of the Legbenders, a team set up to take part in the HOTBOT challenge along the UK’s South-West Coast Path, the start was in Sidmouth and the finish at East Portlemouth on the Kingsbridge Estuary (about 74miles).

Runners took turns to run/jog/walk pre-set ‘sections’ of the HOTBOT route and had to follow a route map. It included ferries across the Exe, and the other team members had to travel in their own vehicle to meet up with the next leg-weary runner.

The relay team and organisers were from Cambridge University and were very much the ‘favourites’. We’d have bet on them. But, and it was a big BUT, we were very experienced in running the South-West Coast Path.

It was a monumental challenge and Garry was almost completely zonked by the end. I think he’d run about 50 miles or more on some really arduous ‘leg-benders’!

The LEGBENDERS were victorious. Cream teas and beers and more were much enjoyed by all.

Alan, Garry, Phil and Dave – the original Legbenders!

 

But most of all he was a proper ‘mate’.

Phil’s was woodland burial. It was real celebration of Phil’s myriad, multi-faceted ‘lives’. Father, husband, grandparent, a prodigious long-distance runner. Essentially he was kind, generous and positive.

Down in Seaton, Devon, over 200 attended at the grave for woodland burial and after at a community centre for the eulogy. I was one of the pall-bearers of different heights. Small at front, me at back. Bit scary across an uneven field. But a privilege.

A well thought-out and executed event. It  even included two a cappella singers, recorded music in the woodland and original poems.

Luv ‘n respect to Phil, Vikki, his family and many friends.

 

Dave, Alan and Phil in Happy Leg-bending times

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In The Chapel In The Moonlight

‘Till the organ turns to rust’

In the chapel in the moonlight
The organ turns to rust
And snowy hoots resound.
Its pipes spill faith, betray trust,
Bleed wind from blinking, steely eyes;
Its stops no longer start,
The leaking nave invites the skies…

In the chapel in the moonlight
When the organ turns to rust
Unhandled manuals are wrenched apart:
All stays unexplained a priori,
Resurgam over the lintel lies
And pro tem is never forever
In such dispirited damp…

In the chapel in the moonlight
As the organ turns to rust
A hologrammed celebrant
Depresses keys unlocking an unidentifiable tune –
Neither ancient nor modern
It whimpers and meanders
Between the sodden graves…

To the chapel in the moonlight
While nesting nightjars peek
Canters an errant knight hobo,
Heart threadbare on his sleeve.
Knocking back a stirrup cup,
He mutters a hollow mantra
To glimpse his absent angel,
Diaphanous talismanic lacuna.

Then he knew the time had come as it surely must
For ash to propagate to ashes and roses choke in dust
And he cradled the organ as it turned to rust…

 

 

 

Julian Isaacs
Image  Nick Victor

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A Pre-emptive Note on Sensitivity

 

With all the furore about Bowdlerisation of children’s classics, it feels important to check my memories on the shelf marked Best Left Unopened; to crack those colonial spines, passed down from my mother’s mother, and wake the shamed dead in order to set them straight. But there aren’t any words except dedications from aunts and uncles born out of cotton dust and coal smoke, marking birthdays, Christmases, and the rush of storm clouds across burgeoning cities; and every page is a map to where the pavements end, to where ships freight inexplicable machines, and to the point at which children test their homemade wings against an insouciant sky. Once upon a time, my grandmother found language wrapped in a blue silk ribbon. Once upon a time, my mother painted small puppets between stiff embossed covers. Once upon a time, I thumbed these pages like an almanac charting the movements of stars, tides, and night cars crossing the bridge between floating islands glimpsed through mist. There’s a photo slipped between pages and, though I don’t know who all these smiling people are, I know they’re mine. When I’m gone, should anyone care, you can change all the words you like: just keep the full stops, the clouds, and these smiling strangers.

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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Can’t Get There From Here

Alistair Fitchett on ‘The Tastemaker’ by Tony King. Published by Faber and Faber.

Do you ever stand in your younger self’s shoes, glance into the future and wonder how on earth you got there from here? Tony King does this in ‘The Tastemaker’, wondering at the end of the book how his young self in Eastbourne, hearing ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ for the first time, could possibly believe the way in which the/his future was about to unfurl. A life spent living the rock’n’roll dream, yet doing so essentially under the radar. A life lived with the likes of Elton John, The Rolling Stones and John Lennon. Fairy tales are more believable.

To say that ‘The Tastemaker’ is a memoir is something of a red herring, for really it is a scattershot mix of moments clipped from the dipping wings of memory; anecdotes stitched together into some semblance of chronological narrative form. To say that it barely hangs together as a book is a criticism only in so much as one gets the distinct feeling that the written word is by far the least effective medium for Tony King to be sharing these escapades and observations. They read like short bursts of excited, barely connected slippages of time. You can almost hear the gaps between the paragraphs being filled with King taking a moment before saying “and then there was the time when…” or “did I ever tell you about…” and off again in a breathless charge into the sequinned spangle of the past. There is a definite sense that ‘The Tastemaker’ would be best experienced as a series of meetings in an exclusive club where the clientele are the holograms or 22nd Century avatars of the “legends and geniuses of rock music” whose life King has shared. A club where you might be thrilled beyond belief to have been invited to but in which, after a little while, you are not entirely certain you would like to stay for the long haul.

I have long had a problem with the notion of ‘genius’. It seems to me that not only is it often so easily bandied about as to be meaningless, but it also diminishes the very qualities that make individuals successful. Leaving aside the complexities of defining ‘success’, it strikes me that the term ‘genius’ infers some ineffable natural quality that in turn effectively masks the requirement for hard work to turn that quality into something worthwhile. The mediation of ‘geniuses’ perpetuates this mythology, but that is part of the role of the Entertainment Industry after all. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. The man who, in many instances throughout the 1960s and certainly the 1970s, was Tony King. Working as hard as the artists he was promoting and having almost as much of a ball whilst doing so. Perhaps more so, since he would be all but invisible outside of the rarified circles he mixed in. ‘Celebrity’ must be a curse in many respects, but such is the price.

‘The Tastemaker’, however, is hardly a book to fully lift the curtain of Oz and reveal the grubby inner workings. Such an action would surely be entirely alien to Tony King, a man whose loyalty and common courtesy emanate graciously from the pages just as effectively as does his devotion to the music he felt driven to worship and serve. There are far too many extraordinary anecdotes in the book to single out any for particular note but all of them reverberate gloriously with a warmth and presence that encapsulates the era in which they take place. Historical details contextualise everything in a marvellous flickery haze, like watching home movies in a living room clouded by smoke rather than the blockbusters of the time in cavernous cinemas. Or, to put it in musical terms, like having Elton John perform ‘Your Song’ in your front room rather than in Madison Square Garden. There is an illusory intimacy that is surely not altogether accidental. It might be a glimpse behind a curtain, but there is too an implicit understanding that there is more hidden somewhere else. Curtains cloaking curtains. Rooms within rooms. As I said, fairy tales seem more real than this. We love to suspend belief, or at least to edit our gaze.

Reading ’The Tastemaker’ it is tempting to wonder whether the times for the likes of John Lennon, Elton John, The Rolling Stones or Tony King might ever truly come again. Do these ‘legends’ belong to a distinct moment in time when Popular Culture was globally homogenised to the balancing point where shared experience was at its peak? A point from where it teetered precariously for the merest blink of an eye before plunging into the maelstrom of a torrent where distinct streams became ever more fractured and where ‘global’ recognition became lessened and shorn of value? Or is that just me projecting my own experience? Out of touch, clueless and blissfully so. Perhaps someone will write a similar book in time where names like Ed Sheeran will reverberate with the same qualities as Lennon and Jagger. And fair play if they do. Whatever…

So do you ever stand in your younger self’s shoes, glance into the future and wonder how on earth you got there from here? My own younger self would surely, like Tony King, gaze on my own unfurling future and think “what the hell…?” In turn I think the same when glancing in the rearview mirror. Head shakes. Discomfort and disbelief. No regrets, but still. Fuck sake.

There is none of this in ‘The Tastemaker’ but you have to think there is at least the possibility such moments might have passed. Perhaps not. Perhaps that’s just another one of those traits of ‘successful’ people. One of the elements that make up ‘genius’. Don’t look back. And if you do, ignore the leering unpleasantness you might see there. At most, add a faint wash of sorrow and a hint of gracious regret that is always qualified with “but what could I do?” Mostly though, celebrate the magic, the beauty and the value of the friendships. That and the love of the cats that you meet on the way…

 

 

 

 

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Finding Meaning Anywhere

 

 

 

On the Found, Mike Ferguson (Gazebo Gravy Press)

Mike Ferguson hits the found running in the sweet spot between traditional and digital culture, offering 68 witty and creative poems he has constructed or extracted from a tentative canon of the American novel. No waiting on the muse or bullshit about inspiration: Ferguson rolls his sleeves up and fills the bowl with text, mixes it up, adds something random, then abandons the recipe and shapes his work with the mind’s own cookie cutters.

Leave something behind on a recent trip? Fill out the lost property form to report what was lost and we’ll see if someone has turned it in. Make sure you have printed off leaflets and knocked on all the doors in your road, then make sure you’re certain that your original text was just that, not simply a rearrangement of other people’s words or phrases. I mean you can’t complain about losing what wasn’t yours in the first place, that simply wouldn’t be right.

‘The artist formerly known as “author,” therefore, does not, in the imaginary image of the divine creator, produce something out of nothing. She or he is always and already responding to the scene or culture in which one already finds oneself and is, for this reason, responsible only for the manner, method, and means of that particular response.’
     – David J. Gunkel, Of Remixology. Ethics and Aesthetics after Remix

Found poetry is a simulator, a stimulator, with the world being viewed through any number of authors’ eyes. Ferguson uncover the mystery that lies within other fictions, secret texts and alternative readings, a census of misconceptions or, as one poem title puts it, ‘Our World Version’. Because this is how we navigate the world and words now, tripping over our own feet as we try to read our phones, watch a film, reply to emails, or drive the car listening to music in the wrong order and letting a machine instruct us on how to get to our destination. Poets usually find their poems in prose written by others.

‘Human behaviour / is poetry’ declares Ferguson via Salinger, or the other way round, which is why poetry is now like human behaviour: confused, bewildered, lost and immediate, as concerned with the now as the then, as engaged with the fragmented and momentary as longevity and big ideas.

     a person who was

     ever confused
     will learn something

     when poetry is

Writers collect stuff people find; found poems take existing texts and refashion them, reorder them, and present them as poems. Ezra Found can be visited in any industrial or residential building built or refurbished before the year 2000 but some missing people are never found. Collision investigators are appealing for information because it doesn’t rhyme, and research suggests that authors who sit for more than eight hours a day with no physical activity have a risk of dying similar to that posed by metaphor, assonance, scansion and postmodern theory. The found has been in long term decline since after the Second World War.

‘I found it difficult to find a way to convey my idea and work out how I would explain my poems. I found an enormous collection of language, paragraphs, punctuation and books to sift through. Clearly I wasn’t the only one looking to combine foraged materials with traditional techniques, seek the undiscovered, the classic and the contemporary,’ is the sort of thing Mike Ferguson might have said but didn’t.

He exists to educate, connect and inspire. He believes community and kindness are key ingredients and that poems are forged through the fire of conflict. He is ‘far out / in the / languorous / world’, knows that ‘Artists are / make-believe’. The author is yet to be formally identified but it is believed he is ‘disgracefully diffused’ and possesses ‘a migration of / voices’. His ‘Emptiness / is a guide to / inclusion’, his work ‘a mouthswarm / of the indescribable’. Found is the past tense and past participle of find.

You must report all found poems to the Local Authority warden service by Law. If you wish to keep hold of a found poem then this must be done with permission. We are champions of legendary forgotten makers, can literally find a needle in the haystack, especially if you tell us where it is. We are known to have found meaning anywhere, and make it our business to put your found writing online. ‘If you didn’t want me / I’d go nuts’.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

(first published at Tears in the Fence)

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BIT OF AN UPDATE

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Musical Histories

PZ77. A Town A Time A Tribe, Simon Parker (391pp, £12, Scryfa)
Whole World in an Uproar. Music, Rebellion and Repression 1955-1972, Aaron. J. Leonard
(319pp, £12.99, Repeater Books)
Now and Forever. Towards a Theory and History of the Loop, Tilman Baumgärtel
(389pp, £23.99, Zero Books)

If you look hard enough, every town has its own history, its own web of events, places and moments, worthy of attention. Penzance in 1977 saw The Ramones visit and shake things up, and PZ77 is an oral history of that summer and beyond, when punk arrived in person and Cornwall came alive with musical ambition and subversion. Simon Parker has collected and shaped an oral history from the recollections of over 90 people, organising them into chapters as a playlist, each ending a named track and instructions to PRESS PLAY.

The book is at various times repetitive, rambling, nostalgic and endearing; by the end the reader will know the back streets, cafés, pubs and venues of this town at the end of the (train) line like the back of their hand. Weaving throughout the roll-ups and coffee-cup lingering, the drinking, posing, love affairs and teenage groups are musical missives from elsewhere: Van de Graaf Generator, Barclay James Harvest, Hawkwind, Genesis and Greenslade, gradually giving way to the new sounds of Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, The Damned, The Adverts, The Stranglers, The Vibrators in addition to The Ramones.

It’s hard to equate comments which compare The Ramones to Status Quo (quite rightly imho) to the effect the band seemed to have had on Penzance where, according to Jeremy Beeching, ‘[t]he unfolding punk world seemed like another galaxy, with 1970s Cornwall being very cut off’. But in retrospect the world of music, fashion and behaviour certainly changed, with shocked parents, energised youth and confused venue managers having to process and adapt to the sight of ripped skinny jeans, torn leather jackets and the sound of short, noisy, angry songs, for themselves.

Once again, it’s clear that one of punk’s most important achievements was the opening-up of rock to those without traditional musical skills, a giving of permission to have a go and speak out and make music for yourself. So much of this book is not only about fandom and record collections, but about local bands forming and breaking up, going on tour, practicing, and embracing DIY composition, management, promotion and fashion. Interestingly enough, just as London post-punk often drew on reggae, Cornish punk seems to have been happy sharing space with the folk music and singer-songwriters prevalent at the time. Maybe it’s just the hippy vibe that to this day underpins and sometimes sabotages Cornish ambitions and businesses?

Whatever the case, PZ77 is an entertaining and witty, if slightly self-mythologising, history of one town’s subcultures. It’s a lively, personal, and engaging read, which re-presents and remembers a time many of us lived through.

Chronologically, Aaron J Leonard’s book ends before PZ77 even starts. It documents American society’s attempts to suppress and censor the music it did not understand or comprehend, along with the lifestyles that accompanied them. It’s a story most of us already know in part, although Leonard has made use of extensive research, including newly released FBI files, to produce his ‘new critical history’.

It is a story of non-acceptance and rejection, of protecting financial and power institutions and investments, of racism, media manipulation and censorship. It evidences bewilderment and fear, along with institutional rejection of the idea of free speech, especially when it comes to protesting against war and racial segregation, advocating the use of recreational drugs, or questioning traditional morals and work ethics.

So here is the evidence of who was watching who, of why some performers and acts made it big and others didn’t, of paranoid and fearful responses to change, and a desperation to protect the status quo, the myth of suburban middle class white affluent America. Here are people in power who are afraid of Bob Dylan, of Phil Ochs, of Mississippi Blues and West Coast psychedelia, of Native Americans, Blacks, Asians, sex, sexuality, electric guitars, amplification, long hair and make-up. Or maybe just afraid full stop.

Despite the persecution and surveillance of Nina Simone, Sam Cooke, Johnny Cash, Pete Seeger and assorted folkies, as well as whole swathes of other musicians, there was no stopping the music. If the ‘revolution’ failed it wasn’t because of the FBI or CIA, it was because the counterculture imploded and young people grew up to mostly become what they had never wanted to be: new versions of their parents, part of the problem not the answer. And of course big business bought up the music, neutered it, and quickly learnt how to sell it to us.

Now and Forever is far removed from social revolution, it is a detailed, exhaustive and sometimes exhuasting exploration of ‘the loop’ in music, although it touches upon film and the visual arts too. My main problem with it is that Baumgärtel conflates loops with repetition: I don’t mean to be pedantic but surely loops are analogue and in due course decay and stretch, which is very different from digital sequencers or musicians repeating phrases or sequences?

Whilst he soon asserts that ‘[i]f you repeat the same thing it becomes music’ – which I’d question as a rule or a given anyway, he seems less able to take on board the fact that a repeated thing changes, because it is preceded and followed by itself; that is it changes in the hearing if not the delivery. I’m also not willing to accept that Sam Phillips’ treatment of Elvis Presley’s recordings are to do with loops: an echo is not a loop!

However, when I stop grunting about these issues, the book has some fantastic episodes. I’m especially drawn to his chapters on ‘Pierre Schaeffer and the French musique concrète’, ‘Karlheinz Stockhausen and the Music of the Sound Laboratories’, and the later cluster of material which progresses from ‘La Monte Young, Andy Warhol and the Suspension of Time’ to Terry Riley and then early Steve Reich before considering psychedelia. Unfortunately, having explored Ken Kesey’s anarchic use of sound on the Merry Pranksters bus, we get a somewhat laboured and overbaked chapter about the Beatles, focussing on ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ and ‘Revolution 9′, along with an explanation of what a mellotron is or was. Whilst the Beatles may well have been influenced by other composers’ use of loops, it’s hard to take their experimental dabblings any more seriously than their Eastern mysticism.

As I’ve said above, much of this book is fascinating stuff, although the use of a repeated film kiss as a starting point is bewildering, as is the conflation of Warhol’s screenprinted grids with audio loops. Along with better editing (I don’t think Baumgärtal’s repetitions of quotes and phrases is deliberate), I’d like to have seen more consideration of contemporary dance music which makes use of repetition, and more about how music can ‘destroy subjectivity’, when we are immersed in it or it is used as a sonic weapon. Maybe the remit of the book is simply too wide? The idea of the suspension of time, the creation of minimal music and use and abuses of technology would fill a book, as would the consideration of music composed in the (pre-digital) sound studio. I guess the ‘Towards’ in the title is a kind of get out clause, and I can’t deny it’s an intriguing and complex history that the author has assembled.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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BARMAID


 
The book of poetry I’d bought was worse even than I’d reckoned.
I drank a margarita fast, and then I drank a second.
 
How the hell did that book win prizes, and its author accolades?
Thank God the bar had very cute barmaids.
 
I gave the book to one of them and she seemed quite enthused.
If love results, the poet’s talent will have been well used.

 

 

 

© Mark Halliday & Martin Stannard, 2023
Picture Nick Victor

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ANOTHER BILLY


 
Billy tried painting nudes but they made him too nervy
though he had to admit they were his kind of curvy.
 
In sheepskin coats his models he shrouded
Lest by excess of longing his vision be clouded.
 
‘Twas to no avail. His hands would not stop shaking
And it was dreadful to see the mess he was making.

 

 

© Mark Halliday & Martin Stannard, 2023
 

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Et Tu, Radio 2?

 
 
Ken Bruce may as well be for England at least, the new Lenny;
Broadcasting’s next martyr, as Radio 2 does him down.
For like the great Lenny Bruce with the cops in those wildcat days
 
Of the Sixties, today’s roaring twenties have rolled him not
From a jazz age but to a seemingly crumbling position
Where even the softest rock crushes crowns. As a Scot,
 
The old shade of Robert the Bruce will remind him that bravery
Under fire, duress, or here, firing is another phoenix-like call
To sift and stir ancient ashes and claim the air now unburdened
 
Of a corporate claim on each wing.  They want a younger audience,
Kenneth says, and so it has been decided to exchange scythe
And needle for someone already content with their plate,
 
As an imagined audience rush like dogs at the gate for Pop’s
Postthey, and where woke in the morning has less awareness
Than my time. In the light of this shift, even wisdom cannot quite
 
Compensate. We’re putting them all out to pasture right now,
By which I don’t just mean Broadcasters. Society’s view on age,
Says him aging, is a death sentence scored on the face. And while
 
That maybe so in every line or change there’s a lesson to which
The young of mind should now listen: the new is a nudging.
It is not a demand to replace. We should not diminish a star
 
In sky or on earth, just because it is older. Will The Rolling Stones
Stoop without Charlie or will Start Me Up, still revive?
An eighty year old McCartney will tour. Ringo Starr seems immortal.
 
Just as the work of Townshend and Davies continues to flow
As age thrives. Weller and Springsteen strum on, as the beautiful
Duran Duran start to resemble the mums of the girls who once
 
Love them, and Damon Albarn a generation along is prettier
Still than most women while he remains King of song.
Stevie Nicks shines. Rickie Lee Jones remains the faultless girl
 
On the bonnet. Kate Bush’s myth enchants always as she stays
In the world she has made. Berkoff, Sinclair, Harper, Brown,
Each one prospers. Edward Bond writes the future as Tom Waits
Stirs his nightshade. Peter Gabriel differs in tiny details after decades.
Sting’s skin bears time’s traces. And yet now the beautiful Linda
Ronstadt can’t sing. Parkinsons holds her hands. Seeing that talent
 
Contained is so tragic. And yet that face, so beguiling has wisdom
Within. Spirit wins. Only Phil Collins wilts as fans worry for him.
And so while these figures are fragile they each have
 
An unequalled force at this time. Ken is not of their kind,
But he is of the crowd they created. His views and standards
Would have been found at the summit to which these talents
 
Had climbed. Take the communicating Chorus away
And the startling verse becomes rootless. It becomes lost
Amongst other verses in a cosmos that even the digital dream
 
Can’t define. In ten years possibly, mine will be a world
Without heroes. Or heroines – maybe longer, as the women
Of course remain strong. But if certain Caesers are cut,
 
Who is the most brutal Brutus? As friends and countrythey falter,
Who can forebear life’s full song? We are cutting everything:
Cash, common sense, hearts and bus routes.
 
The world is unwinding. Radio 2. Putin. England:
Is this what you want to go on?
These singers sang to feel free and they sang about freedom.
 
We seem to have forgotten those lyrics. If something like Ken’s
Yen is fading, to what kind of station do you wish to listen to
And belong? This then is a poem that’s made from a time
 
Of true testing. Bruce and Radio 2 one example of the stumble
And slip beneath floods, which suddenly turn to drought,
As we awake, barred and barren. So, take out your own discs
 
And spin them. We’re the DJ’s now. The past bloods.
 
 
 
 
                                                                                                            David Erdos  1/3/23 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
.
 
 
 
 
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The Mudcubs and the Clean-Up King

Once upon a time there lived a King who ruled over a great city. A city made up of houses, flats, bungalows and maisonettes which housed lawyers and cleaners, builders and accountants, parents, teachers and mudcubs of all shapes, sizes and descriptions. Although each of the King’s subjects were so different they all had one thing in common. To a man, woman and child they were all untidy.

Cans, wrappers, carriers, fag ends, bottles and papers were left in a constant stream, like a snail’s trail, behind each of the cities inhabitants. Their cars pumped out a lethal cocktail that hung in the air like smog and infected their lungs. Their factories pumped more waste which gunged up rivers killing fish and wildlife.

No one appeared to notice, least of all care, with the exception of the King. Tears sprang to his eyes each time he looked out of his palace window and saw the mess that his city was in. He had tried everything he could to get his people to tidy up. He had put up signs, taken out adverts, issued health warnings, recorded startling documentaries and offered rewards but still they would not tidy up.

In the end he decided there was only one thing for it. So, he took off his crown, took off his robe, got up from his throne and walked out of his palace. He found himself a broom, a shovel and a barrow and pushed them down into the city to begin cleaning up by himself.

When the Clean-Up King got out onto the streets he found things were worse than he had thought. There were hills of junk and mountains of rubbish. That wasn’t all though, then there was the smell. The stink from all that thrown away food, scraps and leftovers, as it rotted and decomposed was terrible. The Clean-Up King held his nose and set to work.

It wasn’t long before he had filled his barrow. Outside the city he remembered that there was a great, deep quarry. He wheeled his barrow out of the city gates and along to the quarry. He emptied his barrow and started back again. He hadn’t made much difference, the junk mountains looked as high as before, but he dug his shovel in one more time and began to fill up again.

After a time people began to notice the Clean-Up King. Some people stopped to watch him, then started to make jokes and laugh. Other people joined them and then there was a crowd all pointing and laughing. Once, when he had just cleared up one space, a man walked out of the crowd and dropped more rubbish onto the clean ground. Everyone in the crowd clapped and cheered. The Clean-Up King kept on working.

When evening came and it became dark and cold the people in the crowd began to drift away until there were only seven people left watching the King, the seven mudcubs. After a time he noticed them there and called to them to come over. “Why are you doing all this?” they asked. “Sit down here with me,” said the Clean-Up King, “and I’ll tell you.”

He told them about a different world with grass, trees and flowers, animals, birds and fish. A world with deep, rich, beautiful colours where everything was fresh, clean and sparkling. “Oh, if only you could see the glint of the sun shimmering on the river’s ripples,” he told them and while he told them it seemed as though they could.

“Why don’t you help me?” he asked them. “We could get so much more done if you would.” They thought for a moment. “People would laugh at us,” they said, “our parents wouldn’t like it, we’d get dirty, and there’s too much anyway, you’ll never get it finished!” “Don’t worry,” said the Clean-Up King, “you start when you’re ready”, and he got back to work.

The mudcubs watched him as he shovelled and brushed by himself. “He could do with some help,” they said, “he’ll never get through on his own. We could help for an hour or so and then go home.” One took the broom, another the shovel, the King wheeled the barrow and the work moved a little faster.

In the morning the crowd came back. Only this time they didn’t just stand and laugh. This time they dropped rubbish, broke the broom, threw away the shovel and tipped over the barrow. They made the mudcubs run away, but the Clean-Up King still went on working. He righted the barrow and, using his hands, refilled it. As he wheeled it away the whole crowd followed him.

When they reached the quarry, and saw where he was going, they all began to shout. “In the pit, in the pit!” Then they all rushed forward and pushed the Clean-Up King into the quarry with his rubbish. He lay on the heap of rubbish, clutching his side, when down came a torrent of cans, bottles, tins and other junk. The crowd were pelting him with rubbish. They did not stop until he was completely covered up and they could not even see one hair on his head.

Back in the city the mudcubs sat on the pavement and cried. They had seen it all but there was nothing that they could have done. Suddenly they heard someone speaking to them and it sounded like the Clean-Up King. They looked all around but they couldn’t see anyone. “I’m really here,” said the King, “it’s just that you can’t see me anymore.” “We can still clear up,” he said, ” but I will need your help more than ever.”

The mudcubs picked up shovels and went to find barrows. They started to work while the Clean-Up King told them all about the other beautiful world. When people came to watch they told them what the Clean-Up King had said about the other beautiful world. Most people laughed and said that it was all their imagination but some people joined them and began to help. Then the Clean-Up King would come and speak to them too.

They are all still working now. The junk mountains have got smaller but they are still there. More people have joined them but not enough. They dream of a day when everyone lives in the other beautiful world but they know it won’t happen until everyone in the city joins in their Clean-Up. What about you? Won’t you?

 

 

Jonathan Evens
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

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My Other Friend Steve

 

Ended drug addicted. Arched a man
on a dark sidewalk with a finger
like a gun in the back yet had to
punch him down for his money.

Taunted a blackmailed lover held
a gun that banged and folded
Steve on a dirt alley.
Years before, Steve heard complaints

about Dad, said Hey, Zen fable:

A man alone, thigh deep halfway
across a fast river, stops, legs shaking,
and a monk calls from the far bank:
Tired of carrying your father?

Steve’s dad: Beat his son routinely.

 

 

 

George Shelton

 

 

.

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Complacent Humans

 

https://thevegancalculator.com/animal-slaughter/

NOTES:

Max Ehrmann gave up working as the credit manager for his family
s meat-packing business in 1912 at the age of 40. He became a writer. His most famous work is the prose poem DESIDERATA (1927).


Max Ehrmann
’s original words:


1 women
2 women
3 women’s
4 women
5 human
6 life
7 music
8 human
9 I have added an extra thousand to give a sense of the length and scale of our atrocities. Animal murder has been our “tongue of shame” for at least 2.5 million years. We humans have enslaved our fellow beings in order to kill them for at least 11,500 years.
10 playthings
11 claim your

The italics are my own

 

 

.

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About the War

 

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At The Q of The Summer

 

Now, at the Q of the summer, beginning, the shadows of the steeples
have not yet dared to enter inside
the the temple. Words are unformed;
sentences are unstructured. The beggar,
crazy, curses all who does not provide.
The steps to the dark door ajar host
the slumber party of the dogs. I walk
forever, tapping the tips of the shadows
displaying my OCD to no one and all.
Ten helping hands chop the weather-change
in the rice bowl of the market. The spices are fresh.
The smell is stale. Those sweat-crystals
do not make the food salty enought yet.

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

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 The Pond


 
The pond sits lazy
on its bed all summer reflecting heat back
at the sky. Three doors down the street
is an empty house whose owner
was a mystery. The pair of Black-necked Stilts
returned this week together
with a juvenile still learning
water’s ways. The old lady’s son got into
the kind of trouble only
police cars know. A Greater Yellowlegs took off
and displayed the white on its tail
all the way across
the sun’s cool ripples. First it was
a dry waller’s truck parked in the driveway
and later the painter’s a few days
before the notices were posted on the door
to stop further work. The small grebe
has a mate this year
and they take turns disappearing and resurfacing.
The son never came back. This time of year
the Wigeons arrive, more Coots, Ruddy Ducks
and Buffleheads. The neighbors take turns
reading what is posted and
speculating on what happened. A Black Phoebe
picks insects from the light
and perches on a fencepost with a view
of winter floating gently
on the day’s reflections. There’s work
to be done before anyone
can move back in, the kind requiring
a shaman to dispel the curse of ill health and
set a fire for arrest warrants. He will lead
the sky in prayer. He will show
the water birds the safest
place to land.

 

 

David Chorlton
Photo Nick Victor

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God is a flower

 

I love people telling me
They write poetry

But they’re not searching
For the same Truth as me

Theirs is more to do
With a flower
Blooming in spring

Mines is more
To do with

How do I turn
This flower
Into God

 

 

Paul Butterfield Jr
Pic Claire Palmer

 

 

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carmen cygni

black labradors bark on an Isle of Dogs beach
and beluga sturgeon whistle Blackberry Way
as they lay black eggs, shiny as the Shard.
a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
but the sweetness of its song could not compare
to the fiscal fishy arias of the sturgeon’s
still extant forefather, the anathemata of
the beluga whale – canary of the Thames.
the King told the Queen and the Queen
told the under footman: we must have some caviar
for the royal slice of toast.
upstream at Thames Eyot
a choir of black swans brood in wait
preparing their carmen cygni for the spectre of exit,
the republican party’s uninvited ghost.
on Oliver’s Island where Cromwell once hid
no state of grace is here to stay
and the people are wondering what they did –
the sturgeon never no more sing nor lay.
eels on Eel Pie Island sing the blues
wriggling in uncomfortable nostalgia
for remembrance of things past.
the first black swan along the way
opens its beak and prepares to speak
as the silent sturgeon wonder
what on earth it’s going to say.

(With kind acknowledgment to BBC Radio 4’s Broadcasting House. Beluga whales are known as the canaries of the sea, hence those on the Thames are the canaries of the Thames.)

 

 

Julian Isaacs

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ONLY TO SLOWLY FADE

 

 

What do you mean nice?

 It’s not nice you idiot! It’s art… – Bertolt Brecht

 

Artistic forms, styles and movements have a mortal inner life, like societies they evolve through time – they follow a hyperbolic evolutionary curve, reaching a peak of development, only to slowly fade as they are superseded by other diversions. For example Brecht’s The Threepenny Opera (after John Gay) was an ‘occasional’ work claiming an anti-establishment leftist agenda that to tell the truth never convinced anybody at the time – on the other hand it has been correctly observed that the implications of its style and form have not been fully digested, even today.

The cynical tone of the songs and the cavalier disregard for highbrow/lowbrow distinctions permeating the work as a whole opened up a new approach to the theatre that proved problematic for subsequent generations. Few are prepared to admit that, in Berlin in 1928 at the Theatre am Schiffbauerdamm, ‘serious’ art music and opera died an inglorious death.

The political spasms of the twentieth century, together with the rise of the mass media, still obscure the passing of nineteenth century aesthetic categories, including the avant-garde and the seriously experimental – the radicalism of the Second Vienna School notwithstanding.

The Munich Opera House was destroyed in October 1943, prompting Richard Strauss to draft several bars of music ‘in mourning’. Listening to the final work, Metamorphosen, one senses not just the horror of those ‘dark days’ but also, in its tenuous echoes of Tristan and ‘Eroica’, a lamentation for the end of an entire phase of European musical sensibility.

 

 

 

A.C. Evans

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Free.

Kites run away
The vast blue torpedo
Summer’s wintry song
The spring zest
All nonchalantly blue
Sometimes reddish in a murky way
Long roads lead to nowhere
Petals lose their appetite
Keeps the token in a sugarcane
A safebox to point out my fault lines
Where do i reside after giving all my springs
Gigantic metropolis and a narrowed
Necromancy
Truth hides in volumes
Still adrift In the world sky
National treasure too pointy to mark out
My locked treasure map
Feathers pigeons know the truth
Nature is brave enough
It wears the heart out loud
My simplicity is a facade
Murmuring safety pins amongst ruins
Tobacco pink promised land
The utopia of crime and punishment
A beaded paradox
Maya dipped my simple smile
It knows how to be brave enough
My feathers are free.

 

 

 

Sayani Mukherjee.
Picture Rupert Loydell

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COFFEE!

 

Sitting under the cerulean sky

Gazing at the twinkling stars

I see

Time flies

Like a butterfly.

When the wind caresses my face

I feel every bit of its pace.

As my eyes looked at him

The aroma entering my nostrils

Removes the negativity of mind,

Feeds me enthusiasm,

And awaken the inner spirit.

How good it would be

If I’m bittersweet?

All my chaos vanishes away

When I sip you

My dear coffee.

 

 

 

 

 

Monalisa Parida 
Photo Nick Victor

Bio:-  A post graduate student of English literature from India, Odisha and a prolific poetess. She  is very active in social media platforms and her poems have also been translated into different  languages and publish in various e-journals.

   She has got 100 international award for writing poetry. Her poems have been publishing international e-journals “New York parrot”, “The Writers Club” (USA), “Suriyadoya literary  foundation”, “kabita Minar”, “Indian Periodical” (India) and “Offline Thinker “, “The Gorkha Times “ ( Nepal), “The Light House”(Portugal), “Bharatvision”(Romania), “International cultural forum for humanity and creativity”(Aleppo, Syria), “Atunispoetry.com”(Singapore) etc. And also published in various newspapers like “The Punjabi Writer Weekly(USA)”,  “News Kashmir (J&K, India)”, Republic of Sungurlu (Turkey)” etc.

One of  her poem published an American anthology named “The Literary Parrot Series-1 and  series-2 respectively (New York, USA)”. Her poems have been translated in various languages like Hindi, Bengali, Turkish, Persian, Romanian etc.  And she is the author of the book “Search For Serenity”, “My Favourite Grammar”, “Paradigm”, “Beyond Gorgeous”.

 

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From Out of the Unknown

Zephyr Sounds
 

Tracklist:
Power of Zeus – Sorcerer of Isis (Instrumental Thunder Edit)
The Beatles – Tomorrow Never Knows (Leftside Wobble Edit)
The Turtles – I’m Chief Kamanawanalea
Primal Scream – Loaded
Cozy Powell – Dance With the Devil
Incredible Bongo Band – Let There be Drums
Can – A Spectacle
East of Eden – Jig-a-Jig
Mahavishnu Orchestra – Can’t Stand Your Funk
Sopwith Camel – Coke, Suede and Waterbeds
Hawkwind – Hurry On Sundown

 

Zephyr George
Steam Stock

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Stonehenge ’85



Stonehenge for the People!

STONEHENGE ’85 – Souvenir Issue
Includes first-hand accounts from The Battle of the Beanfield, June 1st 1985
Edited by Sheila Craig
32 pages, A5 booklet
Published June 1986

“The newspapers described it as a ‘battle’, we experienced it as an attack. Of course in one sense it was a battle, of ideas, ideology, but Rainbow Warriors are warriors of the spirit and do not carry arms. We went, in our vehicles with our homes on our backs. And we didn’t just take our families/our animals/our beds/our books/our clothes/ our pots and pans, we took with us the warm fires, leafy hedgerows, smokey logs crackling under the stars.

“For Stonehenge is more than a festival, it’s a way of life, a celebration of a way of living all year round. For many it’s as much a part of the annual cycle as solstice is to summer. Is it really possible to stop the solstice sunrise?

“Afterwards, to add insult to injury … the police confiscated our axes and saws and other domestic implements saying they were dangerous weapons, though it seems symbolic of the way in which the authorities are trying to undermine the survival of the travelling movement which, behind the “dirty hippies” propaganda, they find politically threatening.

“Well, we never got our axes back, or our saws, but we still have the stars, the hedgerows and the crackling log fires …”

Sheila

Read here, courtesy The Stone Club: https://stoneclub.substack.com/p/stonehenge-85

or buy this and other booklets from Unique Publications at:
https://www.unique-publications.co.uk/stonehenge-85.html


Beanfield photo by Alan Lodge

 

 

Nick Mann

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Anxiety Disorder

my liver is excised
exported to the roots
into slivers of silver moons
desecrated by the church
it is full up with flacid
hobby-horses & ministering
angels who whisper
amid perfect bloodbaths
the wreck & hollow aftermath
is afterwards forgotten in amnesty
of artichoke derision derived
from the motion of this anxiety-sea
the dovetailing of my worshipful
lord & master & ramming home
of golden platitudes exhaled.

 

 

 

Clive Gresswell
Picture Nick Victor

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VICTOR BROX

{1941-2023

Obviously, the beard
A story in (and of) itself

Was it real?
I never thought to ask

The hat
His laugh

But the music and the voice
The life he lived and loved

Those moments where
The thing he did

Was different
To what had gone before

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Steven Taylor
Photo byWilliam Ellis

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Living in the Happy Valley

 

Alan Dearling

I’ve been living in the Upper Calderdale Valley for about five years. My home is in Todmorden which lies at the cross-ways, where two valleys join into one. The long valley runs across eastwards following the River Calder and the canal running towards Halifax and Sowerby Bridge via Hebden Bridge and Luddendenfoot. The other two Upper Calder Valleys continue like two out-stretched arms towards Rochdale via Walsden and Littleborough, and on towards Burnley via Cornholme and Portsmouth.

These are the real life ‘Happy Valleys’ which have been viewed in the BBC TV series. Valleys occupied by old Mill towns and villages, the Rochdale Canal, rivers, reservoirs and the Pennines. Now the towns are cultural and social melting pots. Tourism, gentrification, nestling alongside economic and social deprivation. The reality of the Happy Valleys is much more complex, most of the time much less violent and polarised than the tower blocks, drugs, car chases and blood and guts characterised in the three series of ‘Happy Valley’ from the BBC.  

In fact, Hebden Bridge, Todmorden, Heptonstall and Halifax are cultural and music hubs. The Trades Club in Hebden hosts many major music events, likewise, the Golden Lion in Tod. ‘Kindness’ is the motto of Tod. Many bars and pubs have signs boldly proclaiming: ‘Stand by your Trans!’ Environmental actions and bio-diversity are loudly championed, but so are UFO sightings, and the waft of ‘herb’ that drifts up and down the Valleys in all directions. Crystals, bottle shops, micro pubs, charcuteries, vinyl record stalls and the famed outdoor and indoor markets. These rub shoulders with graffiti, smashed windows and young guys in hoodies driving dangerously on pavements and roads on illegal souped-up electric bikes.

Alongside that is the isolated splendour of Pennine ‘Tops’ – these are the rugged moors that have been part of many histories. They have also provided the visual backdrop for many scenes in the ‘Happy Valley’ TV series and helped make it a global phenomenon.

Obviously the three TV series, with 18 episodes, have become so popular because of the quality and ‘authenticity’ of Sally Wainright’s scripts. They engage viewers in the personal lives of Sergeant Catherine Cawood, her sister, Clare, a recovering heroin-addict and alcoholic and Catherine’s grandson, Ryan. Then there’s the bleak ‘back-story’ of the suicide of Catherine’s daughter, Rebecca, Ryan’s mum. But the leering, smiling malevolence of the murderer and sex offender Tommy Lee Royce, played by James Norton is a deeply unsettling protagonist. The ‘Happy Valley’ series has provided a veritable masterclass in acting from the stars including Sarah Lancashire and James Norton.

Both series one and two won the BAFTAs for drama series and writing, while Sarah Lancashire won the leading actress prize for the second series. The third series recently aired in January and February 2023 will in all likelihood ‘eclipse’ the success of the first two series shows which were shown on the BBC in 2014 and 2016

‘Happy Valley’ is a mix of fiction. It is set in the Calder Valley, West Yorkshire, but was filmed in many locations across the north of England. The show’s creator Sally Wainwright was born in Huddersfield and raised in Sowerby Bridge in Calderdale – both used for locations in the three series. And even HMP Wakefield prison.

In life, as in the fictional TV series, two towers loom high above casting giant shadows over Happy Valley. Here’s what is says about them in Wikipedia.

Near Kings Cross, Halifax: Wainhouse Tower, designed by the architect Isaac Booth, was originally designed as a chimney to serve the local dye works owned by John Edward Wainhouse, to satisfy the Smoke Abatement Act of 1870. Wainhouse was a keen advocate of smoke prevention and decided that a high chimney on the top of the hill would be beneficial for the townspeople. A much simpler chimney would have satisfied the requirements of the law, but with an interest in architecture Wainhouse insisted that it should be an object of beauty. It was erected in four years and completed on 9 September 1875, at a total cost of £14,000. It is the tallest structure in Calderdale and the tallest folly in the world.”

Stoodley Pike: The monument replaced an earlier structure, started in 1814 and commemorating the defeat of Napoleon and the surrender of Paris. It was completed in 1815, after the Battle of Waterloo (Napoleonic Wars), but collapsed in 1854 after an earlier lightning strike, and decades of weathering. Its replacement was therefore built slightly further from the edge of the hill. During repair work in 1889 a lightning conductor was added, and although the tower has since been struck by lightning on numerous occasions, no notable structural damage is evident. There is evidence to suggest that some sort of structure existed on the site even before the earlier structure was built. The monument is approximately 2 miles south west of Hebden Bridge and approximately 2.5 miles east of Todmorden town centre.”

‘Happy Valley’ locations include:

  • Various sites in Hebden Bridge including the railway station, Crown Street, and the Nisa convenience store, particularly Catherine’s house, filmed at Cleveland Place/Hanginroyd Lane. The NISA shop is the location for Neil’s shop and the flat where Clare and Neil live is close by Catherine’s fictional home.
  • Sowerby Bridge police station and The Moorings.
  • West View Park and Old Halifax swimming pool.
  • Fenton Street, Kings Cross.
  • Heath Hill Road, Mount Tabor and Cold Edge Road /Withens Road in Wainstalls on the (Pennine) Tops.
  • The railway viaduct in Todmorden.
  • Tower block, Tuel Lane, Sowerby Bridge.
  • Rochdale Canal.
  • Heptonstall is the site of the fictional grave of Rebecca Cawood.
  • Hebden Bridge railway station for trains to Leeds.

For the locals in the Calderdale Valleys, the almost daily spectre of film and TV crews is a double-edged sword. It brings many visitors to the area seeking out the locations of their favourite TV programmes and books. But the actual filming has been more than a minor inconvenience for many. Residents have had belongings and their milk stolen from doorsteps, even a stone Buddha from the doorstep of the house opposite Catherine’s home. They’ve been prevented from parking and unloading shopping into their own homes, in many cases paid to go and stay in hotels whilst filming took place. And there’s the constant stream of inquisitive tourists. Life can become one that is trapped in a goldfish bowl. That is set to continue and expand. In fact there are now organised (four star hotel) tours organised to travel in comfort around the ‘Happy Valley’ TV series locations. The ‘Yorkshire Post’ reported that the final episode of the show’s third series was watched by 7.5million viewers. Adding that, “Calderdale councillor Jane Scullion said: ‘We’ve gone from five productions being filmed in 2016, to a massive 27 in 2022’.”

Lucy Mangan, in ‘The Guardian’, called the final episode, “…brutal, tender, funny, compelling and heartbreaking.”

The on-line ‘Visit Calderdale’ site tells us: “Calderdale will also soon be on your TV in ‘The Gallows Pole’, a six part adaptation of Ben Myer’s book  of the same name telling the story of the infamous Cragg Vale Coiners and Marvel Cinematic Universe series ‘Secret Invasion’, starring Samuel L. Jackson.”  ‘Gallows Pole’ looks set to become another major BBC series having been directed by the renowned film director, Shane Meadows (‘This is England’). It’s likely to be as violent, poignant and engaging as ‘Peaky Blinders’ and ‘Happy Valley’. Watch out for it.

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Economies of Scale

 

In the flea market, fleas haggle and spit. They finger fabric with whatever fleas have in lieu of fingers and pose in front of tiny mirrors like catwalk models. Fleas don’t know much, but they know about style and they know about walking on cats, strutting from twitching tail to that sweet spot between the ears. It’s in their borrowed blood, a state of domestic bliss; and if fleas had religion they’d call it Nirvana, but all they have is swagger and sensual delight. When all’s said and done, a flea’s just a flea, but it’s better than being meat. In the meat market no one looks good.

 

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick

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Breaking The Silence

     You that never done nothin’
     But build to destroy
     You play with my world
     Like it’s your little toy
     You put a gun in my hand
     And you hide from my eyes
          – Bob Dylan, ‘Masters of War’

     Looking back now
     I can see
     the ghost of myself
     haunting me
          – Pet Shop Boys, ‘The Ghost of Myself


What We Know On Day One

Once upon a time, there was a polysexual hippy assassin named Jerry Cornelius. He had a past filled with adventure and danger, and often found himself in precarious situations. One day, Jerry decided to take a break from his life and explore the world. He travelled to different countries and encountered different cultures. Everywhere he went, he made a lasting impression with his unique sense of style and his individual way of life. Jerry eventually settled down in a small town and started living peacefully. He still had his moments of adventure, but he mostly led a balanced lifestyle. He spent his days working, and his nights exploring the town and meeting new people, and was involved in dozens of organisations: a running club, community gardening and a public speaking group for women.

The Splashback Scandal

It is a model of belligerent fascism and land-grabbing tyranny, with ambiguous reverence for men’s bodies. Jerry is kept in a tiny cage, she has no food or water but, in this stylised and theatricalised episode, this is not as important as the idea of imprisonment.

Later, a resourceful guard uses a salvaged bit of wire to saw through her neck. The sheriff’s department will not say how or where the body was found. The violence is the latest to rock community leaders. Following the incident, Jerry says she managed to get away but was followed into the clubhouse by the owners of a dog, who she claims was filming her.

Over-prioritise and you’ll find yourself at yet another detention centre from which you will emerge broken, holes in the knees of your trousers and a chunk of your self-respect forever lost somewhere in the ball pit. Jerry says she is especially concerned about her mental wellbeing.

What We Know On Day Fifty Seven

It feels as if events and encounters could be reshuffled and shown in any order. Every gesture is beautifully expressive, rich with emotion but is just going to make things worse because it will cement in place an agreement that has destroyed power sharing. The only choices that Jerry is allowed to make are meaningless.

Disco Boy: a freaky trip into the heart of darkness

The electronic score throbs in its own incantatory trance and is a thing of beauty. It’s quite a trip, manipulating the space-time continuum and travelling through time to control the universe. Live, the band are something like a hallucinatory nervous breakdown, playing music which gains its own kind of mysterious reality simply by being excessively loud. There is a sense of confrontational spectacle and narcosis, and soon everyone is having sex: rough, dangerous, obsessive sex. Everyone is overwhelmed with guilt but ecstatically infected with confrontational spectacle and narcosis. Jerry may be choosing the person who will be at his side for the duration of all time. I don’t know if he’ll be able to get out.

What We Know On Day Eighty Four

Once upon a time, there was a musical assassin named Jerry Cornelius. She was a spy with the power to travel through time and control the universe with music. She began her journey by exploring different periods of history, eventually mastering the art of using her powers to protect those who could not protect themselves from dangerous events.

Jerry eventually grew older and started to reflect on her life. She realized that she had made many friends along the way, and that they had all helped her to become the person she was today, a charismatic guerrilla fighter who with her sister leads an insurgent paramilitary group. But there were limits to what she could do during the war.

In The Ruins

Everywhere there is great economic unease and generational trauma, mysterious political and historical dimensions. The past is a time-capsule of Europe’s recent tragic past, documenting post-apocalyptic illness, a state of bewilderment and discombobulation.

Someday we’ll kiss the future and tell each other everything.

     © Rupert M Loydell

 

 

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The Future Never Waits

Hawkwind have announced a brand-new studio album. The Future Never Waits follows their critically acclaimed 2021 album Somni and 2022 double live album We Are Looking In On You. This is the band’s 35th studio album and is an outstanding addition to their varied and celebrated catalogue.

Opening track ‘The Future Never Waits’ delivers a ten minute instrumental led space-age march, before progressing into the guitar-driven follow up ‘The End’, featuring Dave Brock’s trademark vocals and chugging machine gun riffs. Innovative additions to the Hawkwind canon such as ‘Aldous Huxley’ and ‘They Are So Easily Distracted’ introduce a gradual, almost lounge-like quality, with deliberate piano, audio samples and saxophones lamenting over a futuristic backdrop and roaming guitar solos. Other tracks like ‘Rama (The Prophecy)’ and ‘I’m Learning To Live Today’ sit tightly in the Hawkwind groove, providing old and new fans alike with the intense and concentrated fusion of musical styles they’ve come to expect and celebrate.

The Future Never Waits was made by Hawkwind, who are currently Dave Brock, Richard Chadwick, Magnus Martin, Doug MacKinnon and Tim ‘Thighpaulsandra’ Lewis. It will be available from Cherry Red on both CD and double vinyl and will be released to coincide with live shows in the spring and summer, including headlining at the UK Prognosis Festival on April 23.

Meanwhile, here are Hawkwind playing ‘Levitation’ live at Hawkfest 2022.

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REVIEWS FROM THE ADELAIDE FRINGE FESTIVAL 2023

A VISIT TO DOWN UNDER

By Kevin Short

In 2020, a visit to the Adelaide Fringe Festival had to be cancelled due to bush fires and then the beginning of Covid. Now, in 2023, I am here supporting the wonderful John Otway on an equally wonderful boat called ‘Popeye’, an iconic river cruise venue (one of three) which offers great events as it gently floats down the Torrens River.

 

We are half-way through our week’s run, with probably only one show left on Sunday March 5th by the time you read this but, rest assured, it has been the trip of a lifetime, and as well as entertaining the Australian crowd, as always, I and my partner in crime (Kathryn Kraus) are also reviewing some of the shows at the festival.

As a veteran of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, Adelaide, in comparison, might be described as the best of Edinburgh gone by. It is smaller, generally more accessible, and the city is cleaner, warmer and, dare I say it, friendlier to the outsider. I have loved Edinburgh (notably the biggest Arts Festival in the world) but over recent times it has become a commercial mine field which favours profit beyond all else.  Adelaide may not be the biggest, but it gets my vote as one of the best, so, thank you to all the organizers and to the great Popeye team.

Meanwhile, we hope you enjoy our reviews from down under, and here’s a link to quite a comprehensive review of the show we are performing here:

https://theclothesline.com.au/john-otway-kevin-short-adelaide-fringe-2023-review

Plus, a couple of fun photos of John Otway and myself in between performances:

 

              By Kevin Short & Kathryn S Kraus

 

PAM FORD

DON’T YOU DARE! (PUT ME IN A CARE HOME)

Many comedians perform shows that are strictly based on how many jokes they can fit into their set. Pam Ford isn’t one of them. She creatively weaves hilarious, yet touching, stories about her life working in a care home in England. Moving seamlessly from sitting exercises for the residents, to a well-meaning assistant who decided to bulk wash dentures, Pam’s delivery had the audience crying with laughter. She makes these stories hit home when talking about surviving Covid amongst the elderly population, and her own struggles to make ends meet during that difficult time. There are not many comedians that deliver comedy with heart, but Pam is one of them. Bravo!                                                               

(Reviewer: Kathyrn S Kraus)

Pam Ford – Don’t You Dare! (Put Me In A Care Home) Performance schedule:

Sun 5 Mar 5:45pm
Tue 7 Mar – Sun 11 Mar 5:45pm
Tue 14 Mar – Sun 19 Mar 5:45pm
The Boardroom @ The Griffins Hotel
38 Hindmarsh Square, Adelaide.

 

NEW BLOOD – the musical

The day before I was set to see the musical New Blood, I came across the company outside a café as they were going through their scripts – serendipity indeed – we had a brief chat and their openness and obvious commitment to their show cemented my interest in seeing it. A packed town hall venue greeted me, and I was immediately immersed in this original show written and devised by the company of five, playing multiple roles. The themes of small town living and all its community trials and tribulations as dreamers, developers, and other unwanted suburbanites descend upon their heavenly haven, really packs a punch.                                                  

In a series of narrative tuneful solos, duets, trios, and other dynamically harmonized songs, the five performers deliver performances truly grounded in reality, a meaningful set of relationships, personal and collective dilemmas that challenge our perspectives, something rarely done in musicals these days. They only play two performances, sadly, but as the standing ovations will confirm, this is a show that will develop and continue to grow, so bravo to all!  Congratulations Joel Cooper, Melia Naughton, Anouska Gammon, Mikey Bryant, and Elodie Crow, you deserve all the success that will surely come your way. 
(Reviewer: Kevin Short)

 

THE MARVELLOUS ELEPHANT MAN – The Musical

 

Now, here is a new musical chalk and cheese review. Following the wonderful originality of New Blood, I enter the packed audience of The Marvellous Elephant Man – The Musical.  Is it marvellous? Is it really the Elephant Man we have known from history and the wonderfully touching film? Neither could I answer yes to. Then, what is it? Yes, it is a musical, albeit a burlesque-style one, with a few exciting show numbers. The opening number really lifted one’s spirits and hopes, but when the white-faced Elephant Man appeared, anti-climax after anti-climax followed, and a convoluted non-convincing romantic narrative was interrupted by some genuinely unoriginal songs of gratuitous innuendo after innuendo, together with some Rocky Horror shadow screen theatrics.

To be fair, all the performers were excellent, great voices, movers and shakers but, for me, they were flogging a dead elephant. I think, perhaps, using and exploiting The Elephant Man story in such a meaningless way is what makes it a travesty of bad intent. Yes, they had a part standing ovation, yes, most of the audience loved it, and most reviews, no doubt, will be favourable but, alas, I found it hollow and unoriginal. Nevertheless, please go see, and judge for yourself.

(Reviewer: Kevin Short)

The Marvellous Elephant Man – The Musical performance schedule:

Fri 3 Mar: 9:30pm
Sat 4 Mar: 6:30pm
Sun 5 Mar: 6pm
Tue 7 Mar: 8:30pm
Wed 8 Mar – Fri 10 Mar: 9:30pm
Sat 11 Mar – Mon 13 Mar: 8:30pm

Wonderland Spiegeltent at Wonderland Festival Hub – Hindmarsh Square

Hindmarsh Square / Mukata, Corner Grenfell and Pulteney Street, Adelaide, Kaurna Country.

 

 

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Not Afraid

         

Heavy Heavy, Young Fathers (Ninja Tune)

This Edinburgh trio, who met as kids, produce an amazing music together. Somehow there’s rap, chant, rhythm, electronica and soul all in the mix, with this new album definitely bringing out the soul and the band’s connection and vital energy to the fore, far more than their previous recordings.

They are not afraid to use hooks and choruses, but neither are they afraid to make a noise: layering up vocals, crashing beats and samples to clever effect. The rhythms appear simple but accumulate into layered complexities and dense echoing space, a kind of dub intensity without reggae, a generous soul-full music.

When I saw them live, supporting – but also singing with/for – Massive Attack, Young Fathers almost blew the stage apart in a way that Massive Attack could only match with their information overload stageshow. Young Fathers don’t need anything more than their voices, some instruments and time; mix in some joyful exuberance and you have 10 short songs (the whole album is only 33 minutes) full of pulsating drive, streetwise lyrics, emotional longing and loss, attitude and desire.

The 70s are in the mix here as well as grime and dance music. I hear traces of disco, glam rock, pop and postpunk too; the closing ‘Be Your Lady’ even has a hint of Barry White in there too, before the track explodes into rays of broken-glass crystal synthesizer, then loops back into song and rap.

It’s this slipping between genres and styles, this totally appropriate mash-up of 21st century sound, that may be the reason that Young Fathers have eluded popular rather than critical acclaim. When it’s as hard to pin a label on a band as it is here lazy audiences get confused and shut their ears. They are, however, missing a treat. Young Fathers are a perfect blend and reinvention of all that’s good in popular music, the sound of appropriation, celebration and joyful resistance.

 

Rupert Loydell

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TEN QUESTIONS FOR ANTHONY MOORE

 

 

 

Keith Rodway

I first became aware of Anthony Moore when I bought Slapp Happy’s eponymous album on Virgin Records in 1974, a recording sandwiched between earlier collaborations with German avant-rockers Faust and later with Brit-prog outfit Henry Cow. Slapp Happy’s pan-European whimsy, fronted by German singer Dagmar Krause, was a welcome relief from the torpor of mainstream acts such as Eric Clapton, Bad Company and Fleetwood Mac. It is an album I still find intriguing almost 50 years later.

Moore then released an excellent post-punk solo album, Flying Doesn’t Help, in 1979. Then, for me, the lines went dead. I only discovered recently that there was a second solo album, World Service, in 1981. Moore acted as lyricist on a handful of songs for David Gilmore’s Pink Floyd albums, A Momentary Lapse of Reason and The Division Bell, wrote No Parlez for Paul Young and collaborated with such stylistically disparate acts as Julian Lennon, Trevor Rabin and Kevin Ayers. Slapp Happy released a highly recommended reunion album, Ca Va, in 1988.


In addition to all this Moore has released several albums of experimental music along the way and enjoyed a 20-year tenure as Professor for Musik at the Klang Geräusch Academy of Arts Cologne, Teaching Theory and History of Sound.

In 2019 I learned from my friend Simon Charterton that Moore had moved to my home town of St Leonards. He and I have since been occasional guest performers in Charterton’s alt groove band Simon and the Pope.

On the eve of his appearance at a Club Integral night at Iklektik in Waterloo on March 10th, I caught up with Anthony Moore at his home in St Leonards.

 


KR:What are your earliest memories of exposure to music?

AM: My grandmother’s voluminous contralto – a great big wobbling jelly of sound to my 2 year old ears – and making crystal sets in the 50s, Bakelite headphones… followed later, thanks to my father’s peripatetic journeying, by the squawks of short wave transistor radio, BBC world service’s Lilliburlero – we lived in Cyprus in the 50’s and Africa in the very early 60s (that means the airwaves were flooded by Arabic, Turkish, Armenian, Greek and African music too).

When did you realise that music was going to be your life? Did you
try any other occupation?

A brief stint at art school in St Albans and Newcastle (yes, I’m another bleeding 60s art-school drop-out), but growing up in the 60s meant it was always going to be music. With that insouciance of 60s youth I never considered another job – being prepared to crash on floors, have no sense of the future and being ridiculously self-centred.

When did you first work on scores for experimental films? How did this come about?

The first filmscore was for David Larcher’s “Mare’s Tail” – 150 minutes of non-narrative and extremely poetic imagery. But there was no ‘score’ as such. With the small budget we decided to purchase a number of old tape recorders, Brenells, Ferrographs, an early Nagra… This allowed me to multitrack, overdub, loop, splice, change speed and pitch and reverse sound material that was sourced
from field recordings, old upright piano frames, penny whistles, what have you. The crucial point being that with ribbons of magnetic tape you find yourself as a musician using the identical techniques that experimental film makers applied to ribbons of
celluloid. The connection between image and sound is therefore established through the technology and how you use it rather than through any ‘mickey mousing’ or illustration of the image.

What were the connections between Faust and Slapp Happy?

Uwe Nettelbeck. He had discovered the seedling Faust, installed them in a small country school house somewhere North of Hamburg and built them an 8 track recording studio to live and play in. Uwe also edited a well-known magazine called ‘Filmkritik’. By 1969 I was living in Hamburg and making the soundtracks for a number of underground movies which got shown in various festivals. Uwe saw these
films, was into the music that accompanied them and got me a deal with Polygram to record 3 LPs – “Pieces From The Cloudland Ballroom”, “Secrets of The Blue Bag” and “Reed, Whistles & Sticks”. These were all minimalist, instrumental works and on their completion he asked if I might be prepared to make an album of songs. I contacted Peter Blegvad and having met Dagmar Krause, Slapp Happy was born. We went up to Wumme where Faust were living and working, and as we had no rhythm section of our own it was a happy and natural marriage with the Faust gang that allowed us to make two Slapp Happy LPs in their studio. Later in 1972 both bands signed up with Virgin Records.

You were unceremoniously dumped by Virgin Records just prior to the
original release date for Out, in the mid 1970s [Out is available now on Drag City or via Bandcamp]. How and why did this come about?

It’s a mystery, frankly. The LP was already finished and mastered; even the artwork was complete – a cover designed by Storm at Hipgnosis. It was 1975/6. The lawyers and accountants were moving into the music business – I guess I was too weird for them… or at least lacked a sufficiently focused and aggressive ambition to be commercially successful. Oh well…

What is your understanding of the basic principles of experimental music, and what role or function does it play or serve?

I think, however naive it might seem, freedom in a broad sense has a lot to do with it: a rejection of conformity: an ego-less acceptance of chance and to be unafraid to fail. There is also a satisfying if reactionary joy in confounding those same
‘accountants and lawyers’ just referred to. They (the principles) may also make no sense; but I have always thought that nonsense is what separates us from the animals.

You’ve worked on a number of projects involving other artists across
 a variety of genres, and in different roles, as lyricist, producer, and
 so on. Which for you was the most intriguing and/or most baffling?

I probably take collaborating with others too seriously. I like to work to deadlines and I do find it useful to feel under some kind of obligation; to have to keep promises. It’s very helpful in the unframed drift of my daily weekly monthly yearly life.
Unsurprisingly, the most intriguing is the unpredictable, the live work, performing; most baffling, and it’s why I don’t do it so much anymore, is the grind of writing.

You worked for a number of years teaching at the Academy of the Arts
in Cologne. How do you think this might have compared to a similar role here in the UK?

I landed an unbelievably fortunate position in Cologne. I was handed the outrageous freedom to teach what I didn’t know. This allowed the opening up of new horizons for me personally, and the golden opportunity to learn with diverse and exceptional students about myriad things in the realm of sound, music and noise; not least its ancient history, its connection to technology and society, to mathematics and physics, and to art – 20 years of pure adventure! I don’t think that could have happened anywhere else. The only minor downside was a slight lacuna in the output of my own material. But there were advantages to this too, as I mention later.

Electronics in music have gone from being a marginal force in music in the
 mid 20th century to occupying a significant place in the current
mainstream. What do you think are the triumphs and what are the
 drawbacks in respect of this? What has been gained and what has been
 lost?

I can’t really answer this as I am not sure what constitutes ‘mainstream’ and ‘electronics’. It would be easier for me to at least put forward my personal view on the effect of ‘accountants and lawyers’ on the nature of songwriting. I sorely miss the
inventiveness of Brian Wilson and The Beatles… but that’s just an old bloke moaning, probably.

What projects are you currently working on?

Prior to Cologne which ran from 1995 to 2015, I saw myself very much as a studio animal crawling around the floors of windowless rooms with half a dozen patch cables round my neck – happy as a pig in the proverbial. I loved machines, especially tape recorders. Whilst I ceased making much of my own music in Cologne it nevertheless presented me with an unexpected plus. Pontificating in
lectures, conferences and workshops pretty much weekly got me out of the windowless rooms with their engines of production, and into the world of live performance, i.e. teaching. As a consequence, what I am doing these days is grabbing every opportunity to get up and make a fool of myself in public. It’s a great privilege to start a new chapter at the end of the book.

https://reflectionsonsound.bandcamp.com/

https://iklectikartlab.com/club-integral-8/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_Moore

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SAUSAGE 261

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which believes that what you lack in empathy you can more than make up for in spiteful malice  

MYSELF:  Why the short face? 
READER: I’m so excited I can hardly wait! I’ve just taken out a subscription to Sky TV’s dedicated F1 channel which broadcasts motor racing all day long.
MYSELF: Ah, bliss, what could be sweeter than the sound of a million terrified bees flying around in circles in an underground cave.
READER: You’re just a motor-racist. As a fully paid up petrol-head I will be able to watch every single race in the F1 season! And then on top of that there will be expert studio pundits conducting in-depth interviews with all the drivers!
MYSELF:  Towering intellects every one of them.
READER: I give up. Frankly you just don’t know what you’re missing.
MYSELF:  Frankfully, I do not. I’m amazed though, that you can afford to fork out so much money when you clearly have such a lot of time on your hands.
READER: I work from home.

 

RETAIL THERAPY NEWS
Cornelius Swettshop, CEO of Swetshop Garments Ltd who is also chairman of The Institute for The Institution of the Ethical Institute of Business Research Group (UK), attended the official opening of Upper Dicker’s latest retail outlet, Bashful Narcissus earlier this month. Its brightly coloured stock originates from Swettshop’s factory in Bangladesh where abandoned orphans are employed to manufacture fast fashion garments from Polymorphyloid Asbestolene, a highly inflammable petroleum derivative which glows in the dark. A spokesperson for Bashful Narcissus explained: “All of Swettshop’s fast fashion line is completely disposable and must be discarded immediately after wearing, as exposure to soapy water tends to make them dangerously toxic and liable to cause hallucinations.”
Eileen Dodds, an unemployed waitress of Lower Pillhook spent the night in a sleeping bag outside Bashful Narcissus, ready to pounce on an opening day bargain as soon as Hastings’ Lord Mayor the Right Worshipful Derek Windfarm cut the ribbon at 9am.
“It was well worth the overnight stay on a freezing cold pavement smelling of urine in order to be first in the queue.” she declared, “It’s practically impossible to buy proper disposable clothes where I live, it’s all wool and cotton, which is so last year. I have been forced to wash clothes for the last twelve months,” she complained, “instead of being able to dump them in a lay-bye late at night, next to a recycling point”.
Eileen proudly showed me the huge lead-lined designer bag (£20) containing dresses, tops and accessories she had purchased from Bashful Narcissus that morning, adding: “I have spent well over £12 on cheap, garish items of clothing today, all of which I fully intend to throw away the minute they are unwrapped.”

ASK DR. GUANO
Unqualified medical advice for the devil-may-care

Dear Dr Guano,
My teenage son has taken to wearing a revolting brand of cologne, in what I take to be a desperate bid for sophistication and peer acceptance. Odour du Mal, by Revenge, has a particularly rank smell, reminiscent of cat-tray mixed with rancid goat’s cheese, producing an acrid stench which has a particularly stimulating effect on the projectile vomit reflex. As is the nature of adolescent rebellion, the more I go on about it, the less inclined he is to stop applying it to his body. What am I to do?
Ivy Poisson,
Dungsaddling

Dear Ivy,
What you describe is a typical adolescent desire to smell terrible, which he will grow out of for a few of his adult years before reverting to type. Until then, you can temporarily stem the odorous tide using this method: In a large barrel, combine two kilos of horse manure with five litres of ammonia. Add four drops of concentrated methane hydrochloride and stir. When the mixture has stopped bubbling, with the help your husband, remove the boy from his bed, and without waking him, dip him head first into the barrel. The offending smell should disappear within 4 to 5 days, along with his hair and eyelids. Regretfully, I am not an NHS doctor, so that will be £150.
Dr Guano 

FORK BREXIT
Fake magician plans to scupper new Irish/EU deal using telepathy 

Uri Geller, the spoon bending charlatan and fake psychic is appealing to the British public to help him influence what he considers to be the Prime Minister’s watering down of Brexit, by sending telepathic messages directly to Rishi Sunak’s brain. In a letter to the PM, reportedly written using an ordinary non-psychic pen, he has warned that he intends to employ his special powers to prevent the UK from “collaborating with the EU”. His plan is to harness and transmit psychic energy into Sunak’s brain twice a day from a secret location (42a, Nostradamus Crescent, Chipping Norton) at 11.11am and 11.11pm (“a very mystical time” according to Geller). The tableware-menacing windbag will visualise the PM signing a document revoking the Good Friday agreement.  He may also project a mental image of Mr Sunak wearing a diaphanous pink negligée and thigh length kitten-heel boots – but this, he says, is his “second choice”.
 “What a lot of people are unaware of”, continued the grinning guru of gullibility, “is that if we allow Northern Ireland to continue trading with the EU, we will be forced under WTO rules to import cheap, unbendable cutlery from Romania, which, let’s face it, is half my act ruined”.
He claims that he had already successfully penetrated Mr. Sunak (psychically speaking) after visiting his palatial home when he was merely Chancellor of the Exchequer. “Once inside, I simply projected positive thoughts, wrote out an invoice and bingo! “ he bragged, “Within months he became Prime Minister. Although he was very grateful, he later sent me a bill for ruining his Vera Wang silverware”.

 

Sausage Life!

Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

 



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Ukraine : let’s mind our own business !

Here’s a gun.  Take it.  Use it on your foes.
(How many dead on your side no one knows)
Defend your towns (which now are shards and stubble,
Your great cathedrals turned to smoking rubble)
Worry not though : if you remain alive
You’re sure to win and freedom will survive.
No Surrender is not bold enough
No Negotiations is the Right Stuff !
We’re happy to provide weapons galore 
If you lose some we’ll give you plenty more
Our well-trained workforce famous for their skill
Are now obliged to make machines that kill
Or lose their jobs and join The Others, those
Ill housed ill fed forced to wear cast-off clothes.
Is there no waking from this man-made nightmare ?
There is !  If we direct our money where
It can assuage the anguish here at home
And while we care for our unhappy own
Our allies overseas will do their part
Replacing ill-will with a change of heart
So if we mind our business and they theirs 
Posterity will bless us as their heirs.

 

Robert Ilson

 

 

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Marcus Aurelius ‘Inside Knowledge’

 

Once in Babylon there reigned
A King who built a Labyrinth   –
It was a marvel of the ancient world

He eliminated secretly its architect designers
That he alone possess the arcane knowledge
Concerning its guile and powers of alienation

One day a desert nomad visiting the city
Was tricked to be the ‘fly’ to test this ‘web’   –
And there for days demoralised he wandered

Until in despair he called on his soul’s creator   –
By this intimacy his intuition guided
As if invisible angels led him to the exit   –

The King a-mazed   –   the nomad then addressed him
With quiet dignity   ‘One day
I a humble desert man will help you…

…And you perhaps may try my labyrinth   –   the wild Sahara’   – 
For there within his wars the King was captured   –
But the nomad set him free to fare for home

He wandered in a circle wide and then a circle small
King of his own cosmos he had never felt the need
To contemplate the guiding stars nor make a compass of compassion

So he circled and spiralled
Down like a stricken fly
Before it drops and dies

 

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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We Became Afraid

 
 
Captured by cold, England, or so we are told,
Ices over. That at least is the forecast, too often wrong,
 
Over us. It has been predicted for March.
Apparently, we have about a week to win
 
Sunlight’s favour, before we are to be held down
Within households like the Lockdown of old’s
 
Transformations, which if you remember, barred
Open windows and granted every door its own crust.
 
Doubtless, this is the corrupted world biting back;
Mother Nature’s mood freshly vengeful,
 
Or the Alien God’s practised playing with the snow-globe
Of the Earth it has spurned. So there could yet be much
 
To fear; imprisoned pensioners, cracking pipes, 
A rise in bills, short resources. Grass as glass,
 
While each garden starts forgetting the things
Seasons learn. To me, it is a matter of the world leaning in. 
 
And it is such a delicate balance. Last night, I watched
A DVD with that title: Edward Albee’s classic play.
 
And in its finest iteration I think, with Kates’ Reid
And Hepburn, Betsy Blair, Joseph Cotten,
 
And the exquisite Lee Remick, dead for so long,
Gifting day. This film of the play is probably the finest
 
Example of acting – outside of Ronnie Barker’s Fletcher – 
Particularly from these players, but mostly for me,
 
From its star, who is not Katherine Hepburn at all,
But the discreetly majestic Paul Scofield; that man
 
For all seasons who wore reason and truth like waxed
Scars. His immaculately lined face said it all. His presence
 
And poise were pure angel. With Scofield around
All was dealt with, was questioned and solved
 
And worked through. The play is about the fine line
Behind which we’re all falling. It is about family hatred
 
And friendship’s distance which no amount of time
Can make true. The characters of Tobias and Agnes
 
Receive a series of dark visitations, first from Claire,
Her sister and who is stirring her pain in each drink.
 
And then their daughter, Remick’s Julia, leaving her
Fourth marriage behind her. Hepburn’s gimlet eye
 
Seems to stab her, as melancholy moves this woman-child
To the brink. Henry and Edna arrive, existentially scared
 
By the silence which has been patterning their behaviour,
And clogging like gas their intent. Which is to feed off
 
Their friends, as parasitical perhaps as their daughter.
‘We became afraid’ Henry tells them with a bloodless face
 
And expression that is as chilling as the cold front to come
And heart-wrent. The strangeness of others is seen
 
As past and pose lose all power; the delicate balance
Between them, which Tobias maintains thin as flakes,
 
Predicted to fall any day,  as if an uncaring sky wept
Whipped wisdom. For hale cuts and ice slices and snow
 
Can numb as pipes quake. When we are affronted,
What stays that we can fall back on? When we are alone,
 
To whose comfort can we finally turn at this stage?
By which I mean today as well as this Play
 
And your vintage.  And indeed, which wine will be worthy
To win you over and possibly stain your own page?
 
Tobias drinks Anisette.  A sticky liquer found in Tescos.
But in Albee’s alfresco of fright and alarm, its Paul’s prize.
 
His near animal brow takes all in. His was a face like no other.
His voice was the ocean through which the Mayor of Atlantis
 
Sings still. His voice was whalesong and wind, cloud and deep
Echo chamber. God was made in his image: beautiful and benigh.
 
Each look thrills. We all should have his magic. We don’t.
He made acting Art. Scofield guides me. And in the fears to come
 
Around weather, or the advancing years I know this.
That a play of this stamp, from which the delivery of truth is near
 
Cosmic, is in its own way Atlantis, rising not from the deep,
But God’s kiss. Or whatever God is. Astral Grey. Santa. Woman.
 
Last night, that DVD was my bible. And Scofield my Christ.
Seek your bliss. And let it warm you, my friends.
 
For a second ice-age is coming. If not in March then the future
When the world we have wrought is Tippexed.
 
Which we  don’t even use anymore; a substance
That former Monkee Mike Nesmith’s mother invented.
 
Suddenly, paper was water, as white as the snow coming next.
So from Monkee Mother to Ape, bypassing us, straight to dolphin,
 
To bacteria, cockroach, to each mushroom and cell which survives;
The rumbles to come should remind of our fragile hold on all places.
 
We need more Scofield like faces to warm, assess and assize.
 
Then we’d thrive.
 
 
 
 
 
                                                                        David Erdos 23/2/23   
 
 
 
 
 
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TELL ME WHY?

 

Why I feel sometimes that…….

I am the saree
Wrapped around your curvaceous waist,
Whenever you tie and drape it
You look beautiful.

I am the bangles
Revolving on your slim wrist,
With each tinkle of those
I find the entire world coming to rest.

I am mascara
Bordering around your eyelashes,
With each blinking of your eyes
I just expand your flashes

I am the bindi
On your forehead,
Each time you face the mirror
I focus all over your shade.

I am the lipstick
Spread on your lips,
Every time you move them
I do nothing but lick.

I am the nose ring
Shining on your nose,
With each warm breath
I find you are sparkling.

I am the earring
Dancing on the lobes,
No sooner do you sway
Than a shy dove captures.

I am the garland
Spun on your long hair,
With each jostle of its bun
I find my universe.

Why I feel sometimes that……
Tell me why?

 

 

 

 

 

Bio:- Monalisa Parida is a post graduate student of English literature from India, Odisha and a prolific poetess. She is very active in social media platforms and her poems have also been translated into different languages and publish in various e-journals.
She has got 100 international awards for writing poetry. Her poems have been publishing international e-journals “New York parrot”, “The Writers Club” (USA), “Suriyadoya literary foundation”, “kabita Minar”, “Indian Periodical” (India) and “Offline Thinker “, “The Gorkha Times “ ( Nepal), “The Light House”(Portugal), “Bharatvision”(Romania), “International cultural forum for humanity and creativity”(Aleppo, Syria), “Atunispoetry.com”(Singapore) etc. And also published in various newspapers like “The Punjabi Writer Weekly(USA)”, “News Kashmir (J&K, India)”, Republic of Sungurlu (Turkey)” etc.
One of her poem published an American anthology named “The Literary Parrot Series-1 and series-2 respectively (New York, USA)”. Her poems have been translated in various languages like Hindi, Bengali, Turkish, Persian, Romanian etc. And she is the author of the book “Search For Serenity”, “My Favourite Grammar”, “Paradigm”, “Beyond Gorgeous”.

 

 

 

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Techno-Idiot

memorized the periodic table for years
titanium – lithium – aluminum
decades turning that Rubik’s cube
color coded manipulation
television taught me
humans & machines
merged into borg
automobiles & telephones
track my every morning move
have I morphed
into a data gatherer
for computers
earthling or alien
a mere drone
awaiting Hal

 

 

 

 

Words and picture
TERRENCE SYKES

 

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A story in which nothing happens

If I tell you that nothing happens in this story, will you believe it? Or will you suspect me of playing a trick and read on? The text obviously continues, you can see it in front of you, filling part of the page. Surely it must describe something, narrate some kind of event? Why else would I have composed these sentences and arranged them in a particular sequence? Why call it a story? The piece is short, but it might still work its way round to mention a chance encounter with an ex-lover which leads nowhere, or describe a bizarre ritual involving stuffed otters, or offer a brief psychoanalytic interpretation of the author’s apparent laziness, though this looks unlikely with the end rapidly coming into view. But even if none of these scenarios are going to feature in this story, there is still, as you will be aware, a small amount of text remaining, and surely there will be some kind of twist. You deserve that at least, having read this far, despite my opening avowal. Some sort of denouement, a final surprise, even at this late stage.

 

Simon Collings

 

 

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Dog, Duck, Deer

        

Rain hisses, effervesces paws, slows
you a dog in mid-street. You also the duck
paddles harder, harder on a medium
lake appears a great chunked sea. Yet you
not the deer nibbles green shrub tips but
are the one, observing, holds your breath, and also
on a daylight city walk almost bumps into Christine—
skeletal after 10 years, expressionless, who does
not see you hurrying away in sudden thick dark when
Left Big Toe meets a bedroom chair leg. You,
not big on thinks, just self with heartbeat,
in love with flesh, a bit scared like most.

 

George Shelton

 

 

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Cutting Through the Skin

Are our inland river channels
being infiltrated? Reports of
people fleeing may be exagg-

erated but who are the real
authoritarians here? Decisions
are being taken at alarming

speed. “This is collecting on
an epic scale,” she said. At first
sight these production values

seem impressive but our internet
services are being shut down.
“One swift bite to the back of

the head and the spine is
shattered,” she said.   

 

 

Steve Spence

 

 

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THE ROYAL REACH

 

 

On Oddfellow Casino’s Prince of the Starry Wheel (2022)

 

Bramwell sashays in with sparkling synths and slick snare-struck shuffle 
Calling for the prince of soft regions made even moreso by stars
As fields and moorlands enchant and his angelic voice creates cosmos
In which the light that divides us is strong enough to seal scars.

Oddfellows Casino deals cards for all to grow lucky. What you feel
As you listen is this secret song of the heart, encompassing the sleeping giants
Who turn in this electro led ballad’s gold lyric, and the great elastic girl’s
Slow unwinding as she makes the straining for love its own art.

Bramwell’s songs mix the sweet where a writer like Neil Hannon stirred bitter.
His chansons are ecstatic and full of the majesty of the land. Nobody walks
Such terrain. Nobody sings of these subjects. Bramwells heart is bright flower
Emerging from stone, staining sand. Opening song Trespass gives way

To Ameland’s broken-heartache; its acoustic drive has synth screaming
As the singer turns and twists the dark wheel from despair into dream,
While gaining so much more than Neil Gaiman, as sonorous song signals fires
That the long lost and dead can still feel; ‘Whistle and I will run/

Through desert rains and winter sun/With a bruised heart I’ll come
And lay be down in the earth undone..’ Here is romance then,

And rhyme for those pressed into fragments. It is the song
Of the driftwood and of the gathered ghosts beneath piers.

But these are not Stanshall’s stinkfooted starfish.
These Saints are a part of the Bramwellian beauty.
For there is ache in the algae as every ruined wave
Brings back tears. Starlings have flown. Bramwell is birds.

They’re his emblem, and one can see him resplendent
In some past falconry. You see that soar in these songs
As you do across all his albums.  For even despairing
Dear Doctor David is teaching you different ways and means

To feel free. Last Orders at the shoulder of Mutton has force,
And is indeed music-meat, slamming down chords like some giant butcher,
While  elision led lines conjure Dylan by way of an ambient Tony Newley
Beamed in. Toby Visram’s drums power on, as Bramwell’s strings

And keys unlock meaning and the track trod becomes epic,
Combining each image which makes life as it is lived by most
Feel too thin. There is nothing fey to the folk that Oddfellows Casino
Is fond of, for there is march here and amble and so much more

Within stride. The Casino is both outside all known realms,
And part of a flame tamed place warm within us. His stare his sharp.
His sound soothing, as his reach and arms remain wide.  
Beware My Love The Autumn People slides through as the piano

Assumes its composure. Unravelling synth and percussion
Storytell us all into place. As a forgotten people emerge
From Alan Garner’s ground like ghost cattle and one can see
How dew’s vapour is both the beard and the breath on each face.

‘The strangest days are the best,’ Bramwell sings, and in his
Spell-like swirl we live through them. The song is a spiral,
And incantation too; a time test. It mesmerises, enchants
And also disturbs at odd moments, in which every fellow,

Whether winning or not, sees fate crest. Summer Weaving
Has harps or what sounds like harps beside Bramwell.
His high, held voice becomes Robert’s as he traipses
And charts Wyatt’s trail, plotting a path free from jazz,

And with the avant-garde now retired, to make David B.
The defender of a spectacular air which can’t fail;
Free of our stains and the smear and stink of our present,
The rise and fall and chord sequence of this beautiful piece

Fuses us with the past and the pose of some  ancient Crusader
An Ingmar Bergman of England, his new seal now seeking
Simplicity through time’s fuss. Prince of the Starry Wheel
Is day stars and achieveable orbits. It is the royalty within us

Enraptured no doubt by a glimpse of something bright
And bold shining still beyond the  horizon. Bramwell’s spell
Reminds us that we have not seen the like of such, since.

Emily’s power pop pushes us to the very edge of disturbance.
It places steel in the fire in order to rear and rouse sparks.
It is a love song which steals the sensuality from the sacred
Bearing with it an anger for which Bramwell’s gentler refrains

Left no mark. His voice softens all while also allowing
For contrast, as the sharp circle of desire and loss shapes
The dark. The Quiet Man And His Dutch Wife enthrals.
Bramwell is at his best with these titles. This one male

Voice choir and softly nudging notes novels on.
For like his books, his records reveal deeper stories.
He is a writer, sound-maker and cineaste within song.
And he guides his guests well, from Visram’s Drums,

To Rachel James on soft vocals. To Teresa Gilles’ special
String colours; Ali Strachan on Cornet’s skilled carving,
And Emma Papper’s texture and detail thanks to her
Clarinet. The instrumentation extends Bramwell’s

Sonic system, and a vocoder lile wah-wah well well
In this concluding track is inspired as the cornet’s
Theme lifts and angels in ways no listener can forget.
The Oddfellow observes the legends of England

His musical path is a lesson that no other singer I know
Can quite reach. For there is majesty here. And a king
In the ear. So Princesses, Queens and Commanders,
Stay attendant at court. Let sound teach.

                                                                      

 

                                              David Erdos 24/2/23 

 

https://oddfellowscasino.bandcamp.com/album/prince-of-the-starry-wheel

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The 9th studio release from Oddfellow’s is an album of earth, feet, marches, burials and the passing of time. It takes its title from one of William Blake’s many colourful names for Isaac Newton and belies the record’s themes of our relationship with the the ground below our feet, from land rights  and protest to the earth as our final resting place. The opening track – and single – was inspired by Nick Hayes’ The Book of Trespass, and is a passionate call to arms for new land rights, paying tribute to the mass trespass of Kinder Scout in 1932 and the Greenham Common protests. It also features – with their blessings – the voices of author Nick Hayes and performance artist Lone Taxidermist. Elsewhere on the album is an electronic re-interpretation of Melanie’s 1972 song Summer Weaving; a psychogeographical journey from the Suffolk coast to a remote Dutch island in the track Ameland, the breezy Pixies-esque Emily and the twelve minute epic, Beware My Love the Autumn People which, lyrically, jumps from the horror-writings of Ray Bradbury to themes of loss and the landscapes of Sussex.

The album ends with The Quiet Man and his Dutch Wife, a drastic re-working of a track from 2002’s Yellow-Bellied Wonderland, that finally explodes with the mantra, ‘we all wake up at the end of the world.’

The album is dedicated to Dave Mounfield, close friend of the band and best-known for his roles as Geoffrey and landlord Jack in BBC Radio 4’s Count Arthur Strong’s Radio Show.

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Capital 

The old man stares at the already tobacco hued
patches as he slowly releases his pain. Monday. 
On the occasion of the Independence Day
they have painted the public urinals in Tiffany blue. 
Now it is a patchwork of high and low, taste and
distaste, blood and void. Old eyes follow the line of ruins.
The white ants eat his nerves. Sun streams out.
His fingers fist around his reality. The market stretches
and curls one final time before unboxing the thick and thin
of capital. 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

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Aircooled and Miki Berenyi Trio at The Trades

 

Musings and pic-taking from Alan Dearling

At a risk of sounding a bit like a judge at Crufts, the Trades Club in Hebden last night hosted an array of musicians with fine ‘pedigrees’! The Trades Club is steeped in music histories. A socialist co-operative club, an upstairs music venue and bar, complete with Thai food, real ales and more at reasonable prices. Artists who have performed there include Patti Smith, The Fall, Laura Marling, Steve Hillage and Gaudi. I’ve been lucky enough to see a number of the mostly fabulous gigs there.

Here’s a pretty fair assessment of the place from a post on-line from Chas Birch:

“I grew up in Hebden. Can’t really begin to describe to you what that was like. Only that it was one hell of a place back then. I worked at Aurora Wholefoods and was so very fortunate to know some incredible people. Pretty much all of them used to gravitate to The Hebden Bridge Trades — it was the very CENTRE OF THE EARTH as it was host to many LEGENDARY ARTISTS & MUSICIANS (and it continues to attract incredible talent).  I wonder if there’s a record of all those who have played there, because it would blow your mind?!!   It’s not without its flaws but that’s part of its charm and for a real GENUINE MUSIC EXPERIENCE, I can’t recommend the place highly enough!!”

A double-header music event.

First up, the Miki Berenyi Trio performing what Miki called “A sort of K-Tel compilation of songs from Lush”. Then, headlining, a newish outfit, Aircooled (members from Elastica, Jesus and Mary Chain, The Wedding Present and Piroshka and other bands) showcasing their debut album, ‘St Leopards’. A mighty pulsating, throbbing slice of mesmeric, vaguely Germanic electronic beats – shades of Neu!, Can and a shed-load of EDM.

Miki Berenyi Trio

Before the gig, Miki Berenyi  said, “I played some Lush songs with KJ ‘Moose’ McKillop and Oliver Cherer at book events for my memoir, ‘Fingers Crossed’ and enjoyed it so much that we’ve decided to extend our set. Expect new songs and old, and a ton of guitar pedals which we may or may not gaze at.”

 

I’m not a Lush aficionado. Formed in 1987, they are often characterised as the original ‘shoegazers’! I just recognised some of the songs and the Lush ‘sound’. It’s kind of doomy, with a heavy, distorted bass undertow, underpinning Miki’s half-whispered vocalising style. I have listened to many recordings from 4AD artists such as the Cocteau Twins. Lush music seems to feel like a link between Siouxsie and the Banshees, Throwing Muses, This Mortal Coil and Dead Can Dance. Ethereal walls of ululating sound. There were certainly swathes of stalwart fans in the Trades’ audience, many swaying and humming along. Miki was up front and personal with the audience, making such comments at the end of one song: “That was an obscure Lush B-side…No, actually it’s a new song, but if I told you that, you’d all fuck off to the bar.”

 

‘Desire Lines’ live in the US, on KCRW in 2016: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OiP9e4UDQFs

Aircooled

Wow! Quite a sound and presence. Swirling electronica… Persistent, driving, incendiary beats – screeching sounds. On the edge of frightening off-kilter darkness and dread. Militaristic beats. Dance Music – not Dance music. A Can-type of sound, but much more distorted. Here are Aircooled rehearsing their track ‘Supamoto-disco’ from their debut album, very recently: 4/3/22. Perhaps Japanese kraut-rock?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRSgOb6inyM

I can’t help conjuring up the Dr Who theme fronted by a deranged Laurie Anderson. Wonderful, eerie and strange. It’s mostly instrumental, a big sound, and really very original. The machine-gun sounds made by electro-plasms (whatever they might be)!

From their press release, we learn that, The debut album, St Leopards started life as a lockdown project and features four tracks, two of which break 14 minutes.  You’ll hear the influence of bands like Neu! and Amon Duul but with a bit of disco-glam swagger reminiscent of Le Crunch and the Ballroom Blitz.

The addition of Katharine’s no nonsense, so solid bass for live shows triggered the band’s explosion into something altogether more vital and exciting. The first few packed shows, featuring guest stars, extended motor grooves and disco blitz have achieved ‘I was there!’ status among those that truly were there (and some that weren’t).”

St Leopards is out now on Music’s Not Dead.

AIRCOOLED are:

Justin Welch – drums/programming [JAMC, Piroshka, Elastica etc.]
Katharine Wallinger – bass  [The Wedding Present]
Oliver Cherer – guitar/keys [Gilroy Mere, Piroshka]
Riz Maslen – occasional vocals [Neotropic]
Mew – occasional vocals/keys and album artwork [Elastica]

After the gig, Oliver, who played with both bands messaged me saying:

“Cheers Alan. Really glad you enjoyed it and thanks for the fab pics. I think we made friends in that room. We all loved it.”

 

 

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CANDY


 
We stare out the window for uncounted hours
Because we sense we have unused powers.
 
Then Candy comes in with a bottle of Scotch
And things all at once brighten up a notch.
 
If Scott came in with a bag of candy
That too would be pleasant but somehow less handy.

 

 

 

© Mark Halliday & Martin Stannard, 2023
 
 
 

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O, DEMOCRACY

The festival procession of spectators attends the Assembly and Sceptre debates on conditions and consequence, on revenues and revenge, while, to mend the pending amendments, the skepticals invoke their rituals to raise the specters of their freedomophile brethren and children.

 

Duane Vorhees

 

 

 

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Loud and Proud

I Play My Bass Loud, Gina Birch (Third Man Records)

Despite the veneer of studio production at work here, this is basically a joyful, ramshackle album that clearly evidences its postpunk roots in The Raincoats, the band which Gina Birch co-founded back in the day. Her first truly solo album, I Play My Bass Loud has been many years in the making, but is well worth the wait.

The album opens with the bouncy, dubby title track (which also has an ace video), which is an addictive proclamation of intent: it’s Birch’s album, she plays bass, and here it is. But as the song echoes away into the distance, we get the first of several more intimate, seemingly confessional songs, the softly spoken ‘And Then It Happened’, which acts as a kind of introduction to the riff monster ‘Wish I Was You’. Reminiscent of Patti Smith, it features killer guitar from Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore, some addictive bleeps and moments of dub chaos as it roars along.

‘Big Mouth’ is a song about gossip, about passing information on and then regretting it, about secrets and upset. It features a dialogue between straight and vocoder vocals over a burbling, complex cauldron of rhythm and melody. It’s both hurt and tongue-in-cheek, whilst the next song, ‘Pussy Riot’, is far too declamatory for its own good. Grooving over a more straightforward reggae backbeat, it assumes the voice of the Russian rebels and speaks for them, over a clatter of percussion and sequencers.

‘I Am Rage’ is surprisingly gentle, an almost plaintive song, with heavy effects and guitars lurking in the distance way behind the vocals, whilst ‘I Will Never Wear Stillettos’ is, I assume, a somewhat tongue-in-cheek feminist manifesto resisting patriarchal dress codes and expectations. Birch, of course, prefers brothel creepers or Doc Martens. And who wouldn’t?

‘Dance Like a Demon’ is a more straightforward rocker, with disruptive echoes and electronics, that glides and sashays over a straightforward drum beat, whilst ‘Digging Down’ has a massive backbeat that ebbs and flows behind seriously processed vocals. ‘Feminist Song’, which apparently kicked off the project, is Birch planting her flag. ‘When people ask if I am a feminist I say Why the hell wouldn’t I be?’ Despite some movement towards equality, Birch is still angry, a warrior, fighter and believer, and an artist. But she is no cliché rebel, she inhabits and moves through the real world.

The closing song, ‘Let’s Go Crazy’, reasserts that ‘you have to be free’, and seems a fair assessment of this album. Birch is doing what she wants, expressing herself as she wishes (she paints and makes videos as well as music), making the music she wants at her own pace. If that music doesn’t sound quite as anarchic today, that’s fine, there are still enough surprises, twists and turns here to entertain, provoke and bemuse. And, of course, some great loud bass.

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

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The Staring Earth

A blank page I see
I wait for expression
I see a canvas
My joy waits to be splashed.
You call the river simple
I say the world has its wrinkles.
Mankind betraying the earth
The revolting backfire
The treasure of consolation
Has become a blank sight
For us.
Yet, the kind earth sprouts
Every second of new flowers
Kiss the world
And the winter blanket of snow
Is not shy.
The mountains need their snow.
The lakes need their reflection.
The earth lives and
Every season has its supreme time.

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar, Nepal

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another glowing enigma

at his Queen Anne mahogany dressing table,
a purple panther is waxing his whiskers,
in preparation for an audition for
Love Cats On A Hot Tin Roof

it is a misty March morning,
and the sodium halos are lysergic prismatic rainbows,
arc lamps of insoluble mystery,
glowing enigmatically

the panther, whose name is Roger,
has slipped his iron chains like Nellie The Elephant;
his reflection free as an albatross,
he sips Darjeeling with a slice of lemon as he preens

the polished brass door knocker is in the shape of a man’s head,
shrunken in migraine free embalmment;
he was also once called Roger,
and when the postman raps twice, never feels a thing

working girls in doorways
shake Madeira cake crumbs from their petticoats,
and two pigmy giraffes at the request stop
put their hands out for tomorrow

the tram, immersed in its performance
of Vaughan Williams’ London Symphony,
sails straight past and into next week,
but the now dressed panther picks them up in his cab

he sports crocodile shoes and an Astrakhan hat,
like any top hot love cat;
in his buttonhole there is a thorn but no rose,
and thus the enigma still glows

 

 

 

Julian Isaacs
Picture Rupert Loydell

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“We Have to Stand Up Against the Pro-War Consensus on Ukraine”: an exclusive interview with Brian Eno


Stop the War President, Brian Eno, sat down with Chris Nineham to talk about the war in Ukraine, NATO, Iraq and the Stop the War in Ukraine demonstration on Sat 25 Feb in London.

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The Heretic

Standing before the Holy Inquisition

He contends an endless Universe

Seething with life then further

Compounds his error

With a new Creation Myth

That God slew his twin brother

Scattering his dismembered

Corpse through Time and Space

And it’s from this Divine

Putrefaction that all life springs:

Later, after examen rigorosum

He confesses Witchcraft,

Blasphemy, Murder and Perversion

Then sings bawdily whilst trailing

Shattered legs as he bellies the piazza

Towards piles of dry kindling,

His earthly rehearsal for hell.   

 

 

 

Kevin McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

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After Newman: The Idea of a University

 

Your body knows nothing, but you trust it anyway, allowing it to lead you through the atria and colonnaded cloisters of your notional university. It’s part Harry Potter and part Gormenghast, but somehow it’s more early Doctor Who than either, with insubstantial walls and the implied threat of low-budget apocalypse. It may be austerity and Google, or it may be post-Trump and Brexit, but whatever the reason, you’re the only student in a department with no lecturers, piecing together a syllabus from self-help guides and the warnings from cigarette packets. Your dissertation is on hoardings glimpsed from an accelerating train, viewed from the perspective of too much coffee, too late at night, and you argue with yourself in seminars in a library you’re pretty sure is fake. There are elaborate meals in full regalia when all you eat is raw swan – a disgusting ritual, but necessary for your intellectual development – and all you drink are bulbous glasses of red dust. It’s a long time since you saw the outside world, and you’ve become inured to staircases that won’t lie still and interchangeable extras you’ll never see again. Every day more rooms are under water and you feel in need of regeneration. Your body is the only tangible artefact, and your studies suggest that the only thing separating a school of thought from a school of fish is trust in the integrity of motion.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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All Them Witches – Voodoo Chile

 

All Them Witches is an explosive psychedelic rock band from Nashville, Tennessee. The band consists of drummer Robby Staebler, vocalist/multi-instrumentalist Charles Michael Parks Jr., guitarist Ben McLeod, and keyboardist/multi-instrumentalist Allan Van Cleave.

The band’s name is taken from a book of witchcraft, All of Them Witches, featured in the 1968 film Rosemary’s Baby. The band self-released their first, self-titled four-track EP in the same year as their formation and have gone on to release many live and studio albums.

You can purchase their music at https://allthemwitches.bandcamp.com/

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Rock Steady Good Time’s Reggae

This show features tracks by

Phyllis Dillon, Mungo’s Hi Fi, Alborosie, Dedy Dread, Dj Rebel, Delhi Sultanate, Toots & The Maytals and more.

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A Theoretical Object Alternative

Always Crashing in the Same Car: A Novel After David Bowie, Lance Olsen
(272pp, $18.95, Tertulia)

Although we state or maybe even think that there are no metanarratives or truth, this is a biography for those of us happy to assemble our own truth about what cannot be known. Subjects may potentially have multiple identities. The role of the reader is simply to read, thus, allowing the processes of interpretation, expression and communication possible. As William Shakespeare George Orwell T.S. Eliot Julio Cortázar William Faulkner Don Delillo Franz Kafka Jorge Luis Borges Albert Camus Greil Marcus Jon Savage Paul Morley Rupert Loydell John Cage William Burroughs Lance Olsen Elvis once said Everyday, everyday, every day I write the book.

It is a shock when you find out an author has written more fiction than the non-fiction you knew them for. More so when they answer your tentative email. Olsen employs a version of Burroughs and Bryon Gysin’s cut-up method, whose randomness appeals to him, to generate some of his most startling passages. Olsen loves it. Olsen hates it. Olsen feels intoxicated. Olsen feels trapped. Somebody else took his place. Olsen collects Bowie memorabilia. I started seeing all these sorts of parallels and wanted to explore those in more depth.

Always Crashing in the Same Car is a garbled transmission from space, a studio outtake, a song remixed beyond recognition, a tribute band formed because someone no longer plays live, is no longer alive. You read a book with this belief that you will never leave it behind, yet twenty pages in you cannot summon a single detail from page three. When we usually read a novel, when we read, for instance, a psychological realist novel, we fall through the language into the world of the novel and we inhabit that world. The cliché is we lose ourselves in that world. But what a collage does is something else. What a collage does is to create various voices, none of which is privileged over any other voice.

At the center of our galaxy, a supermassive black hole churns. Permanently out of focus. Unexplainable. It’s all about perspective, it’s all about the angle that you’re looking at something at which will be completely different from the angle that somebody else is looking at an object from. Everything Bowie made got praised in retrospect, if not at the time. Everyone has their favourite era, everyone has their favourite song. Bowie is in a room full of people who are shaking and jerking around. They are using music as sedative, amphetamine rush, painkiller, bravado, seduction, escape and suicide note. Bowie travels from the physical to the spiritual world, chasing a zeitgeist he’d once had the vision to shape.

This is a book that is partly about a writer writing a book that is partly about a writer writing a lifetime of songs that are partly about a writer writing a lifetime of songs that will be performed by a performer writing lives out of songs. The albums that gather these songs up fling matter out into space but leave behind the stellar core. A life long obsession is born that I could feel was spinning out of those records. Jimi Hendrix Eric Clapton Tom Verlaine Mick Ronson Neil Young Frank Zappa Carlos Santana Pat Metheny Jimmy Page David Gilmour Earl Slick John McGeogh Lou Reed Carlos Alomar Keith Richards Buddy Holly Robert Fripp Jeff Beck Ziggy played guitar.

The lists of what you are or were or have been. Conceptual games designed to keep viewers guessing forever. Lists of guests, friends, lovers, collaborators, the looking glass nation. Numerous biographies never seem to get it right, are nothing more than a gross misinterpretation of the efforts of the unconscious to awaken into consciousness. One doesn’t necessarily have to read either beginning to end; every detail is significant.

Car Crash, Andy Warhol

Once upon a time there was a slow-motion car crash. Everything that’s ever been said about the car, ranging from the utopian to the nightmarish has the power to invoke a sense of awe and reverence akin to that of a religious altarpiece. The story is interpreted as showing a merger between technology, sexuality, and death. I think of my art materials not as junk but as garbage. Manure, actually: it goes from being the waste material of one being to the life-source of another.

In his final years David Bowie managed to not only regain critical acceptance but make a surprising high-profile comeback after a decade of silence, with two albums, associated singles and an experimental play. He also seemed to orchestrate the presentation of his own death. Desire, dreams and nightmares have high gravitational attraction and can remain undetected until encountered by entering their gravity field. They are a kind of transmission between the audience and the musician. We all have a black star loitering over our shoulder.

The lists of what you might have been. The lists of what the list writer would have liked you to be. The past and future merge or are perhaps the same thing. Black holes can sometimes eject infalling stardust, thus shaping a cosmic destiny for mankind. If you tell a lie big enough, and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it. Always Crashing in the Same Car is a novel of luxurious inconvenience: facts and assumptions bolted together, ventriloquised opinions. Fiction is always a possibility space where everything can and should be tried.

It can be shocking to be forced to look at the fond and familiar with this degree of clinical precision; anything that ventures too close will be stretched and compressed like putty. Three middle-aged men pose for the camera, one gurning furiously. David Bowie, Robert Fripp and Brian Eno are momentarily gathered in Berlin to make an album. If we are to believe the stories, Fripp improvises his parts over the existing music the moment he arrives, without pausing for sustenance or further consideration.

Their tentacles of influence reach out from Berlin, forwards and backwards in time. In their combined pasts are folk rock, progrock, art rock, improvised tape musics, Ziggy Stardust, Major Tom and his Space Oddity, guitar freakouts for the likes of Van der Graaf Generator, jazz ensembles, mime and laughing gnomes. In the future are new metal, electronica, minimalism, soundscapes, ambient, pop, rock, jazz; genres disrupted and reinvented. Continuous disorientation followed by orientation followed by disorientation.

Pastness is always a problem: who’s telling it, from what vantage point, and why. The three men will each learn from other musicians and other musicians will learn from them. They will collaborate, provoke, educate, curate and produce; they will pontificate, rant, polemicise, pronounce and lecture. They will be heckled, branded, photographed, reviewed, interviewed, despised and loved in equal measure, fascinated by investigating structures and the philosophies they suggest.

Despite theories and explanations, truth never appears in the singular.  We could put it this way: texts exist in a perpetual state of change. Bowie is emblematic of that in so many ways. There were many costume changes. Reality was a stage set … the comfortable day-to-day life, school, the home where one lives and all the rest of it … could be dismantled overnight. Often these sorts of experiences are easier to talk about, work through, after the fact than while submerged in the text itself.

Loving the alien, or pretending it is human. Watching your family die without water on the planet that you came from. Bowie subverted the grandeur of spaceflight along with the wonder and excitement over the moonwalk and turned the cosmos into a place of ominous mystery. Once upon a time. Ambient panic. The thing itself always slips away.

Snakes and sigils, pentograms and pills, white-faced demons and angelic guitars. A song opened and closed with the chanted vocals of a dirge. Words as wings, ready for flight. Bowie was resigned to the fact that death would be the only thing to bring real knowledge although meanwhile he continued to attempt to grasp something no one can understand.

Cut-up, collage, quotation and appropriation. Misquotation. What is the language using us for? Magic and invocation. Summoning the dead. By manipulating tape and video you are in some ways manipulating reality. A fictional biography about real life fiction. The author an experienced sleight of hand magician performing creative writing in a contemporary style. The subject is the person, place, thing, or idea that is doing or being, the book is full of disconnected images and allusions.

The wreckage of a biography, exhibited in an art gallery. A story about car-crash sexual fetishism, a mix of futuristic dread and excitement, a sweet spot where dystopia and utopia converge.

The biography constructed and assembled. A clutter of visual signifiers, signifying nothing, collage as a creative urge. Some seem to think that I work with found pieces, but I don’t. They’re chosen, you see.

Biography as influence and effect, the world as text. A biography which is free to enter into relation with all the other texts which come to take the place of circumstantial reality. It’s a much better interview because it doesn’t exist. Now we can both misremember it in very rich ways.

A prismatic exploration of Bowie through multiple voices and manifold perspectives – the chameleonic musician himself, an academic trying to compose a critical monograph about him, friends, lovers, musicologists, and so on. One of the best books about Bowie I have come across but also one of the best books I have read that is not about Bowie. At its core beat questions about how we read others and how we are read by them. In other words, it asks: Who is any of us?

Knock, knock. Who’s there? Nobody. Nobody at all.

 

Rupert Loydell

This review includes quotations and misquotations from J.G. Ballard, Peter Bebergal, David Buckley, John Chamberlain, Esquire, W.S. Graham, Lance Olsen, Rupert Loydell, National Geographic, New Dawn, Rain Taxi, Edward W. Said, Jacob Shelton, Zadie Smith, Kyle B. Stiff, M.F. Sullivan, Tin House, Transatlantica, Mark Westall and others.

You can read an excerpt from Crashing in the Same Car here: https://bigother.com/2021/12/07/always-crashing-in-the-same-car-by-lance-olsen/

and at Statement of Record here:
https://statorec.com/always-crashing-in-the-same-car-by-lance-olsen/


Lance Olsen is an American writer known for his experimental, lyrical, fragmentary, cross-genre narratives that question the limits of historical knowledge. He is author of more than 30 books of and about innovative writing, and teaches experimental narrative theory and practice at the University of Utah. You can find more about him and his publications at https://lanceolsen.com/

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The Fruit and Veg Stall(ed)

 
 
Today they’re saying that fruit and veg will fall short.
What’s next; post-Covidian scurvy? As the ship sinks
In the harbour all strapped aboard may be flogged,
 
As we pathetically slide away from health and nutrition
Into the apocalyptic comforts of tobacco and sugar
As what was left of our veins become clogged.
 
Take freedom away, and then try the same thing with apples.
Forget then the teacher and fatten resolve with more chips,
Which fall from the block to cauterise sailors’ shoulders,
 
As if the imposition of splinters induce further Winters
When the lost dream of Spring duly slips. The gathering cold
Has been bold and has started to tell a strange story.
 
One in which futures start to invoke barren pasts.
In which those deprived of what’s fresh, either through
Supply or demand start to suffer, and Soylent Green’s
 
Great synthetic calls for Chuck Heston’s replacement
As any one of us is re-cast. It is all starting to become
Biblical with a Nostradamic new Gospel. It feels designed
 
And delivered; a judgement perhaps from far stars,
Beyond our ken. Soon even our yen will lose purchase
And our need for renewal in the positive sense will be marred.
   
Something is, or so it would seem, starving us. The Third World
Almost smiles as it suffers, as those in the First start to stumble
As the fumes from the road leave the cars to infiltrate
 
Every home; if we can’t get our five-a-day greenhouse gasses
Will rise from the compost of saturated fats to enclose
Our previous sweetness of breath, not to mention complexion,
 
As spots thorn and joints stiffen, each a human equivalent
Of the rose. Which we may as well eat as its plump
And natural allure appeals to us. If we can’t get our grapefruit,
 
Our asparagus, our broad bean; will we devolve, into some
Form of below deck mottled creature? Cast down before our time
Like King Richard as we bitterly ape his dark schemes.
 
Fruiyt and veg have been stalled. How long can you live on
An unfarmed McDonalds? There is a new Wendy’s in Uxbridge,
And a Fish n’Chip shop on my road. There is Londis chipolatas
 
And cheese. Kitkats and Twix. Dirty dairy. There is the brief pump
Of pleasure and then the crisis that meet Motherlode. Meantime,
I check my own teeth, strong untll now.  The sea’s starting.
 
I stand at the lookout. But once the sail is snagged does the journey
Become something that the dead are still owed? I go to bed usually
Dreaming of purpose, or women. Tonight, its tomatoes. 
 
Now that sounds absurd. Life’s new code.
 
 
 
 
 
                                                                            David Erdos 25/2/23
 
 
 
 
 
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Independent Venue Week: some notes from the musical frontline

 

With Alan Dearling (and Peter Barlow)

https://independentvenueweek.com/uk/

“Independent Venue Week (IVW) is the UK’s annual 7-day celebration of independent music & arts venues and the people that own, run and work in them.”

A passion for live music. A mutual experience – an opportunity for musicians and creators, venue curators and the ‘punters’, the audience to share the good vibes. The Golden Lion in Todmorden was one of over 200 such venues across the UK. Here are some words and pics about some of the live IVW events.

Tom A Smith: Already something of a musical prodigy.  Young, good-looking and with a deep, sonorous voice that belies his age. His promo tells us: “Despite being only 17-years-old, Sunderland-based newcomer Tom A. Smith has already achieved more than most artists do in a lifetime. He played his first ever gig aged just eight, supporting local psychedelic rockers Detroit Social Club at legendary Newcastle venue The Cluny, performed at Glastonbury before he was even in secondary school, and Tim Burgess handpicked him to play his stage at Kendall Calling, making him the festival’s youngest ever performer. He has played live with local hero Sam Fender and Catfish & The Bottlemen, as well as supported other Northern acts on the rise like The Lathums and The Mysterines. And now he is looking to break through with his stunning debut single ‘Wolves’.”

“Following his stellar performance on Eltonjohnofficialfanpage line-up at BST Hyde Park, Elton spoke with Tom A Smith on his #RocketHour podcast… He’ll look back in the future and remember Hyde Park as one of the smallest shows of his career….”

https://www.fatsoma.com/e/vj4uj9ga/tom-a-smith-overpass-independent-venue-week

 

Here are some pics from another night at the Golden Lion, headlined by Ben Ottewell (Gomez), and featuring the really talented and individual Rebecca Spooner (who was rightly lauded at the IVW Open Mic competition), and the talented a capella singer Trixxi Cornish.

 

Trixxi Cornish

Trixxi opened the show with three unaccompanied songs. Always challenging, yet engaging type of performance. Great controlled, powerful voice and the crowd applauded and applauded. A good example of why Independent Venue Week is sorely needed. 

 


Rebecca Spooner

Wow, what a first show for a potentially prodigious talent. A ‘natural’ on stage, charismatic and immediately an audience favourite (and friend). Something special to behold. Original songs from her life – songs about school, about concepts of girls’ beauty, even pictures of Dorian Gray. It’s music that is still evolving…changing organically…

Here’s a link to samples of her music:

https://soundcloud.com/miss-rebecca-656735548

I sense that Rebecca – this was her first pro gig – may really go places!

A small snippet of video from the open mic sesh (and an example of her powerful guitar playing): https://www.facebook.com/tom.winstanley.5/videos/566528152064479

 

 

Ben Ottewell

The audience welcomed  Benjamin Joseph “Ben” Ottewell to the stage. Something of a mega star since his career kick-started with the English indie rock band Gomez. He received the Mercury Music Award Prize in 1998, and as it says in Wikipedia: “Is well known for his “deep, raspy voice” and “gravelly baritone”. In 2011, Ottewell embarked upon a solo-project, with the debut album Shapes & Shadows.”

Back in 1996 Gomez started out in Leeds at the Hyde Park Social Club and were originally signed to Hut Records (Virgin). Ben is now based in Brighton. His solo studio albums are: ‘Shapes & Shadows’, 2011; ‘Rattlebag, 2014; and ‘A Man Apart’, 2017.

Ben is still regularly performing with Ian Ball from Gomez.

Ben is a classic ‘class’ act.

Here’s ‘Watcher’ from Ben’s third album:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJZ__syuKAo 

 

Golden Lion ‘Open Mic Night’ for Independent Venue Week
Peter Barlow

 

Alan has kindly invited me to review the Independent Venue Week Open Mic Night, because he could not attend the event. This took place on the Thursday night downstairs in the main bar and stage area at the Golden Lion, Todmorden. Here are my impressions of the evening.

First: a little bit of information about the Open Mic Night.

Each group had to consist of either a solo performer, duo or trio, i.e. no full bands,

who had to perform a maximum of three original songs i.e. no covers. Ten minutes maximum.

Whoever was voted the ‘Best In Show’ would also be given a support slot at the Ben Ottewell gig on the following Saturday at the Golden Lion.

In total there were 9 artists performing on the night.
Unfortunately, I could not get there for the start of the night, so missed the first three artists.
These were: Benn Jones; the duo ‘Witchwood’ and Mick Bruce.
I was later informed that they were all brilliant, as were all the other artists.
Great pity that I missed the first three.

Alan has added in a couple of links to Dave Croft’s videos from the Open Mic IVW event.

The first artist I saw was ‘Cobalt Tales’ – a female duo (Pat and Nuala) based in Sheffield, who played acoustic guitar and bass. They played three tracks, with a melodic, folksy style, include ‘Cool Cats’, which was written during lockdown. I found them to be witty and engaging on stage, with wonderful vocals. Very enjoyable.

Next artist on was the ‘Shadrock Outlaws’ – a trio, consisting of a singer, a young acoustic guitarist and a percussionist on a tea crate! They had a folksy sound with a jaunty feel and the 3 tracks they played were very upbeat.

Up next was young solo singer and acoustic guitarist, Rebecca Spooner, from Todmorden, who sang 3 songs. She had a beautiful voice and was a superb, powerful guitarist. I especially liked the song which she said was inspired by the novel ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde.

The next artist was Chris Manley with his new musical project ‘Roller Boot Dogs’.

Chris played acoustic guitar and sang, and was accompanied by Tom on keyboards.

They performed 3 melodic songs with (it sounded to me) a Latin influence. Yet another quarter hour of laid-back music. Dave Croft’s video:

https://www.facebook.com/749550169/videos/pcb.10160482386610170/724238199274293

Solo artist James Gunn Johnson, from Ramsbottom, was on next. He played acoustic guitar and sang 3 songs with a British folk style. He reminded me a lot of Al Stewart because of his folksy voice and intricate guitar playing.

Last artist on was ‘Snap, Crackle and Pop’, – a trio consisting of two guitar players (one acoustic and one electric) and a percussionist with a small drum kit, including a tea crate.
There was also an accompanist playing a tambour just to the side of the stage. There was a jazz rock influence to their music, and they did an encore i.e. a 4th song. A great way to finish off the Open Mic night, with a different style of music. Dave Croft’s video: https://www.facebook.com/davecroftofficial/videos/875592597095681

The artist who was voted ‘Best In Show’ was Rebecca Spooner because of her brilliant three song set. I was lucky enough to see her perform a longer set on the Saturday, when she supported Ben Ottewell, and she sounded even better. She also said that it was the first time she’d performed as part of a mainstream concert! (one of Alan’s pics of Rebecca)

Just a pity that the music session finished about 10.15, i.e. that there were no more acts, as the evening was superb, with 9 artists offering contrasting musical styles.

Just to mention as well that the sound and lighting was superb for the various performances and that there was a great atmosphere in the Golden Lion all evening. The pub was packed. And obviously there was a great choice of beer as normal.

And a special thanks to Lou (Louise), who provided me with a list of the artists.

The Free Sandwiches:  Alan saw this fun-fuelled three piece at another live indie local Tod venue, Three Wise Monkeys. Eccentric, accordion-driven. They went down extremely well with the young and very old (like me) crowd and all those in between! Plenty of singing-along and dancing and prancing too!

 

 

Here’s a video of them from The Cross Inn at Heptonstall: https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=864910307814928

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Engineering a Cult of Chaos to Undermine Rational Thinking

 


If one tries to use rational thought processes to produce a reasoned explanation for that which is neither rational nor reasoned, one will end-up building a false picture of the world around one.

This is what has happened to those who have tried to ‘make sense’ of a global agenda whose first principle is to create chaos and confusion. Trying to piece together strands that ‘by intent’ have no connection is quite obviously a road to nowhere.

The shadowy architects of The Great Reset/New World Order/One World Government pulled-off a clever trick in designing a totalitarian programme for top-down change whose individual parts each contradict one another. So, when put together by the ‘rational’ public mind, it makes people feel that they must be suffering a diminished personal level of intelligence, because they can’t make the agenda make any logical sense.

So what do most people do? They form a comforting yet implausible theory, that satisfies a need to believe events are following some sort of logical pattern which only those ‘in charge’ can properly understand.

This achieves the dark cabal’s desired affect of defeating any resistance to the programme being enforced. If those on the receiving end can’t, or won’t, believe that the perpetrators see and experience life from a completely different perspective from their own, they can’t grasp why an anti-human agenda could possibly be the reality of the day.

But it is the nature of psychotic/demonic beings to sow the seeds of confusion and then stand back and watch, gaining satisfaction from observing the results play themselves out. So sure are they of the enduring psychological weaknesses displayed by a majority of human beings that they publicly announce each new turning of the screw, via the compliant and controlled world of the mass media.

If enough big names, global institutions and media operations say black is white and two plus two makes five, most will prefer to go along with this perversion than face their own inability to recognise that things have indeed been deliberately 100% distorted.

This distortion is now fully operational in every area of life controlled by the chain of command which – starting from the 0.5% ‘elite’ cabal – runs on to corporate fiefdoms, banking dictatorships, supra national conglomerates (i.e The European Union), trans planetary institutions like the World Economic Forum, World Health Organisation and United Nations, the military industrial complex, and finally national and local governments and the general public.

Built into a very actual programme of centralised global control and the relentless thieving of basic individual and collective freedoms, are a whole series of fake sign posts which seem to indicate that all the worlds’ problems result from extreme outside events associated with human error or mental blindness.

Global warming, pandemics, economic turmoil, war, mass movements of refugees are all part of a world ‘on the brink of disaster’, we are continuously informed by the very architects of the disruptions themselves.
Each of these ‘disasters’ has been designed, planned and executed with ice cool malicious intent by the dark cabal, confident of its ability to successfully play on the fears of all who fail to confront the rules of the Matrix. The dark cabal announces in advance – each further phase of the planned break-down of justice, freedom and law and order.

So if anyone should later exclaim “They forced us, without any warning, to comply with their evil agenda”, a ready prepared answer states “We told you and you ignored it.” It is a feature of the slippery nature of these dark tricksters that they cover their tracks in all situations.

The sheer audacity of some pronouncements is breathtaking. Bill Gates coolly argues the need to depopulate the planet. Klaus Schwab informs us that “we will be happy” having had all our properties stolen from us. Yuval Noah Harari advises that chipped and digitalised people will be a big advancement of the human race, “Better than God” could achieve. Tedros Ghebreyesus, head of the World Health Organisation, states that only he and his board member cronies can decide when to declare health emergencies affecting all independent nation states of the world.

Almost all leaders of nation states are happy to persuade their constituents to go along with these dictatorial pronouncements. For example, they are told to take the weaponised mRNA genetically engineered Covid jab “If you want to be recognised as responsible citizens, retain your freedom of movement and not get put on the red list of subverters of the status quo.”

It is not as though any of these pronouncements are done in secrecy. They are done in plain sight in the public domain. But still the great majority of the public can’t or wont respond with the normal/ natural organic reaction of anyone put under this kind of direct threat “Hey! Who do you think you are? Don’t threaten me with your pompous megalomania – you should be locked-up immediately!”

There is something going on which causes normal human biological reactions to be stymied and rendered seemingly sterile. In my opinion, it is a well developed form of hypnosis. Inducing one’s audience to experience a variety of versions of fear, is stage one. Coming across as a highly placed authority figure is stage two. Having recourse to dark powers to ‘bewitch’, is stage three.

When all three of these are packaged within a sophisticated mind control/social engineering programme, the deliverer holds a number of ace cards. Not least the fact that if and when exposed ‘it sounds too unbelievable to be true’ to all but the keenly aware.

So, we who are aware have the crucial task of reverse engineering the sequence of events that bewitch the general public, thereby exposing the preconceived and calculated use of chaos and confusion which render the cult’s poisoned agenda such a brutal deception.

Can this be done?

Yes it can. But it involves deepening our understanding of the ways of the psychopathic and psychotic mind. We need to grasp how ‘spellbinding techniques’ play a much more central role in mass human mind control programmes than are currently recognised.

This exploration calls for courage and the realisation of our deeper spiritual powers. Such a task cannot be achieved without raising the energetic levels of our latent higher potentialities; a concentrated focus on that which has the power to dispel darkness so as to break the hold of the demonic elements over the human mind.

Humanity is confronted by this test – here and now. If faced directly and bravely, the instigators of the present darkness will be defeated. Defeated by the manifestation of a rising level of truth which the tricksters cannot endure, as their ‘success’ is based on maintaining the blanket existence of a very low vibrational energy, which they consistently try to convey as the only energetic state available to mankind. Nothing less than the three dimensional prison of the Matrix.

Once this huge deception is uncovered on a sufficient scale, the dark mask will fall and the first phases of our true liberation will unfold in front of us like the rising sun; heralding an unprecedented universal expansion of the higher powers of mankind and all planetary and inter planetary energies.

 

Julian Rose

21/02/2023

Hardwick Alliance for Real Ecology: https://hardwickalliance.org/
Hardwick Estate: https://hardwickestate.co.uk/

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, writer, international activist, entrepreneur and holistic teacher. He is Co-founder of the Hardwick Alliance for Real Ecology HARE https://hardwickalliance.org/ Julian’s latest book ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind – Why Humanity Must Come Through’ is strongly recommended reading for this time: see www.julianrose.info

 

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Rishi Sunak’s United Nemesis

Rishi joins a Unite picket line of Ambulance Support Crews[i], nr Audenshaw, Manchester, 6th Feb 2023

 

Now that the Doomsday Clock – as of Jan 24th 2023 – is set at 90 seconds to midnight or doomsday, how does anyone function at any level open to us in this world? Obviously, distraction is the main answer. Not knowing, thinking or caring . . .

Easy for anyone to be distracted by this Thatcheresque, roadside poodle . . .

 

Consumerism is as deadly as alcohol or drug dependency, but it is so much the norm in our neoliberal[ii] world, that it largely passes without question. Along with supposed progress, we are unable to see how enmeshed we are. All of which vaguely relates to a discussion I was having with a group of people the other day about escapism. The arts generally – music, writing, painting and so forth – are often approved or condemned as escapist, and certainly the accelerated dumbing of film[iii] in its current ‘mainstream’ form would support such an argument, as would much bestseller fiction and chart music.

Praying for some kind of future[iv], Red Bank cliff, Bolton le Sands, 2020

 

Many people in the group quietly accepted the pleasure principle of escapism: the worlds they go into when they finally escape work, are what help them to keep breathing. It would’ve been too involved in the circumstances, to raise, explain or detail exceptions to my old challenge that “work [acts as] a worldwide curfew”[v]. Yet it remains obvious that the round of work, raising children and so on – in the way we do it and what we expect and take for granted – is a well-engrained distraction, which – negative or positive – supplies an escape from thinking about what we should really be doing, how radically we should be changing our entire approach to life[vi]. Work or unemployment, anxiety about paying the bills . . . are the inevitable side product of our mass hypnosis. The powerful and rich don’t even bother to try to disguise their exploitation of the rest of us anymore. To mangle metaphors, though their centuries old trick[vii] is out of the bag, still nothing happens!

Surrounded by stupidity . . .  Another nuclear flask train failing to tidy up a predictable mess, Carnforth, 2022

 

It has always been a constantly aggravating enigma to me, just how humanity in general has ended up in such a woeful position. All our intelligence, learning and technology are not helping. Days after Shell announced their biggest profits in 115 years, BP[viii] were crowing about more than doubling theirs[ix]. Why do we just accept such things? Why do we accept that 65% of the food we feed our children is dangerously over-processed?[x] What happened to whatever sense of community we may once have had? Has almost everyone developed a resigned, nihilistic or purblind viewpoint? My equally old argument about inadvertency – a cynical or stoic one I would like to be able to escape – would say that this is our fate. We were always doomed. Always too ‘clever’ . . . yet totally without wisdom. Thankfully, there have always been and still are, big groups of dissenters: CND, Greenpeace, Extinction Rebellion as well as an increasing number of central and left-wing political parties, but to even the biggest demonstrations of popular dissent – those for example, in February 2003[xi] against the war in Iraq[xii] – the puppets at the top fail to sufficiently respond.

These Scrapstore robots would run the country more fairly than the current lot . . . February 2023

 

Out on a rural limb a couple of miles north of Kendal, in the foothills of the Lakeland Fells, the home of Ragtag Arts and Community Scrapstore[xiii], is almost hidden by trees in summer. Situated in a dell beside the river Mint, the old mill building contains artist’s studios, a café and regular workshops of all kinds. Take this as a place of regeneration if you like, certainly as a partial alternative to consumer madness.

 

The accepted network of hypnosis . . .

 

Travelling by (t)rusty Transit along the accepted network of hypnosis (M6, M61, M66 and M60) to a less rural industrial estate just beyond Audenshaw on the eastern fringes of Manchester, pondering about acceptance and limitation, I did not expect the cheerful sight of red flags in sunlight when we reached our destination.

I was here to collect materials for Scrapstore: recycled wood to go towards a commission from South Lakes District Council to make trolleys full of other recycled items for the Early Years Foundation Stage network[xiv]. Waiting for the van to be loaded, I crossed the road to chat with the Unite pickets, who joked with a Rishi Sunak mask and cheered all the passing drivers who tooted in support.

At all the numerous demonstrations I’ve joined in the last few years I’ve met people from every walk of life, and never encountered one who wasn’t accommodating and thoughtful. So, what is it that happens to us en masse, how does the inadvertency take over, why are the huge majority of our supposed ‘leaders’ so dire . . . in the case of the last ten years particularly, not just criminally bad, but in many cases plainly criminal. Society appears to slide on like some vast anaconda with us caught in its coils forced into one or other, more or less destructive form of distraction . . .

 

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben

Morecambe, February 2023
[email protected]

 

NOTES:

[i]               www.emas.nhs.uk/join-the-team/ambulance-service-roles/ambulance-support-crew/

[ii]               en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neoliberalism

[iii]              One only has to glance at the appalling degeneration of films considered mainstream from the 70s to 2023 to be forced to suppress howls of derisive laughter at the modern world. Many films considered mainstream back then, would be labelled art films now. I dread to think what is happening to the mass human mind . . .  

[iv]              anthonydpadgett.tripod.com/prayingshellindex.html

[v]              The Bow, 1983; revised version published by Stride in 2000: ISBN 10: 1900152657 

[vi]              phys.org/news/2018-02-humanity-drastic-good-life.html 

[vii]                             Parasites 

                Irrelevant bull with your arrogant noise

                you symbolize the ruling class!

                Foghorn blaring monotonously down the night

                you need putting down.

                What happened to the idea expanded from Robin Hood

                (a Hood not respectful of kings)

                or the meek’s kingdom to come?

 

                Over a thousand years ago some moron thugs

                bonked a few random others over the head –

                or ran them through by surprise,

                still, we’re living with the ordure,

                a stinking attitude from centuries of privilege

                sanctioned by family connections,

                ordained by greed.

 

                Earnings, ownings and profit margins, all need to be capped

                Boards and figureheads offered the guillotine:

                these bloated maggots are our burden

                they will never grow wings.

                What became of the spirit of revolution?

                or valuable education, disdaining

                upmanship or the material gorge?

 

                Aspiring consumers caught in the precariat trap

                Need a cathedral of sense to avoid short cuts . . .

                A fairer society must banish stupidity but

                no undeniable path stands out

                Since idiocy penetrates equally,

                all levels of wealth, education, opportunity, and class . . .

 

                Against bigot, patriot, straw-head and zombie

                good-natured protest may not be enough.

                The ragdoll of democracy has been hijacked by strings or wires –

                shadow-puppet you are falling apart!

                Your body twitches, incorrectly ignites

                legs quavering towards goosestep

                arms to beat on your chest.

 

                On this floor what does this all mean to me?

                My value is nil, I do not fit

                never have, never wanted to 

                this human world makes me sick.

                A machine-gun or bomb would blast only a temporary satisfaction.

                A short hysterical laugh.

               

               (A polemical surge of irritation from 2022)

 

[viii]            Don’t believe the hype and dazzle camouflage employed here: www.bp.com/

[ix]              www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-64544110

[x]               www.imperial.ac.uk/news/223573/urgent-action-needed-reduce-harm-ultra-processed/

                See Also:  www.thepetitionsite.com/en-gb/117/506/987/

[xi]              en.wikipedia.org/wiki/15_February_2003_anti-war_protests

[xii]             cnduk.org/resources/campaign-magazine-february-2023/?link_id=1&can_id=

[xiii]            www.ragtagarts.co.uk/ 

[xiv]             councilfordisabledchildren.org.uk/resources/all-resources/filter/schools-colleges-and-fe/early-years-foundation-stage-framework

 

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Today and Tonight

Today I pour
My grief.
My remaining ecstasy
Will have a face.
I will empty my life
And the urge to fill it
Will filtrate me
To my core.
I will listen
To my lore.
I will sing.
Tonight, I will ask the
Night to wake up and
Fill the cup of silence.
My mask is my sadness
I will dance with it
To pale moonlight
And the stage of secret threads.
The weaver can unweave my story;
It will still be a web full of life.
The burning candle of grief
Makes me empathetic to others.

 

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal

 

 

 

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Immiserate

I didn’t know the word
until I found it in the newspaper
in a story about Ukraine after
Putin’s invasion.

In a one-sentence paragraph in a piece
written by Andrew E. Kramer and
Marc Santora, on Saturday, December
17th, 2022, a front-page story entitled

RUSSIAN MISSILES
PLUNGE MILLIONS
INTO FRIGID DARK

with the subheading

HUDDLING FOR WARMTH

and the paragraph I’m
writing about isn’t
on the front page, it’s on page 6:

“With their troops losing a large
chunk of territory they had
conquered in eastern and south-
ern Ukraine, Russian forces this
fall dramatically increased their
aerial attacks on civilian infra-
structure across the country, in an
apparent bid to terrorize and im-
miserate the population and sap
its will to fight.”

I still
have not
looked up
“immiserate,”

guess
that from its context, as
we say, one may gather

its
meanings.
Freezing
days and nights the

Russian commanders and Putin
want Ukrainians to suffer. And
“immiserate” is not in my old (1979)
two-volume Compact Oxford English Dictionary

and I think of the freezing hands of
all those Ukrainians, how it would be difficult
to even turn the pages of any book.

And they’re probably
burning
all the newspapers, if they have any.

Using OneLook Dictionary, online, I find six
dictionaries offering to open the door to
“immiserate.” Before looking at one, my thought

is about how here I am, in my home, reading
about the unimaginable hardships in Ukraine for
Ukrainians, then I am writing, too, about a

relatively obscure word. And the room I’m in
suddenly fills with such bright sunlight it almost
hurts my eyes─the sun must’ve been behind a cloud.

Okay, my poem won’t change anything
in Ukraine or Russia or anywhere

and I’m writing it anyway. And have yet to read
any definition.

 

John Levy

 

 

 

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Discontent

 

Cry down yer deathvale tears
The razorwire that bleeds through
Indignities and emissaries.
 
Battle down the worm
That gloats in the glow
Yer misdeeds trialled now
Trailed to the final resting place.
 
Harpoon the call of wild dogs
Mesmerizing corpses of angelic breaths
Studded & studied in the corpuscle
& sinew of yer discontent.

 

Clive Gresswell

 

 

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Desert Snow


 
                                for Regina
               
                I’ll fall where I damn well please.
                                Victoria Edwards Tester, Rain
 
There’s a place that snow turns into mist
where silence is a road
that runs where miners once
hauled ambition up from
the desert on wheels that complained all the way.
They opened the earth up long enough
to find there was less silver
than in the winter trees, and so they
loaded their wagons with disappointment
and went back down into
the heat with whiskey as the devil leading
the way. Juncos and siskins
gather now and pick
what they can from the cold.
Watching is belonging here for a few
December days in the company
of birds and frost a short drive from
desert on the foxes’ trail. The angels
overhead remember where
each of us has come from
before arriving in a country filled
with thorns and rocks patrolled by
coyotes. To each
a shadow falls from a hawk ever present
like a handkerchief dropped
by the gods
onto the paths we have chosen.
It isn’t ore that draws us, there
are no drills or shovels
for reaching into secrets the land possesses,
just the moments drifting down
at year’s end with a star
in every flake. The saints of the season
kick back and let the sycamore
shine white on white
while oaks and pines bear the weight
of memory in their boughs
until the sky cracks open for more snow
to fall, the now snow, the childhood snow,
the snow of joys and sorrows, snow
as a gift, snow as a razor, white, white,
white with the single red flash in
a string of stinging peppers hung against the snow,
snow that picks the desert as a home just
because it damn well wants to.

 

 

David Chorlton

 

 

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LUSTALGIA

 
Racquel Welch dies, and we whom she glazed as teenage boys
Crack and crumble. At 82 one imagines that while the shine has gone
There’s the sheen of a former beauty passed on, transformed
 
By age into aether, and where what she was returned to her,
That spectacular face and shape now re-fashioned
As if time’s troubled slate were wiped clean.
 
Gina Lollabrigida, too, departed some months before her;
Had another face which stirred fires with the arch of her eyebrows,
A bounteous figure and the sheer exquisiteness of her nose.
 
How these women looked blazed their trail for most men,
And for women too, despite being so much more accomplished.
And yet it was the mark of their features that made every breath
 
They stole a fan’s rose. Gina’s face at nearly one hundred
Seemed sunk in the last photos of her, the surrounding skin
Sending the prize of her poise back to source. I have seen none
 
Of Racquel. She was careful to preserve past perfection.
Content to count alone time’s charged changes,
Or perhaps discontented with the cost of par’s path
 
On its course. None can escape this decline. That we know.
And no-one can defeat, not completely, and yet we realise
That true beauty can never fold for age. It adapts.
 
Women bare this weight, far more than any man.
Men can’t match it. But for a woman, age coarsens,
Or renders them even more beautiful.  Men stay trapped.
 
There are a few exceptions, of course. One thinks of
The equally perfect Paul Newman, whose face in age
Was Mount Rushmore after it had been golden beach.
 
But then these were all stars who gave the world they knew
Fresh won orbits. The calibre of illusion was cosmic
Due to the invited desires which forever appeared
 
Beyond reach.  Ann-Margret of late has played elderly
But sensual vixens. Staring through dark mascara
With her come to bed eyes and lush bust. Honor Blackman
 
Still blazed until her final day, beyond ninety.
Theresa Russell’s face and figure still stun me,
And in her sixties, she will forever retain my heart’s trust.
 
Beauty often seems soft, but it also scorches our senses;
Its accomplishments still inspire just as its tragedies
Bare their wounds. As one thinks of those lost and what was
 
Endured as they suffered. From Natalie Wood to Jean Seberg,
From Rita Hayworth to Marilyn Monroe’s nightshade croons.
The British actress Imogen Hassall snared my soul with both
 
Her immaculate looks and sad story, and for Kate Bush
I am captive to music  and air she still shapes.
So this term for wanting I’ve coined refers to a form
 
Of the past which continues, in which certain fantasy
Figures can be lived with and longed for; Fay Wrays
Held at such distance that even the shortest man
 
Makes great ape, finally beholding his prize
In his light-stung hand, and enraptured. This love
For what’s lost is ‘Lustalgia.’ It is a yearning which moves
 
Beyond death and aging. It is the desirous learning
That no prison within grants escape. One can fall in love
With a face, or with the idea of a person. For men,
 
It is then the body, for women, I can only hope, its the mind.
This strange location. This muse, mixing sex and love
With the music that is the true soul or something
 
That we as yet can’t define. That beat without sound,
That slow but steady need which keeps searching
Across luck, fame and distance for the canary or gold
 
In the mine. Scratch at the coal-face and feel
Love’s true features unearthing. While in your dream
You’re re-birthing a world in which this lost loving
 
Seduces those who inspire, as you trace such sweet
Shadows and place your eager kiss across time.   
     
 
 
                                          David Erdos 17/2/23
 
 
 
 
 
 
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HOSTING THE HEART

 

ON ZAPO DE RAY’S 

IN THE HEART OF THE MACHINE

The angelic chord summons us, 
A sweetening storm calming thunder 
The rise of notes sliding across the inner sky
Of the mind. The sound soothes your brow 

Shielding the thoughts caught with it 
As time slows and snares you while ensuring 
You remain unconfined. The chord evolves, 
Shimmers, stays as if the host within 

Is emerging, defining the shape 
Of rebirthing through the inner egg
Of the ear. The machine of man stretched
By the cosmic force yolked within us, 

A natural oil drawn from colours which seek 
To harmonise with all fears. 
An insistent tapping begins, 
The rumble of ruins reforming,

Or some astral reminder of how 
The workings within realign 
With smooth sound as source, 
Sound as soul sparking slow cloud,

Sending signals across the electric
To make this music which soundtracks    
Somehow all of time.  
In the heart of the machine rests the wind

As a guitar theme starts to gather. 
The notes sound ecstatic as this ambient 
Line elevates. It fills you with joy 
And you are strangely buoyed in starred

Oceans. Less than three minutes in 
Of this twenty and we grasp love’s true 
Advantage at last over hate.
The sounds seem to spider, Entwined. The sounds 

Glow and spiral. The spirit-cloud rises
And we are at one with the real. 
Which is not of this earth
For machine and host span spun reaches 

In which music teaches all that we know, 
See and feel. The form gathers to gain 
The musculature of the moment; 
Flesh as soft metal grows like a David
Croenenberg gauze over blood 

Which finds new patterns in rain 
As mist turns to message 
And the knocking sound rivers across
The barbarous land with fresh floods 

Of cremasting flush and the sudden rush 
Of desire, while around the slow fire 
Of sensual skies sees night crowned. 
This is swell as spell. This is that sky ripped 

And seeping and this is earth weeping
As God as seducer sees bad Mother
Nature Bend down. Soon she will free all her sons. 

Her ritual return has this music. 

You will hear it play within thunder 
And it will in sharing dreams leave its mark. 
Light shines through the skin. Fresh forms 
Emerge, energising. The Rib-cage 

As cathedral housing musical spawn 
Smears the dark. I am only half way through 
And feel like Peter Quinn’s Star-Lord
Traversing star-oceans on a transformative 

Craft of the soul. Civilisations are seen
Glimpsed in the cloak of cloud and God 
Gasses. Nebulae nudging and dissipating 
To tears sees space fold. There is benign 

Dissonance here. For this is the sound 
Of creation. This is the founding force 
Shaking what it has come to make 
As a toy. God, or whatever it is, a mad child 

Playing at fate, shifting balance. As Zapo’s
Angelic chords begin cutting across 
The slicing shifts of guitar, there’s dark joy
In whatever it is that comes next. Harmony 

Becomes herald. The heart of his machine 
Is organic, beating to break the steel air. 
The ear then stalls fear. It is the black hole 
In our bodies. That soft and strange portal

Through which the brain’s mystery 
May be dared. This machine makes you new
The Host helps you see this. It’s becalmed 
Opening shows you that while you float 

Or swim you are held by a different process, 
A point at which the flesh is peeled to show 
Purpose as the secret root felt through 
Music is how sign and space truly meld. 

The chords sweep and clean. The synth 
Takes your talking. You are travelling now 
Through said portals. You are unravelling
Soon you will bare everything sensate, 

Each pore. This is sound as skin. 
This is the ear’s evolution. 
This is the star’s revolution 
Against the bracketing frame of our stare. 

The Host welcomes you into a house
Without walls or shelter. Zapo De Ray 
Builds a palace from intangible dreams 
And dark stairs. You are his notes. 

You are astronaut to his angel. 
The music he has made lasts forever. 
It is a hand through the cosmos
Humans you are not alone. 

Someone sees you. 
But we must listen to their learning 
And then show them all

How to care. 

 

 

 

David Erdos 16/2/23

 

https://zapoderay.bandcamp.com/album/in-the-heart-of-the-machine

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Our Valentine’s Week Gift For You

Bonobo TV Publishing

We started Bonobo TV in 2006

Since then it has had a number of incarnations

Each of them with the same aim to promote and celebrate our relationship with the planet and all those we share it with whatever shape or form their life may take

At the same time we raise questions on how the human race behaves towards our fellow creatures and the planet itself

Our chameleon iterations continue and today, with all the love that should attend Valentine’s Day, we have a new one for you.

And it’s bearing gifts  

Our Valentine’s Week gift to you


 click image to see the book

Our first offering is Love Looks
Poems and photographs by Geoff Francis
Design by Paul Windridge

Click here  for immediate access to the book

We hope you enjoy it and will want to see more titles.

words and music to inspire

music from Darren Ginn accompanied by
images, film and words by Geoff Francis

words to inspire

e-book versions of Geoff’s published work 
 

We are releasing all Geoff’s published work so far in the form of flip books so that you can read them online

These include collaborations with digital artist and photographer Paul Windridge.

Other books will be released during the year and we will let you know as and when.

Buy Me A Coffee?

As an organisation with the ethos of promoting care and concern for the planet, the creative team at Bonobo TV often generates ideas which would require funding in order to come to fruition.

Everyone works on a pro-bono basis. With your help, we can inspire changes that this fragile planet needs.   

All of the books are available from the usual online retailers. But we understand that some would prefer an alternative way of engaging with our work. The online flip books have been generated to meet this preference.

Along with this, we have linked with Buy Me A Coffee, a site providing an alternative way of supporting artists for their creative output.

If you like any of the work on the Bonobo TV Publishing platform (the music videos or the books) or would simply like to support our creative endeavours, please do consider ‘Buying Us A Coffee‘.

Whether you would like to donate (or even if not),
we do encourage you to enjoy and share our work

That’s the best gift that artists can receive 
(coffees notwithstanding)!

Please visit Bonobo TV Publishing often
and share it with friends and colleagues.

 

 

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The black dress

It’s late but not too late
I hear a knock at the door
I walk down the stairs cautiously
I answer it

She’s standing there perfect
In a black dress

She tells me she can’t live without me
I tell her I am not the man I used to be

You are in need of love more than ever
She says

Okay
I say

She walks in
The moonlight follows her
I listen to those years of lost steps
And I follow them

 

 

Paul Butterfield Jnr

 

 

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ABC of Drugs

Taking recreational drugs was an interest and a hobby many of us shared during the 1960s. Some overdid it and were damaged temporarily or worse. Now, you know the joke: These days I get enough of a rush just standing up from my arm chair.

In my late-found wisdom I avoid all drugs except a cup of coffee and a glass of decent red wine (just the one). But many people are still able to use recreational drugs moderately and sensibly. Not me. And anyway, I like my world the way I find it.

I have always stood up for the legalisation of cannabis and the medical control of hard drugs, not making them a matter for police control. Our prisons are overcrowded, both in the UK and USA with people caught up in the illegality of drugs. Millions of people have had their lives ruined not by the drugs themselves but but by the heavy punitive actions of policing, the courts and the prisons. Half of crime is fuelled by the need to make money to buy illegal drugs on the black market. This includes prostitution, muggings, burglaries, low level street dealing, etc. If only we could adopt sensible policies towards recreational drugs as they do in Portugal, Denmark, Holland, and even some US states, the world would be a better place. Organised crime and the drug cartels would shrink away if we treated drugs as a medical issue and made the safer ones available legally, to adults.

In addition, criminalisation due to drug offence disproportionaly effects ethnic minorities. A huge percent of prisoners in USA jails are African-American, many if not most locked up for drug related offences. The same is probably true of Hispanics too. In the UK a disproportionate number of prisioners are Afro-Caribbean, again many incarcerated for drug-related offences. Some have said that the drugs war is a race war. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Race_and_the_war_on_drugs

This section is not an endorsement but a (partly) dispassionate overview with a some memories and experiences woven in. Even in the 60s I did not feel it was right to encourage others into drug taking, except perhaps the odd spliff. I think over-reliance on any artificial stimulants whether it be alcohol, cannabis, E or even heroin is a bad thing. But it is for individuals with the help of the medical profession, counselling and mental health services to sort themselves out. Criminalizing drugs makes the problem much, much worse.

As a middle class white person I have never run foul of the law. In 1968 I was with a girlfriend called Dee who had taken over a room available for rent in Brighton prior to landlord agreement. The police were called but knew Dee. One experienced sargeant picked up a tranparent plastic box of powdered cannabis containing maybe 10 gm. He asked if she was staying off drugs, and shaking the box said that a bit of weed never did any harm. He accepted her account of having every intention of regularising the rental, which she did. The police then left. If we had been black, or if the police were having a bad day, or if they were sticklers for the law, our life courses might have turned out very different. Many are not so privileged or lucky. Thousands of black men in jail in the USA and UK can attest to that. It’s not right.

Here, I treat what it is we are talking about in the domain of recreational drugs, what they are and what they do. Many of these drugs were tried out by me and my friends when we hung out at the Wiches Cauldron coffee bar, Belsize Park, in the early 1960s.  See

https://sites.google.com/view/witchescauldron1960s/home

Let me start with a picture of a range of drugs. Most were obtained from someone’s prescription in those days, but not cannabis or LSD.


Common illegal recreational drugs available in the 1960s 

This photo shows many of the  most common illegal recreational drugs available in the 1960s

Some of those on top row are ‘black bombers’

Next row: no. 9 is drinamyl (purple hearts, blues), no. 10, Spansule timed or ‘sustained release’ pellets)

Second row from bottom: no. 20 & 21 are hashish, no. 22 is grass, marijuana, weed, pot (both forms of cannabis).

Bottom row: a joint, reefer, or hand rolled cigarette of cannabis

In the class A section: no. 25 a ‘jack’ (soluble tablet) of heroin (10 mg of diamorphine hydrochloride), no. 26 a ‘microdot’ of LSD.

An ABC of Drugs

A is for Amphetamine, Speed, Uppers, Whizz, Krank. Small amounts of speed make you talkative, full of warmth joy, sharing yourself with others. It keeps you going, defeats exhaustion, stops you sleeping and reduces your appetite. Larger amounts of speed put you into a removed and anxious state tapping your feet or hands repeatedly, doing obsessive things like picking fluff off the carpet or squeezing pimples on your face until you look like you have been in a fight or worse. Prolonged large doses leads to what is termed amphetamine psychosis where your sense of reality breaks down

I saw an eyeball coming through a splitting wall on a stalk in Tetuan 1969, and saw fish jumping out of the sea the same size all the way to the horizon, in Tangier Summer 1969. I could hear people whispering about me incessantly, and knew that they were peering into my hotel room through every crack, door and window. At one point I threw open my doors shouting “I have nothing to hide!”

Large doses and the associated sleeplessness produce feelings of paranoia and threat. People in the grip of amphetamine psychosis are delusional and can be dangerous, just like paranoid schizophrenics. They are capable of unpredictable violence (see also coke).


Prescription amphetamines 

A photo of prescription amphetamines; including ‘purple heart’ (blues) in the centre, and ‘black bombers’ above, and spansules, below.


Purple hearts

Purple hearts (drinamyl) were the favoured drug of the Mods – they included 5mg of dexamphetamine and some amylbarbitone. Great for dancing to what is now called Northern Soul.

A is for Atropine and other drugs from the Bella Donna Solanacea plant family, also present in Fly Agaric toadstool (amanita muscaria) alongside muscarine, scopolomine. These are powerful mind bending drugs, not necessarily any fun. Arctic shamen used to eat fly agaric for visions and ceremonies, and drank each other’s urine as the drugs are excreted unchanged. Witches, that is female wizards and crones, not the eponymous coffee bar, used to take datura containing atropine in order to fly on their broomsticks. Don Juan in Mexico used datura in his rites, including flying while chained to a rock. You certainly see things that aren’t there but it’s not much fun. Alan Shoobridge told me you could buy morphine over the counter in Ibiza, but the only available sort had atropine with it. He complained it gave him ‘barbed wire’. I didn’t understand this side effect untill I saw his difficult passage down the high street, Summer 1967. He was, dipping down, stepping high with his feet, and twisting his body around and to the side. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Oh, I’m just trying to get through – they’ve strung fucking barbed wire across the road, again.”

B is for Barbiturates, a whole range of sleeping pills from ultra short acting to long or slow acting ones (sodium pentothal, seconal, amylobarbitone, nembutal to barbital/veronal). They help you to sleep but make you very groggy. Their effect is multiplied by combination with antihistamines or alcohol, which can be dangerous. They are now known to be addictive, and rarely prescribed. I used to steal my father’s seconal but it really isn’t a very pleasant drug. He used to take it to go to sleep but as it took hold he would stay up into the wee hours talking and fighting off the little death of sleep.

B is for Benzedrine – see Amphetamine or speed or methedrine. The nickname ‘Bennies’ is a shortened form.

C is for Cocaine, Charlie, C, snow, ice (also crack, rocks, ‘free-basing’ – the smoking of crack). This is a very powerful stimulant that also is a local anaesthetic. It is made from the coca leaves that grow around the Andes. It has long been chewed by Aztecs for stamina and to combat altitude sickness. Hence the nickname ‘marching powder’. Cocaine can be snorted or injected, and in the form of crack or rocks it can be smoked. While very stimulating, giving one much excitement and confidence, producing a gleam in one’s eye, encouraging manic story telling like the ancient mariner, it also made me want more, immediately, now! Injected with heroin as a speedball it provides an enhanced rush; that minute of orgasmic ecstasy that each drug can supply separately, but combined into something even more intense. But the question you must face is: Is it worth swapping a decent, happy and organised life for a minute of ecstasy?

C is for chloroform, a stupyfying liquid, used as a full-anaesthetic since Victorian times. I recall Alan Shoobridge putting a hankie soaked with drops of chlorofrom into his mouth at William Ellis School. We pinched it from the biology lab, regularly. Alan passed out in the corridor and as I was dragging him along the highly polished parquet flooring back to the lab by his legs a master (as the teachers were then called) asked me what I was doing. I explained that Alan was just feeling a bit faint and I was just taking him back to the classroom. I was allowed to proceed. Another time Pete Rasini was inhaling similarly, from a hankie stuffed in his mouth, while seated on a lab stool. At this moment the biology mistress Aggie Clough came in. He was not a biology major so she tapped him hard on the arm saying “What are you doing in here, boy, go back to your classroom!”. She didn’t realize he was borderline unconscious. He fell off the chair and lay motionless on the ground. We gave her the same alibi and got away with it again. Stupid stupefaction!

C is for Caffeine, a central nervous system stimulent found in tea, coffee, cocoa and available as pills. I bought 25gm of pure caffeine from Gerrards the chemical suppliers on Pentonville Road about 1960-61. Can you imagine selling to a young schoolboy, clad in in school uniform, significant quantities sulphur powder, sodium nitrate, charcoal powder (the ingredients of gunpowder), pure caffeine, pure chloral hydrate, chlorbutin, 100 gm of sodium metal immersed in oil, and god knows what else! Peter Sayers bought fuming nitric and concentrated sulphuric acids there too, and took them home on the bus! Luckily we knew the dose for caffeine was about 10mg. Recently in the papers there was the report of a tragic case of a hapless youth who took over 1 gm and died of a burst heart!

D is for Dope, a generic name for drugs but most often used for Cannabis. When Tony Barnett was a lad he had heard that dope made you feel nice, and that it was also used to treat the outside of airplanes. On boarding a flight to France with his father, he ran his finger along the outside skin of the airplane and then licked it surreptitously. It had no effect. A true scientist. Test before you believe!

E is for Ecstasy – it wasn’t around in the 60s but it is reported to be very nice, euphoric, giving you feelings of unbounded love, and to be great for dancing. It is related to the amphetamines but significantly nicer and safer. I had some in a tiny pot on my study shelf that somebody gave me a few years ago. Reading Granta 74: Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstasy Eater

made me ethusiastic enough to ask my friend to get me some, and I was almost bold enough to try it! It’s gone now, in case you’re asking! I never tried it!

F is for Fentanyl – a hugely powerful opiate 200X stronger than heroin. Thank god it wasn’t around in the 60s or many more of us would have ended up like Prince, dead! The annual death toll from it and oxycontin (another synthetic opiate, called “redneck heroin”) in the USA is greater than the total from the entire Vietnam War start to finish (counting only American deaths – the Vietnamese suffered far worse casulaties).

G is for Grass, the flowers, buds, leaves of the cannabis sativa (or indica) plant, a moderate strength hallucinogen. Having said this, the intensity of different people’s reactions varies greatly. In 1968 my Swedish artist cousin had major psychedelic effects from smoking ordinary weed. Like seeing sheets of glass cutting his legs off and revealing all the flesh and bone to his gaze. It also caused him to be fearful and paranoid, so he never took it again! Cannabis can be smoked, eaten (majun cake in Morocco) or drunk (bhang in India) and varies from mild to overpoweringly strong (see skunk). Called weed, marijuana, kif (in Morocco). There are many regional varieties, such as Morrocan kif, Acapulco gold, Tijuana technicolur, Durban poison, Thai sticks. Cannabis enhances the senses, dilates time, let you really appreciate music, food (the munchies) and overall is a pretty benign drug. Most people also get the giggles, uncontrolled laughter at the funniness of everything, especially the laughter of your compatriots. I recall Margaret Pearce sharing a joint with me and Tony in our hotel room in Paris 1962, and rolling around on the floor, kicking her legs up, laughing uncontrollably. “The drug has no effect on me, whatsover.” she insisted. We fully agreed, and joined in her hilarity! However, despite its contribution to widely shared laughter, a few people do react badly to it, especially in over-strong forms (skunk) or over-large amounts (such as when eaten). It can, if very rarely, lead to a psychotic breakdown. Smoking dope everyday, or all the time, is not a very good thing. My father used to describe the effect as making people ‘world-strange’, a very apt term for the isolation, alienation and entrapment in a bubble of strange ideas and distorted worldviews, possibly tinged with paranoia, to which excessive use of cannabis often leads. See also hashish.

H is for Hashish, the resinous extract of the cannabis sativa (or indica) plant widely grown in North Africa, Middle East, and in warm parts of the Far East, like Thailand (where it is usally kept as grass, e.g., Thai sticks). Unless the powdered cannabis is very high in resin content (such as Lebanese Primo) the chopped resinous plant is mixed with a little water to adhere to itself and compressed while heated. The result is plaques, discs or slabs of hashish. Heating it under pressure so that the resin melts and melds forces out any air which will tend to oxidise the active ingredient THC (Tetro Hydro Cannabinol) and degrade it into a more soporific and less hallucinogenic cannabinoid. Put simply, it preserves it better. There are many local versions and types of hash. Different varieties from Morocco are probably the most common in Europe, but there is also red Leb (terracotta coloured hash from Lebanon, often compressed in little cotton sacks), Black Afghan discs of hash, which used to be hand pressed, Black Pakistani hash slabs, imprinted with a gold seal, Nepali temple balls, etc. Of course it may all have changed since the 60s. Hashish, and indeed cannabis in general, has long been celebrated as a hallucinatory drug giving rise to enhanced sensations and perceptual experiences, as well as visions. Baudelaire, Rimbaud and other poets have long celebrated its visonary qualities. See also G for Grass.


A cannabis booth in Christiania, Copenhagen, with weed to the left, hash to the right, ready rolled joints in colour-ended cylinders, top right, and the dealer’s hands in view. Judging by its colour my guess is that, despite the labels, all of the hash is Morrocan.

H is for Heroin, Horse, H, Smack, Diamorphine, Diacetyl-morphine hydrochloride. It is made from morphine, the naturally occuring narcotic alkaloid which is the major pharmacologically active component of opium. Morphine is first extracted and purified, and then further processed using acetic acid. Heroin is the best painkiller ever discovered. But, as is universally acknowledged, it is a very addictive drug. Indeed, it is probably the most addictive drug known to humankind. It is addictive because of the unpleasant and painful withdrawal symptoms experienced by a regular user of high doses, when they stop taking it. But beyond this, it also causes extreme psychological addiction, leading addicts to go to great lengths to obtain it. They will sacrifice the needs of loved ones, their own dignity, bodily safety, and almost anything else, to obtain the next dose. When addicts or anyone takes heroin, there are two parts to the heroin high. First, there is the immediate flash, the rush, the ecstatic minute of euphoria as it takes hold of your mind and body. Second, there is the afterglow, the extended high, the numbed contentment that follows. Unfortunately in the medium to long term it causes emotional distancing and numbness. For a personal account see https://internationaltimes.it/heroin/

Dave Young’s comment:

Re smack, I never had so much trouble with it nice and moreish though it is. I thank Robert S. deRopp for his book Drugs and the Mind which made it very clear that it was possible to stop with a bit of will power. There is no doubt however that there is not much if anything in this world that makes you feel better. As a friend of mine said when we were talking about enlightenment: I don’t know what it could be like but if it is anything it must be better than heroin.

I liked to go out on the town on it but the vomiting made that awkward and lying around drinking tea and smoking fags was a pretty limited lifestyle.

Perfect for late old age though, they should give it to all pensioners.

Oh yes, I forgot the vomiting. Very often you will vomit on injecting heroin. One ex-junkie friend (on this site but who shall remain nameless) reports that just getting ready to fix made him feel sick. A Pavlovian reaction!

I is for Injection. Many drugs are injected subcutaneously or intramusculalrly for moderate speed of release into the system, or intraveinously in order to reach the brain very fast (max. 30 seconds). However breaking through the skin barrier by injection risks introducing infectious agents into the system. All of us who have experienced a ‘dirty fix’ know what it feels like to lie shivering and cold for hours, while your immune system fights off the infection. At least two of of the Witches people died from sepsis infections cause by intraveinous drug use in 1970 or soon after. Alan Shoobridge died from sepsis in an hospital in Northern France. Lynn Ellis was another. I last met Lynn in New Bond Street in 1970 when I was working nearby as a computer programmer. She assured me she was off heroin but I could see from her pinned eyes (tiny pin-prick sized pupils) that she was high on opiates. I never saw her again, but learnt from Nessie that she had died in a squat from blood poisoning. Both were good friends, bright people with great potentials and abilities, but both were burdened with an irresistable urge to self-destruct. They sleep in the arms of Morpheus.

J is for Junk, see Heroin, Morphine. (Plus there are loads of synthetic opiods including methadone, tramadol, palfium, pethidene, fentanyl, oxycontin, etc). Junkies are of course opiate addicts.

K is for Ketamine, a horse tranquilizer used for clubbing and dancing. Loved by some. Never tried it. Sounds rough!

L is for LSD (Lysergic Acid Diethylamide-25) a very powerful hallucinogenic drug. This is the god drug, the one that opens you up to powerful visions and near-religious experiences; when you think you understand everything and see how the universe is totally interconnected. Afterwards your insights may not seem to be quite so universal and mind-blowing. But one does carry away the knowledge that reality is not what it seems on the surface. Periodically Acid (LSD) is promoted as the answer to all psychic and social ills. The fact is that

Acid is truly amazing and mind-blowing, and teaches you so much, taking you beyond just seeing the surfaces of everything swirling with patterns and rippling and heaving with life and movement. Acid takes you into yourself and lets you see who you are, what you might be and unleashes the love and laughter of the universe through you. It lets you see the joy and beauty of all beings, the interconnectedness of life, nature in its wholeness, the pulsing net that is the communion of everything. And you carry some of that wisdom back with you when you return from your trip. But if you have dark fears and anxieties it can release them too and leave you cowering and quaking at your own demons, absolutely terrified by the abyss within. You taste heaven (or hell) in the here and now.


Alex Grey’s vision of the Net of Being

Acid makes you very susceptible to outside influences and so is best taken with friends in supportive and familiar surroundings. Once you get comfortable and confident you can perhaps go out, with your guide accompanying you. Sometimes people have ‘bad trips’ when they become disturbed, paranoid, fearful and anxious. This is not a pleasant experience. Very rarely, bad trips can even trigger a mental breakdown. LSD is a very powerful drug that should be used cautiously. Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, who drove a bus around the West Coast of the USA in the 60s spiking peoples drinks with LSD, were behaving very irresponsibly and badly. No-one should ever be given a drug without their knowledge and consent, especially not LSD. For an imaginative personal version of the LSD trip see: https://internationaltimes.it/the-journey-2/


Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters on their bus which took Owsley’s acid to the masses, willing or not!

L is for Largactil, very heavy tranquilizer. A chemical cosh!

L is for Laughing gas, nitrous oxide, which makes you light headed and laugh a lot. In much of London clubland, Brick Lane and Camden the morning after party nights many little silver ‘sparklets’ (gas cylinders) can be seen on the pavements and in the gutter. Users typically discharge the compressed gas into balloons and then inhale it, enjoying the light headedness and laughter it provokes. It is actually sold for inflating whipped cream in patisserie making. When you buy a whipped cream dispensing ‘aerosol’ can, the inflating gas inside is nitrous oxide.

M is for Morphine, and MS for morphine sulphate. One of the main opiate drugs, used for pain relief. The effect is not as euphoric as that of heroin, but similar in many ways. 10% of codeine injested is turned to morphine in your body which why codeine is moderately psychoactive. Morphine and codeine are some of the most commonly occuring opioids in opium. There are scores of different opioid alkaloids in opium, very valuable medically.

M is for Mescaline a very powerful natural hallucinogenic drug present in the mescal cactus of central America (used to be called Lophophera Williamsii in Botany). Similar descriptions of effects and warnings of danger that apply to LSD are equally relevant here. Traditionally it is used in shamanistic rites by Native Americans in South Western USA and in Mexico. Mescaline is weakly present in the form of tequila called mescal. This often has a worm (or two) at the bottom of the bottle, purportedly to absorb the poisons.

M is for Methedrine, methyl amphetamine sulphate. Basically it is speed, just a slightly nastier version of it. See Amphetamine, Speed. It used to be available on NHS prescription in 30mg ampoules, for addicts and other uses. In the mid 60s the street price was 5/- per ampoule or a box of 5 for £1. The strongest dosage of amphetamine in ampoule form is Maxiton Forte, each containing 100mg of amphetamine sulphate. In Kabul 1965 a bunch of us took one each. The effect was so powerful that the next morning Tony Barnett and I scaled the mountain range that divides Kabul into two halves, at high speed (sic) circled by eagles. Later the same day I was so tetchy I narrowly avoided a knife fight with a man I insulted in the bazaar, when he kept intervening in my bargaining. Not recommended.

N is for Nose Candy, a slang term for cocaine.

N is also for Nostroline yellow and black plastic nasal inhalers available over the counter from chemists in the early sixties for 1/3d (one shilling and threepence). When cracked open it contains a bundle of about 10 absorbant paper ‘leaves’ bound together and soaked in 350mg of pure amphetamine oil as well as being flavoured with essential oils to help clear the nasal passages. Sometimes one found that the makers had substituted cotton wool for the paper strips. Ugh! The essential oils made it nasty to eat, in either form! The standard dose of amphetamine sulphate, such as in Drinamyl (known as purple hearts, which also contained a dose of amylbarbitone) is 5mg. So a Nostroline inhaler contains the equivalent of 70 purple hearts, which is, in terms of amphetamine content, a huge amount. After buying and consuming one, Mick Roach complained it took 2 days to work and then kept him awake for 3 days. On questioning he admitted he had managed to swallow the whole plastic inhaler intact, with its outer cap still screwed on, and his ironclad system had managed to digest it over 2 days! On that dose it was amazing he was only up for 3 days and survived intact.

N is for Nutmeg John Martin writes: “You left out nutmeg from your list of drugs on the Witch’s website. I once tried it. I think I lost consciousness for at least 24 hours.”

Yes, I too tried nutmeg having read that it was used by sailors and prisoners for self-intoxication. I tried it 3 times, taking 1/2, 1 1/2, and 4 1/2 freshly ground whole nutmegs, respectively. For the last attempt I used some local anesthetic throat pastilles so that I could swallow this horrible, rough stuff. For 40 years I could not bear nutmeg in food because of that experience. It is a powerful, stupefying and almost psychedelic drug. I took it in the flat in Frognal, Hampsted we lived in until winter 1961, so that dates it probably to Autumn 1961. After taking this large dose I recall watching TV and the adverts on ITV were speaking directly and personally to me, giving me messages. I went to my study and I was dissecting an earthworm (a part of ‘A’ level Zoology that interested me) and I recall finding my self down among the huge seminal versicles which were like giant balloons towering over me. The next day my parents could not wake me to go to school. I slept all day. I recall investigating the availability of pure nutmeg oil – the active ingredient – and found Boots sold it for 10/- a fluid ounce. But that was expensive and it wasn’t that nice and I moved on to other things.

O is for Opium, natural source of all the opiates. O is also for omnipon, medically sterilized opium extract for injectible pain relief. Opium is a dark brown sticky lump, but it can be softer and more malleable if not fully dried out. It is the collected dried sap of papaverum somniferum, the purple/bluish/white opium poppy. It is collected by scarifying the green poppy pods (each about the size of a baby’s fist) so that white sap oozes out of the diagonal or vertical slashes and accumulates in a drying droplet or two at the bottom. As it dries the colour changes from white to cream, then from ochre to brown and black. Collecting up all the drying sap is quite a lot of work. I read somewhere that it takes 100 hours to collect 1 pound weight of opium. Opium is a narcotic, a soporific, generating euphoria, reducing percepions of pain and inducing a dozy state. On opium you have little daydreams, waking scenarios when you shut your eyes, like hynogogic reveries. Opium can be smoked, eaten, injected (suitably boiled, dissolved and filtered), or absorbed through the mucus membrane of any body aperture (hence opium suppositories). Opium, like all the opiates reduces libido in most men, as well as reducing the ability to perform sexually. However, perhaps through relaxing and disinhibiting women it can enhance their libido. This mismatch can be a source of conflict and disappointment, at least in my own experience.

Opium has long been beloved of poets and writers, from Thomas de Quincy, Baudelaire, Coleridge, Rimbaud, Artaud, Cocteau onwards. Laudenum, or opium tincture, consists of the soluble parts of opium dissolved in pure or nearly pure alcohol. Some of the Victorian opium addicts would takes hundreds of drops of laudenum in a single dose, thus becoming alcoholics as well as opium addicts.


The collection of opium from poppy seedpods in the field in Afghanistan

P is for Pethidine (a synthetic opiate) regarded as three times stronger than morphine (as indeed heroin is). In the 60s there was a story of the Pethidine twins who would rub glass fibre into their eyes and then go to hospital where pethidine was the only suitable treatment. The story sounds a bit dodgy, in retrospect.

P is for Pentothal an ultra fast acting barbiturate, one of the downers and sleepers. It used as a truth drug because it is quite disorientating and puts you into a hypnotic trance like state. ‘Sleepers’ like this were also known as hypnotics because of this effect.

P is for Preludin, another form of speed that used to be available from the 50s for appetite suppression (my mother took it for 2 years around 1959-61 and I used to pinch some from her handbag when she wasn’t looking!). You could buy it over the counter as late as 1969 in Tangier. However when I went into a chemist there, very gaunt and rather strung out, and was asked what I wanted it for, my flustered answer of “for dieting” earned me a stern refusal!

“Preludin was the first drug that the Beatles first took, a German diet pill, its chemical name is phenmetrazine. It was a stimulant, apparently used, some people say, by Marilyn Monroe, JFK, Truman Capote.”

https://www.npr.org/2014/03/16/290614967/inside-the-barely-legal-world-of-designer-drugs?t=1592660364662

P is for Physeptone, the English trade name for methadone. Originally named Dolophine this is a synthetic morphine equivalent developed in Germany during the WW2 period when supplies of opium from India and the British Empire were cut off. It is commonly used as a heroin or other addictive opiate substitute. It gives less of a euphoric high but lasts in the system longer, for up to 24 hours. However it has worse and longer lasting withdrawal symptoms than heroin or morphine. Dolophine is said to be named after Adolf Hitler, who used it extensively in the late 30s and the war years. However it just as likely be named for dolour, the pain it banishes.

In the 1930s, pethidine and methadone were developed and put into production in Germany. After the war, all German patents, trade names and research records, including these, were requisitioned and expropriated by the Allies (primarily Americans) – from Wikipedia.

P is for Palfium, a powerful synthetic opiate. Its active ingredient is Dextromoramide, which is a powerful opioid analgesic approximately three times more potent than morphine but shorter acting. Alan Shoobridge claimed that Palfium and Ritalin combined gave a better rush than a speedball made up of Heroin and Cocaine. I was never able to test that claim, but did find Palfium on its own to be most pleasant.

P is for Pan, a mix of herbs and spices wrapped in a betel nut leaf, which has a mild narcotic effect. It is widely known and used in India, rather like an after dinner brandy, and comes in a wide variety of fillings and effects. They used to serve it in the Indian High commission canteen in central London for 1/- where the public could lunch for 3/- in 1970. I had it once, and although mildly pleasant I found I couldn’t do a thing with my mind all afternoon, and I was supposed to be working at computer programming for British Olivetti.

Q is for Quaaludes, a US term for Mandrax, a stupifying downer prized by some and not really liked by myself. Makes the user stupified, stupid and clumsy.

Q is for Qat or Kat, a Middle Eastern and East African narcotic plant which when chewed induces a mildly stupified state. Although widely available in Somali communities in London is technically illegal. I recall hearing of the Qat belt, a zone across the Middle Eastern and East Africa where it was hard to get anything done because the unskilled working population were too stupified on Qat to work effectively. Retrospectively, this sound like an exaggerated and racist myth, which is not to deny that Qat usage may be problematic. Do note that this is a great word for Scrabble.

R is for Romilar, a proprietary cough medicine containing dextromethorphan. 100 ml of this syrup induces a cheap version of an hallucinogenic high, especially when cannabis is smoked with it. I found you could also buy a party pack (500ml bottle) and Romilar in pill form. Much fun was had in the mid 60s on Romilar patrols!

R is for Ritalin, a form of speed used to treat kids for ADHD or Autism spectrum disorders. A bit gentler than amphetamine or methedrine! I can’t think it’s good for kids, though!

S is for Skunk, an artificially developed and bred cannabis plant product with elevated THC content, the active hallucinogenic ingredient. THC content of skunk is reported to be in the range 10% – 30% of total weight. Because of its strength, this is the most dangerous form of cannabis. The relatively rare cases of psychosis caused by cannabis are usually down to the use of skunk. Skunk has a a very strong smell and it is quite common to get a whiff of it, even when you are 10m away from the smoker, as you walk around Camden, the West End, and doubless many other districts of London. I like the smell.

S is for Shrooms (short for mushrooms) the psylocybe toadstools that grow wild in many places including Wales and Dartmoor, Devon. The active ingredient is an hallucinogen milder than LSD but stronger than cannabis. I never knew how to get it and never tried it, but some young relatives would regularly go to Dartmoor to pick it and later injest it, from the early 90s onwards. Shrooms are unique in that the freshly picked toadstools, if unprocessed, are legal to possess. Once dried or extracted the substance becomes an illegal drug, possession of which is subject to legal penalties.

T is for Temazepam, a sleeping pill. They are all addictive!

U is for Uppers, speed, various forms of amphetamines and related stimulants. Just like sleeping pills and tanquilizers are all Downers!

W is for Weed, grass, Cannabis

V is for Valium, a tranquilizer. Benzodiazepam.

X is for XTC another name for Ecstacy

X is for Xanax, a stress relief drug. It lowers the heart rate and calms the user greatly.

Y is for Yage’, also known as ayahuasca, a very powerful hallucinogen extracted from South Anerican lianas and used by shamen in religious ceremonies. According to Tony Barnett it is stronger than LSD or mescaline, but not necessarily a pleasant experience. You feel very icy cold and shiver, and also get very sick (vomiting). But it is potentially a powerful theraputic drug for clearing away mental problems – for some at least. The active ingredient used to be call telepathine, according to William Burroughs. I have not heard cases of it giving telepathic powers to its users.

Z is for Zopiclone, a modern day sleeping pill

That’s all. folks, in my A to Z tour of recreational drugs, both hard and soft. But …

There is a whole host of previously legal highs, now illegal, like Spice. These are novel chemical variants of various recreational drugs like THC and methedrine. Not enough is known about their chemical make-up, their medical properties, whether they are safe to use in the short term or long term, let alone how pure they are and what they might be mixed with. I had a young acquantance I used to chat to at the gym who described the effects of taking Spice. He ended up stark naked, on the street with no memory of how he had passed the preceding 48 hours. He had no idea of where his clothes, phone, wallet, and keys were. He had, he admitted, consumed vodka. He knew that because he found a bottle in his hand. Sounds like great fun, an experience we must all try to emulate. Not! Such drugs are widely used in prisons because they are not easy to detect in the bloodstream. In contrast, traces of cannabis linger on for one or two months. Given the likelihood of psychotic reactions these drugs present a real threat to order, safety and sanity, let alone to the rehabilitation of prisoners.

You might think I am glorifying drugs, revelling in the half remembered humorous anecdotes of terrible self destructive acts that took at least half a dozen friends and loved ones to an early grave. Well, I guess I am. But I am also remembering those victims, and celebrating those of us that survived. A number of us forged bonds of solidarity, comradeship and love, in those good and bad days, days that are long behind us, that will last as long as we do!

As Blake says “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” But this does not mean hanging about on that journey.

“You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough” However, once you know, maybe it is time to pack it in.

“Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.” Well, that puts me back in my box.

“Enough! or Too much!” As Blake ends his Proverbs of Hell, in “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”.

What a genius! What a man! There’s sombody who never needed any drugs. He had what Burroughs called “a Man inside”.

 

 

 

 

Paul Ernest

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An Address Bleeds On The Door

Once more I’ve come to the door,
scored a photo, asked the mystery behind-
“What is it that keeps pulling me in?”

The numbers on the woodwork, hand-painted,
bleed a lot, and I wait
as if its wound would heal, the address would
instill a jiffy etched in air my a capricious feather.

Knock on the skull; if I have ever here
as a resident, as the one behind,
that I had been unlocked into infinity.
My father, all gone, whispers
to my mother, all gone, that I have grown to be
nothing they imagine, but it matters no longer.

 

 

 

Words and picture
Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

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Sleep/Dream

Steam Stock
 

Tracklist:
Beck – Little One
Belly – Full Moon, Empty Heart
Mercury Rev – The Dark is Rising
Brian Eno – Spider and I
Magnet – Lullaby
Kate Bush – And Dream of Sheep
Bat For Lashes – Good Love
Suicide – Dream Baby Dream
Kate Bush – Waking the Witch (excerpt)
Beck – Waking Light

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The Spin Doctor’s Final Manifestation

 

Fake the knowledge. This knowledge. This now tenderly suspended knowledge, in this now tenderly suspended house. It’s too late for sneaking barefoot. Too late to forget. O, for one more tip of the weather. O, for a woman girded with unspoken hymns. A passer-by dips, lifting cats from the wreckage, packing ballrooms with scented briefcases, stashing fairground moles for whackings to come. It’s washday, though, with jump-started schools and clunky political altercations, and now we can barely separate the septuagenarians from the shepherdesses. There are bats in belfries and basilisks in basilicas, while old hailstones snap at snowmen and showmen outside. It’s a fashionable orthodoxy in a vintage suit, a wodge of weak wit, preserving stale passports and paroxysms, tweaking old noses with blunt knives. There, in the alchemist’s jumper: yourself, alone, a long way from well, precarious at the edge of well, well, well. We’re all built of bluster and meaning is so, so close, so nearly palpable, and barely short of authorization – what we might once have called rubber stamping. Remember, we are never alone, and nothing has ever resembled knowledge. Remember, it is what it is what it is. Review the situation. The household has set all its songs a-singing, and we’re dithering between cameras. I am the one who was. You are the boiling knowledge – this boiling knowledge – in a deserted alcove of this falling house.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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Wave Corruption

 

Mike Ferguson

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Economic Stockholm Syndrome

Stockholm syndrome is a proposed condition in which hostages develop a psychological bond with their captors. It is supposed to result from a rather specific set of circumstances, namely the power imbalances contained in hostage-taking, kidnapping, and abusive relationships.” – Wikipedia.

I’m not here to tell you what’s wrong with the world. Countless others have already done that to death. Not one solitary person on Earth doesn’t know about it. The blame game also gets us nowhere. All the morally responsible people shouting from the rooftops and laudable initiatives like the ‘Blue Economy’ or ‘Green New Deal’ do not seem to alter the status quo anywhere near as rapid or as impactful as we need. But there is something NEW we have overlooked since it came into being around the end of the last century. Not something already tried in the past and failed. Not some new morality, political ideology, or even a socially equitable monetary system, policy or outlook. Something entirely new that has NEVER EXISTED, now made possible by well-developed tried and tested methods and practices. An alternative that immediately frees people of the abuses of the monetary system but goes further, to rectify the effects of that abuse. So why have we not jumped at it?

The Abuse Of Money

Many people consider money an impartial non-prejudicial inanimate facilitator. To economists it is still thus. It is supposed to have no morals, no motives, no personality and no qualities other than a measure of value in an exchange. Humans are the ones who misuse it. So why does it foster the most blatant abuse in all sectors and at mass scale? It isn’t difficult to explain this.

The impact of the global market and macroeconomics on microeconomic practices and localisation has groomed us all into the paranoia of self-preservation and national ‘protectionism’ whilst simultaneously depending upon multi-national monopolies serving disparate national political agendas. Governments see those monopolies as the only realistic allies that guarantor the maintenance of power and influence, even where outright corruption and nest-feathering is not immediately apparent. To this endless world conflict, the general public serve as fodder, minnows, expendable collateral.

Add to this the emergence and advancement of Financialization and we have a system that not only works for a tiny minority but practically de-couples the generation of wealth from the material means of producing it. The workforce are dispensable to the tune of between 70% and 99% of the population of the Earth and only represent a fraction of 5% of global wealth generation. 95% of that being speculative by the late 1990s (source Noam Chomsky, ‘Profit Over People: Neoliberalism and the Global Order.’ 1999). The manipulation of the struggling dispossessed masses not only encouraged by neoliberal economic strategies, but held aloft as the aspirational model, or modus operandi, for every individual within those masses. Just as a person with Stockholm Syndrome elevates their captor. Who would want to aspire to poverty when you can aspire to wealth and what we have come to label ‘successes’? But now it is made a prerequisite for survival. And so we glorify and congratulate our greatest success stories instead of reviling them and holding them to account as the most heinous of criminals.

Some dismiss Capitalism as an inept system for controlling money and even anthropomorphise it, asserting it is evil and “demands” or “wants” such and such. But this assertion paints all capitalists (and who isn’t) with the same broad brush-stroke and is not nuanced argument taking into consideration all the practical and psychological factors of those who have no choice but to engage with it. The majority working within capitalism are not motivated by insatiable greed, or for the mythological misnomers of “infinite-growth” and against “post-growth” and “de-growth” ideologies, touted by the genuinely concerned dealing with what are current commercial practices, but only on the basis of how money operates. These ‘myths’ blame profiteers and even profit for denying us our true relationship with each other and our environment. But who is to say what that is for any individual? And what of the rapid industrial size growth we desperately need in the green economy? These short-sighted unrealistic admonitions call upon the very criminal elite capitalists to invest in the moral consciences they have cauterised for the gain they are determined not to separate from. No professional highly educated campaign organisation has yet convinced the elite wealthy it is even in their own interests.

Whether you are a local grocer, a social-work manager, or a supermarket sales executive, all doing jobs out of necessity and facing the pressures of meeting supervisory objectives and competing in an over-swamped and hostile economic environment – even in non-monetised health and social care – the thing that speaks more than any human quality is money. Fair-mindedness and product quality were dismissed in the ‘Noughties’ as a consideration in reaching any margin. From this the ‘success’ came from cutting corners and controlling. Like Sir Alan Sugar, who cornered a market for mass-production of the poorest quality computers and hi-fi systems, as cheaply as possible, with no regard for the practicability of the product or its impact on people’s quality of life or the environment. Mass markets for poor quality and disregard for standards became exploited then, through mercantilism and profit-maximising. Was it ever thus, I hear you ask? But we don’t have to look too far back to eras of phenomenal development, where production quality was paramount and has since stood the test of time. Our current first world infrastructures were built upon them. But looking back through that history, we have never challenged whether or not it was the manipulators or the medium that exhibited flawed logic. It is just as easy to dismiss the expansion of successive empires, architectural wonders, education, health and social care, food culture, science and travel as clear endorsement of the beneficial aspects of monetary policy, without factoring in slavery, or what could have been achieved from a far more equitable system free from forced appropriation, favouritism and oppression. 

The extent of criminal activity tolerated is excused due to one single factor – not the perpetrators of these crimes, but money itself. Money has been the core motive and mitigating influence. It is the sole motive for most crimes and treatment we do not consider, or cannot (afford to) prove to be criminal. So, the whole population are systematically groomed by that unscrupulous minority, for whom the system works, into thinking NOTHING ELSE EXISTS that can work for the majority. As effective as the Nazi pogroms of pre-war Germany (with governments acting as Sonderkommandos) we have to throw our chips in with the abusers who insist they are the ONLY ones in whom our fate lies and laud them for accommodating us, whilst they lock us away in the economic basement, often to die.

In this runaway global climate of economic conflict, supremacy is the highest bidder. Even the role of wealth and profit take second-fiddle to survival and control of markets. Price and profit also become sacrificial rams and so capitalism implodes, destroying its own base for survival to create new exclusive edifices that will hopefully survive the effects of global warming. That’s why we are transfixed by the select few – politicians / celebrities / agencies (one and all) – that can afford the entrance fee, as public services buckle under the weight of investment of public taxes into private enterprises, by government and council officials.

ALL agents, including charities, UN organisations and campaign organisations that subscribe to the view MONEY is the ONLY solution, practically sustain its abuses and have been negligent in exploring the new possibilities open to us for relief from it. All their jobs depend upon it after all and who wants to rock a sinking boat? Who would dare contradict their abusive kidnapper? (A list of all international agencies and organisations repeatedly approached can be found through the Facebook group link below). Perhaps directors and CEOs of these organisations – without examining the structure and process of this proposal – assume it would interrupt the cash-flow from their supporters or threaten their employers and wage-payers; or maybe they dismiss any non-monetary proposal as fairy-tale ideology or Utopianism. It is nothing of the kind. It provides an additional (not supplementary) stream of income. It must be said, a colossal amount of money is spent conferencing new publications, science, methods and systems, indulging those who examine the issues just to restate the abuse that is already blatantly before our very eyes. But every solution agreed upon is banjaxed or inhibited by monetary budgets. We are conditioned, like any captor, not to think but to conform without hesitation or face the consequences of displeasure, punch-drunk and powerless as anyone disabled by Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder as each successive crisis is normalised and we must be grateful. 

Treating the disease

Just as clearly a decision it was to intervene in the case of Natasha Kampusch or Elizabeth Fritzl, locked in a basement by her father for 24years; or Lauren Kavanaugh, locked in a cupboard for eight years – it did not make the transformation of their mental dependency any easier to overcome. It is clear to all now, we need to intervene in the monetised abuse of human beings and all species that share this planet WITH AN ANTIDOTE AND NEW MENTALITY AWAY FROM MONETARY ABUSE.

But who will do so and with what alternative way of living? Are we so convinced nothing else out there works? Is it such a gargantuan expectation and practical mountain to climb? It is often beyond the imaginations of abuse victims to consider any better existence outside of their relationship, or such becomes a  dream world, or practically unattainable. Such has become the predominant mentality around money.

We have seen vast development in alternative, complementary, circular and crypto economies – some of them non-monetary and some of them very successful. So why have they been unsuccessful at replacing money as the chief exchange mechanism? One issue is belief that money still works and none of them address this dependency, often necessitating some level of monetary solvency to begin with, or still being affected by the influence of global and localised monetary functions surrounding them. The second is the conviction that money is not the culprit and at least in civilised and so-called democratic nations, oppressors will care enough to at least keep the general public alive. Socialists and Trades Unionists proclaim everything we know to be wrong and such has been our slumber, individual voices shine starkly in the dark to wake us up to our reality. But they again idealise on old terms that no longer apply, whilst the elite smirk amused at the level of venom. They needn’t overtly oppress in a military or police state whilst there are far more subtle and ‘legal’ functions that consign people to prolonged and miserable death. Since the neoliberal policies of the ‘80s and ‘Austerity’ measures from 2008 to the present, who can be in any doubt over that now? But these are just imperfect people making the best of a bad job yes? Yes, but “for whom?” is the ever obfuscated question.

A New Life

So what can act as an antidote to money as well as counter all its characteristic motivations and peripheral effects over the global economy and environment. What is different about this proposal, to the countless political and economic methods already used or proposed and failed? And how long would it take to reverse the monetary abuses of this past century?

This new proposition borrows from the superb work of the following authors, but is still ahead of the curve of anything they have proposed since its publication in 2020: Yanis Varoufakis, Noam Chomsky, Farid Kavari, Paul Mason, Charles Eisenstein, Jeremy Rifkin, Tejvan Pettinger, Kate Raworth and older greats – Engels and Kondratieff came close and with extended unpolitical reading beyond Capitalism, Marx saw it. But they are not this. NONE OF THESE OR ANY OTHER CURRENT SOURCE PROPOSES THIS NATURE AND SCALE OF RAPID PRACTICAL AND EASY TO IMPLEMENT ECONOMIC REVOLUTION, because they ALL advocate money. And why would anyone for whom money works ever press for a non-monetary system? This is our biggest obstacle. It is up to the 99% relatively dispossessed to form this economy. It already exists (exploited by and affecting the monetary markets of the 1%), it simply hasn’t yet taken the smallest step of constituting itself a parallel economic power. The means to do so are here.

The key to the Parallel Non-Monetary Economy is –

1, it needs NO MATERIAL FACILITY / CURRENCY;
2, it DOES NOT OPERATE A MATERIAL VALUE SYSTEM based on commodification and services, to compete with or alter monetary values. (Read carefully: this does not mean it does not achieve those effects as it always outperforms money).
3, it is NOT DEPENDENT UPON MONEY, OR IMPACTED BY MONETARY PERIPHERALS.
4, it is NOT DEPENDENT UPON CENTRALISED CONTROL but is controlled by and facilitates ONLY the eco-friendly agendas agreed upon by the global community of the GENERAL PUBLIC.
5, it is INDISCRIMINATE except for the publicly agreed purposes it either facilitates or prohibits.
6, it is READILY AVAILABLE to EVERY INDIVIDUAL AUTOMATICALLY, once society adopt it and set its parameters.
7, it is an AUTONOMOUS, AUTOMATED SELF-GENERATING WEALTH system of accountancy. But it generates so much economic security, even the accountancy eventually becomes an unimportant nonsense.
8, it does not require MENTAL RADICALISATION, REGIME CHANGE, OR RE-EDUCATION to operate successfully.
9, it changes the REWARD INCENTIVES to produce what is truly valued by society and our collective care for our environment and each other.
10, it facilitates the IMPLEMENTATION OF individual and collective INTELLIGENT CHOICES, making them MORE PROFITABLE than any industry money currently rewards.

The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy (PNME), as named, does not await the demise of monetary capitalism or depend upon it to function in ANY measure. Being parallel, it never mixes with the monetary economy, but it does affect it by a process of osmosis. It does not seek to undermine monetary functions or wealth – it simply exposes them as inferior and inept, whilst freeing all participants of its influence IMMEDIATELY they adopt the PNME.

PNME participants will not be made up of only the “99%” but also the “1%” as it becomes the dominant economy for everyone, alongside the choice to keep whatever money remains. But that economy will be massively altered by the PNME in a positive way. The difference in how it operates is not simply a different form of capitalism, with its attendant factors of ‘inflation’ ‘deflation’ ‘interest rates ‘ ‘debt management and procurement’ ‘taxation’ ‘exchange rates’ ‘assets and asset-stripping’ ‘profit-maximising’ ‘ownership’ ‘price-fixing’ ‘resource-stripping’ etc.  At the same time, it does NOT require a new economic method people need to be re-educated and convinced about. It rapidly addresses what we need now, with what we have now, utilising already familiar processes and technology, because NOW is when we need to act and rapidly.

Practically overnight, the PNME would transform the world’s biggest refugee camp or disaster-area into a thriving economically engaged and equitable community, rebuilding its infrastructure without any hand-outs or monetary oversight. Nobody gives a person this income – they generate it unilaterally without consent. It could transform places like Syria, Turkey, Haiti, Lebanon, Belarus, Kuwait, Philippines, Hong Kong, without the exchange of a single penny. What we need to do NOW is workshop just what having that control over our future and choices would mean practically for any individual – its effect on local businesses – on politics and public-interests – on recovery of our ecosystem – on the global economy, monopolisation, mono-culture, productivity, mercantilism, neoliberalism and financialization. And finally, its effect upon money; how and what it motivates on a micro and macro scale.

How do we go about it? Simply come together as ANY sizable collective or organisation, to examine and adopt it. Pressure your community relief or support organisation, or charity, to examine what it will do for them. Press for UN organisations, anti-poverty and environmental campaigners to workshop it. It will only take one group to adopt it and every other community will want it when they see its results. There is no longer ANY legitimate reason for us to be held to ransom by money. IT IS WAY PAST TIME WE RETOOK CONTROL AWAY FROM THE ABUSERS OF MONEY and started properly living again, as free autonomous individuals supporting one another and our planet.

___

ALL of these aspects are ONLY addressed in the book ‘A Chance For Everyone: The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy’ by this author. It is available for free in download versions from the SECURE website and all third-party sources.

Articles, discussions, Q&A, video and audio presentations – achanceforeveryone.com

ILLUSTRATED SUPPLEMENTS and discussions of specific topics at the Facebook Group – ‘The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy of the 99%’ https://www.facebook.com/groups/641184856394195

 

Author: Kendal Eaton
Excerpt from ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ –  Hieronymus Bosch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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    OH!NATURE!

 

Oh! Nature, what can I write about you?

The Sun, the Moon and the dancing stars

Mountains, rivers, lakes and sky

Religions, rituals, customs and traditions

You made it wonderful with your thoughts and visions.

 

Oh! Nature, what can I write about you?

Plants, animals, humans and birds

Droughts, earthquake, cyclone and floods

Birth, growth, decline and death

It’s all possible only for you to wreath.

 

Oh! Nature, what can I write about you?

You make happy every creature

You give wood for the food

You give oxygen that makes human life possible

You give your nest for the rest.

 

Oh! Nature, what can I write about you?

I had few queries

Some things to surprise

What all I thought

I could just write.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monalisa Parida
Photo Nick Victor

 

Bio:- A post graduate student of English literature from India, Odisha and a prolific poetess. She  is very active in social media platforms and her poems have also been translated into different  languages and publish in various e-journals.

   She has got 100 international award for writing poetry. Her poems have been publishing international e-journals “New York parrot”, “The Writers Club” (USA), “Suriyadoya literary  foundation”, “kabita Minar”, “Indian Periodical” (India) and “Offline Thinker “, “The Gorkha Times “ ( Nepal), “The Light House”(Portugal), “Bharatvision”(Romania), “International cultural forum for humanity and creativity”(Aleppo, Syria), “Atunispoetry.com”(Singapore) etc. And also published in various newspapers like “The Punjabi Writer Weekly(USA)”,  “News Kashmir (J&K, India)”, Republic of Sungurlu (Turkey)” etc.

One of  her poem published an American anthology named “The Literary Parrot Series-1 and  series-2 respectively (New York, USA)”. Her poems have been translated in various languages like Hindi, Bengali, Turkish, Persian, Romanian etc.  And she is the author of the book “Search For Serenity”, “My Favourite Grammar”, “Paradigm”, “Beyond Gorgeous”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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DIVERTED TRAFFIC

Well Hellooo there! What’s the latest?
Why not spook the intelligentsia?
Indeed why not it’s a good question
Is poetry an accident waiting to happen?
Whoah! Well, the search is already on –
What do you make of it?
Hysterical! Snap it up! Let’s do it!
Don’t get your panties in a bunch
Just think of normal everyday things like
A red aurora vortex or notes between the keys
Sure – try to blend in – smooth with no bits
Be like everyone else– hang on in there!

Hey dudes! What’s the scene where you are?
Uh oh! Lazy boring and irrelevant expect delays
That’s the most exciting thing you’ve said all day
Hazy skies round the corner it’s a toss-up
Power on! A step too far but it’s fighting talk I like it!
Waaaay out! It’s the very latest! Oh Dios Mio!

Game for a fling? – Crazy offer – Ha! Ha! Ha!
What else do we know? What happened next?
Cunningly disguised as one of the lads
Our poete maudit slipped into an Espresso Bar:
Are you lost in a shopping mall? Yes! Yes! Yes!
A palace of screaming glass scorching hot looks
Hands-free boobtastic bikini-busting cutie-pies
Open-mouthed onlookers terrified bystanders
Photo-special secret fantasies – all makes all models
Electric multi-surface razor sharp edges manic grins
Deranged laughter fish and chips burgers hot wraps
A twisted circus – open ‘til late. It’s just wicked!

And never a dull moment: now here’s a thing
Melt with joy behind every curtain
Gilded trees jaw-dropping angels of mystery
Strange signals – distant Suptopian neo-nihilist blues
Diverted traffic – a long tailback to Nowhere Junction
Well that’s it for now have a very good afternoon.

 

 

 

AC Evans

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Far Out: Animated Vintage Covers

Books & Sleeves from Henning M. Lederer on Vimeo.

Books & Sleeves – a new set of animated covers – based on the question:

How would these great book graphics and record covers from the past look like when set in motion?

Animation: Henning M. Lederer /// led-r-r.net/
Music: Tilman Grundig /// soundcloud.com/frfels

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Playing Different Tunes

Pink Floyd. The Dark Side of the Moon. 50th Anniversary
(160pp, hbck, Thames & Hudson)

Wow, that looks nice. A big and black and glossy hardback…

Yeah. Apparently it’s the 50th anniversary of Dark Side of the Moon and this is the official book.

Right. I think I lost my album about 40 years ago. It was cool.

Still is. I have it on CD and vinyl.

Well, you would. What’s in this book then?

Lots of black and white photos of the band in the studio and on tour: backstage, during soundcheck and on stage.

And?

It’s a bit disappointing actually. There’s one photo of a concert review torn out of a music paper, some flyers and posters, and a few cover design pages from Hipgnosis. Oh, and a full list of the tour dates and a load of section title pages.

No longwinded analysis or critical essays then? Thank goodness!

To be honest I think it’s a bit lightweight without that kind of thing.

Let me have a look.      [pause]     I see what you mean. Look at these: photos of them on the squash court.

Yeah, it’s all a bit public school boy isn’t it? Neat white sports socks and new trainers.

And photos of them on the golf course, at the bar, sitting around, drinking…

…and playing on stage!

Well, that’s what they do, or did, isn’t it? It’s all a bit basic isn’t it?

What, you can’t complain about the design or print quality.

Nah, the stage set up. Small circular screen, scrap wood models and a smoke machine.

Have you forgotten? That’s what we had back then. With a couple of lasers thrown in if you were lucky.

Lasers? I’d forgotten about them. Over-rated, they were. Crap lightshows.

Indeed, which is why lasers disappeared pretty quickly again.

No big screens or anything though?

Nope, you just had to squint at the stage in the distance.

That’s why I need glasses!

And you sticking your head in the bass bins at all those gigs at the Thirsty Ferret is why you need hearing aids.

Pardon? What did you say?

Very funny.

Nearly got you.

Not at all. Were you the inspiration for Tommy then?

Who?

Ha ha ha. Anyway, Dark Side of the Moon.

Good album I seem to remember.

Yeah, I think it was one of the first concept albums, and that it stayed in the album charts for years on end. Still a big seller. A classic.

But was it a concept album or did they just fade the tracks into one another?

Oh, come on, it’s all about… well everything, really. War, madness, death, Englishness, travel, using metaphor and symbolism.

Are you sure?

Yeah, light and dark, good and evil, hope and despair, sanity and madness; loads of opposites to discuss philosophical and emotional ideas.

But what about that screaming song? The one they use to sell cleaning stuff.

Screaming? You mean those amazing improvised vocals on The Great Gig in the Sky?

Maybe. Horrible noise.

I always thought it was about fear of dying as well as grief and loss; maybe it’s a flash forward to the madness at the end of the album.

What all that eclipse stuff?

No, that’s the grand finale isn’t it, that list of all that you are, all that you touch, taste etc. I meant The lunatic is on the grass one.

I always thought he was smoking on the lawn.

You would. Come on, it’s a great set of songs. And the production and studio stuff were good too. I mean if you hear the early versions of some of that stuff, live or in the studio, somebody sprinkled magic dust over it.

Produced by Tinkerbell.

Whatever. Anyway it’s stood the test of time, hasn’t it? And that iconic album cover too.

It always reminds me of physics lessons. And how much I hated science at school. Well, how much I hated school full stop.

You should have done some work.

What for?

Qualifications. A decent job.

How do you think I paid for everything?

What are you talking about?

I mean, I could only afford those albums, cigarettes, concerts and booze coz I worked and didn’t waste my time at school.

Really?

Yeah really. Money it’s a gas. Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash. Just like the song says.

Or in your case buy a stash?

Well, yeah. I mean, Pink Floyd were psychedelic too, weren’t they?

Skinny roll-ups with a sprinkling of dope doesn’t make you psychedelic! But yeah Floyd were pretty weird early on. Dark Side was when they went mega I think.

I liked Wish You Were Here. And Animals too – that one was a bit political and heavy. Sort of Animal Farm stuff, abattoirs, rioting and rabid dogs. Bit of energy and anarchy.

Yeah, both good, but they’re not Dark Side of the Moon.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just remember, like it says on this page, that There is no dark side of the moon, really.

Give me my book back and let’s go down the pub.

Right. Set the controls for the heart of the rum…

You’re not going to pun all evening are you?

Nah, it was just a momentary lapse of reason.

It’s your round.

 

Johnny Crazy-Diamond Brainstorm

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SAUSAGE LIFE 260

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that believes every citizen should have the right to arm bears

READER: Did you watch the Superbowl last week? I stayed up all night! Wow what a spectacle!
MYSELF: I’m still getting the recurring headaches.
READER: Typical. I might have known you wouldn’t like it. You should at least make an effort to understand the game before condemning it.
MYSELF: Over the years I’ve had several stabs at comprehending the long, loud, ludicrous pantomime. Yet despite my superhuman powers of deduction, the ridiculous ‘game’ still appears to me to consist of a lot of suspiciously talkative pundits who shout impenetrable stats at each other whilst 22 pumped-up overdressed jocks recover from one of their five minute flurries of homo-erotic ‘football’. To complete the picture, a stadium full of wildly cheering drunks encourage the ‘footballers’ to collide with each other at maximum velocity. (Question: how much American ‘beer’ does it take to get drunk?).
READER: Here we go again! You’re so missing the point, which is that the great American game of “Gridiron” is a fascinating strategic tussle, more like chess than association football.
MYSELF: I see, of course. And here’s me thinking that American Football is nothing but a hyped-up stop-start pageant, whose arcane rules were concocted by the TV companies purely to accommodate the maximum amount of expensive commercials. Chess, on the other hand, is a little-watched sport, which I think we all agree would benefit hugely from the introduction of shoulder pads, cheerleaders and the intervention of Alicia Keys or Uber-Pillock Harry Stiles in his non-gender specific Michelin Man outfit singing someone’s national anthem. No O-fence.

WIGS MIGHT FLY
Professor Thinktank’s latest brainwave – artificial dandruff flakes for sensitive toupée wearers, is being marketed worldwide by Japanese multinational YadaYada Atomic Industries. He calls his new invention Scrof, and I was privileged to be shown this advance extract from the script of their $3,000,000 TV ad, which is to debut at the Superbowl:-

EXTERIOR. DAY. WINDY.
We see an attractive young woman stroll by as a handsome man pulls alongside riding a motor scooter. As he removes his crash helmet, a breeze lifts his toupée momentarily and we glimpse in close-up her brief look of disappointment. Undeterred, the man confidently shakes his head and small white flakes begin to fall. She stops, turns and looks at him with renewed interest. He makes the Scrof gesture, (a casual brush of the shoulder). Reassured, the woman smiles at the resulting puff of “dandruff”. Their eyes meet. She climbs on to his scooter and they ride off into the sunset.
DEEP-VOICED NARRATOR: Scrof by YadayadaYour little white lie.

VERY RAPID DISCLAIMER VOICEOVER:
Scrof time release toupée flakes with Zeitgeist is highly toxic to birds, racoons, insects, fish, nursing mothers and children. May not contain nuts

WENDY WRITES
Queries answered
problems solved
souls untattered

 

Amongst the usual bag of hate-mail, requests for my bank details etc, I have received an angry letter from Dr. A.A. Troon, head of the implied psychology department  at the University of Pevensey Bay, who thinks that xenophobes “ought to be be beaten with sticks”.
I have no idea where you are getting your information from doc, but this is what Wykipedia says: 
Requiring neither sticks or beaters, the xenophobe is played by expelling air into the leather bag until sufficient pressure has built up to cause the upper flaps to ossilate. As you squeeze the bag, you should hear a steady tone, midway between a tenor persiphone and an Eb calaboose, which can then be modulated by pinching the flaps with the thumb and forefinger and gently shaking the hips. 

PHOTO BUM
Brigadier Augustus Rambunk of Bexhill encloses a photograph which he thinks may be London Rd. St Leonards c1965. Sorry to disappoint you Brigadier, but my researchers inform me that this photograph was probably taken in Rangapanga, India during the Great August Tea Insurgency of 1847. The car at the front is a camouflaged horse-drawn rickshaw used to smuggle untaxed tea leaves concealed in bundles of raw opium.

RHYME OR REASON
Finally a letter from Emily Palindrome, one of our regular poetry contributers, who asks; “Should poems always rhyme, and if so, how?”
Well Emily, rhyming is certainly not compulsory, but should you wish to employ it, perhaps this short excerpt from my book Rhyme Thyme (Airflow & Windchime £19.99) will assist:
RHYMING:
cat-slat
rubber-blubber
help-kelp
NON-RHYMING:
catatonic-diaphinous
madrigal-souzaphone
portcullis-ratatouille.

I hope this has been of some assistance.
Wendy

SPORT: FOOTBALL’S GOING DOWN
According to sources inside the club, Sergio “The Horse” Peccadillo outspoken manager of Hastings & St Leonards Warriors FC, appears to be contemplating the final curtain. After their humiliating 8-0 midweek thrashing by AC Hellingly Supernaturals, the club’s tenure in the Nuclear Waste Disposal Solutions League (south) looks to be over. Ever the controversialist, the Italian supremo was tracked down to the Tortured Cat Karaoke Lounge in Silverhill, where, having taken the team for a post-match debriefing, he appeared surprisingly upbeat about the whole affair. Relaxing between two cocktail waitresses after a stentorian rendition of Simply The Best, he gave us this statement; “Football is like algebra, where x is the ball, y is the ref and the unknown quantity is the score. The players gave their hearts for me out there, and in some cases their livers. We’ve only been in here half an hour and most of the team are inconsolable already. We are not finished yet. Even though we are certain to be relegated, we could still stay up. Football is a funny old game and I’m certainly going to miss it when I’m sacked.”

ART APOLOGY
The editors have asked me to mention that the painting featured in the arts section of our last issue was mistakenly captioned Spring Dawn over Beachy Head by Lucian Frightwig when it should have read Ravenous Wolves Devouring the Putrid Body of Marcel Proust by Damien Hurst. This newspaper apologises for any offence taken, but in private, sniggers like a cheap garden hose.

Sausage Life!

 

Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

 



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Blackbird Phoenix

         








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In Streetlight Tender

Photograph by Élisabeth de Bézenac[i]

 

Please forgive my enthusiasm overwhelm – as it forgives those who tread upon it. How often have you paced this cage, up and down, barred jaguar? Fierce, yet in distress . . . as with the one Simone felt compelled to free[ii].

Here, at the borders of night, all borders meet, and Europe can become whole again. Here, the quiet expanding light inside the mind is reached, which transcends the grave or variations thereon, to open towards some ideal sunrise.

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben,

Morecambe, January 2023 – with all thanks to Élisabeth

[email protected]

 

[i]               www.lancaster.ac.uk/lica/news/encounters-with-the-urban-night-phd-candidate-elisabeth-de-bezenac-reflects-on-her-time-at-an-artist-residency-in-estonia-studying-the-nocturnal

[ii]               Simone Simon in Cat People, (1942) see:  www.imdb.com/title/tt0034587/

 

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Only Real Eyes Blink True

 

Out on the streets
I inhale
A long breath.
The quagmire of
Repeating dilemma
Vanishes
Like the fluttering moth.
No gunpowder in the air.
The footsteps of war
And no victory marches
Is the need of the hour.
The social message
Not on social media.
The homonyms
Of my pronunciation
Lie when you hear
Me speak on the screen.
Meet me when the road ends
I would still be on my journey.
For someone I have arrived
But not for the difficult box of time
Hanging on my wall calendar.
Whatever happens
I know
Only real eyes blink true.

 

 

Sushant Thapa 

 

 

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THE COMPETENT HERO

 

     A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, 

     butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance 

     accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give 

     orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyse a new problem, 

     pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, 

     die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

                                   – Robert A. Heinlein, Time Enough for Love

 

 

Should be able to change a lightbulb, 

file a tax return, re-fold an ordnance survey map, 

mimic a hummingbird, hotwire a muscle car, 

write a sestina, sing karaoke, dance 

a passable pasodoble, strum a guitar, 

know the words to an evergreen classic, 

take a dump, give a shit, study the racing forms, 

tip a doorman, crack a safe, forge a signature, 

do the wrong thing for the right reason, 

provide an alibi, remember birthdays, 

use a slide-rule, understand trigonometry, 

befriend a computer, stage a revolution.

 

Should be able to change costume, 

quote Shakespeare, toss off a one-liner, 

know the best restaurants, appreciate the harpsichord, 

write a haiku, improvise quickly, have an exit plan, 

juggle priorities, behave decorously, 

take advice, give an opinion, dress for the occasion, 

read the room, maintain a degree of ironic distance, 

have an account with a reputable tailor, 

conceal a weapon without spoiling the cut, 

know someone who knows someone, exude 

confidence, practice till perfect, hit the marks, 

impersonate a statesman, bring harmony to the universe.

 

Should be able to change a tyre, tune an engine, 

find the fault on a circuit board, see the beauty 

in a wiring diagram, calculate a winning chess move, 

write a pantoum, type at a hundred and twenty 

words per minute, hack systems, 

follow clues, arrive at conclusions, 

take cash, give change, calculate variables, 

double down, go for broke, run the risks, 

exit via the tradesman’s entrance, navigate 

the back streets, arrange transport, 

travel light, travel fast, make sense 

of contract law, trust in the idiosyncrasy of cats.

 

Should be able to change the status quo, 

communicate, inspire, stand tall, live vividly, 

write a villanelle, tie a bowline 

or a trucker’s hitch, give directions, throw out 

some conversational Spanish, budget thriftily, 

take a freebie, give a handout, pay 

it forward, resist the impulse to look back, 

play the numbers, bet on a winner, 

keep an enemy close, sweep a room 

for listening devices, outfox a private detective, 

act with purpose, love fiercely, 

challenge social conventions, found a new religion.

 

 

 

 

Neil Fulwood has published three collections with Shoestring Press, ‘No Avoiding It’, ‘Can’t Take Me Anywhere’ and ‘Service Cancelled’. A collection of political satires, ‘Mad Parade’ was published earlier this year by Smokestack Books. Neil lives and works in Nottingham.

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A Safe Place to Swim

This is what happens when
you call in the experts. Where
are the internal defences?

“Colour is the key to Chagall,”
he said, “but everything depends
on condition.” This attack happened

eighty miles inland but he’s
the master of diversion and
nasty surprises are an essential

aspect of warfare. Some passages
are marked with a blue pencil but
we may be talking about an entire

rewrite here. “This is the largest
bearded dragon I’ve ever seen,” he said.

 

 

Steve Spence

 

 

 

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‘In a dark room where dreams developed’


Postcards to Ma, Martin Stannard (Leafe Press)

You have to take a deep breath before you dive into this pamphlet, which is actually a single twelve page long poem. Not only because of its length, but because you will need as much oxygen in your brain to cope with digressions, lists, and the unreliable, perhaps even irrational, narrator.

Stannard is adept at keeping a straight face, however weird his poetry gets, and for taking language on long, surreal walks. He’s also good at using repetition and near-repetition, to help structure his work. In this long poem, which starts with the narrator noting that he ‘Sent a picture postcard to Ma “Arrived Safe”‘, this involves variations of the theme of how people see him and similes for how he sleeps,  irregular reoccurrences of phrases such as ‘Special Offer!!!’ and a kind of chorus to break up the flow:

                                                   Crack of dawn Swam in
   ocean Frolicked on sand Sent postcards to Ma

Each day, post-swim, offers new infatuations and obsessions, be it the ‘tautness / of cotton across generous bosom’ or ‘Gal by the name of Mabel looked better / than a Mabel’, who decides ‘she thought dancing was too sexual’ and heads off home with her husband.

As well as dance, philosophy, history and exploring ‘the kingdom republic or state’ he is holidaying in, Stannard’s narrator reports that he

   Had a crack (ten minutes tops) at being agnostic
   Buddhist vegan pacifist Marxist epicurist internalist
   Satanist atheist Christian externalist Irish
   Thought about differences between philosophy and religion

although it not until the next day he ‘Read philosophers thoughtfully / (ten minutes each tops)’, though it is long enough to (mis)quote from several in the same section.

Another day, in response  to happening ‘across abundance of / lucrative literary prizes’ he ‘Turned to scribbling for an easy buck’, quickly dashing off his first two novels under a nom de plume and ‘Between novels had a couple / of free days Penned slim volume of award-winning poetry’. Of course! And, as one would expect, it is titled ‘The Zenith of Our Feelings’, for ‘When a man is happy he writes damn good poetry’.

And of course, on the back of his literary success

                                                            Was offered post of
   Writer-in-Residence at Tourist Information Centre
   Declined Accepted instead role of Poet-in-Dormitories
   at St. Theresa’s Finishing School for Young Ladies
   A short-term contract abruptly terminated at lights out

I confess to finding this not only reminiscent of the Fast Show’s lecherous old man (‘Me, in a girls school, with my reputation?’) but also very funny, in a squirming response to this surreal inappropriateness.

There are similar engagements with the visual arts, including ‘a self-portrait (I have often wondered / how I see myself)’, sport, nature and music, the last with good results:

   Taught myself piano violin cello guitar ukulele flute
   piccolo trumpet bassoon oboe recorded harmonica kettle
   drum triangle Established first one-man orchestra

Of course, soon after, he notes ‘Decided to become a singer/songwriter’.

Thankfully, having ‘Slept like a cuckoo in a clock’, there are signs this monologue may be ending:

   Have run out of postcards so am unable to write
   which is a shame pity cause for regret disappointment
   sorrow ruefulness perhaps even woe I don’t know
   It’s the last day of the jollidays

It is, seemingly, not before time, as ‘Things are turning interesting slightly bewildering’, as they already have for the reader. There are elephants, rainbows, séances and a ‘well-formed nymphet’ who ‘scampers off teasingly into the trees’ (it’s not clear if she is wearing a white blouse or not) and it is ‘Probably / wise to be leaving’, ‘to speed with a merry heart / returning home to Ma.’

This is a strange surreal annoying hilarious disturbing righteous tasteless ridiculous surprising unexpected text. It comments on any and everything in the process of describing and participating in it. The narrator appears to not only be obsessive and irrational, but also perhaps hallucinating the whole thing; like Stannard as author, however, the writer of these strange reports and postcards is seemingly oblivious to how strange the strange world he lives in is, and simply responds to it, although ‘Sometimes I think I think / too much’.

And if our narrator ‘can’t remember all the words I made / some notes’, let alone ‘remember what any of them mean’, then why should I as reader reviewer poet author writer friend critic? I am going to take several slow deep breaths and hope to sleep ‘like a badger in a badger box’, although I have idea what that will be like. ‘What else is there to say?’

 

Rupert Loydell

Buy Postcards to Ma at https://www.leafepresspoetry.com/2023/01/postcards-to-ma-by-martin-stannard.html

Martin Stannard is a poet, and his poetry and criticism has been published in many collections, anthologies and magazines for more than 30 years. You can find information on some of his books on his website. He has read at places including the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, The Morden Tower, and St. Mark’s in New York City, and has also run so many writing workshops and classes his head spins when he thinks about it.

For a long time he edited the poetry magazine joe soap’s canoe. There are people out there in poetry world who think this was a great magazine, and he’s not going to be the one to contradict them.

From 2005 until 2018 he taught at a university in Zhuhai, China, except for a year (2007/8) when he was back in England as the Royal Literary Fund Writing Fellow at Nottingham Trent University. He is now back in the UK and living in Nottingham.

(This review was first published at Tears in the Fence)

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(slight reprise)

In the suburbs of Athens, he walked a street that led to an intersection where he encountered the large, block-like houses typical of his childhood walks; old, plaster-faced buildings, with blue or cream or yellow-ochre paintwork that had darkened with age.

His attention was drawn from the clusters of houses along the hill back to the expanse of the sea, and then to a solitary figure on the hill, or a herd of goats (their bells jangling in the distance), before the sea claimed his attention once more. The light was intense; scintillations seemed to etch or burn themselves into the space of his vision.

– Writing stories, I said, is rather like acting. It’s an involvement in an unreal world.

A white-painted room, the white discoloured and scratched. Heavy green curtains. Prints on the walls: Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, with its monstrous Hell panel; a little painting of Dante and Beatrice meeting in a tiny garden, painted simply, almost naively, with an innocent wonder in the faces, and the gazes which meet.

One morning he saw her coatless and bareheaded in the rain, and thought, yes, that is how she is.

He found himself looking out for her; sometimes stopping to wonder why she had so taken hold of his mind. Chance had brought her into the proximity of death; yet in the face of this she was stubbornly beautiful – not, he thought, in the sense that she was possessed by mere wilfulness, nor any desperate clinging, but rather that in her countenance there was a firmness, a resistance integral to whatever was refulgent and vital in her being.

He copied into a notebook the words: “The blind spirit rises towards the truth by way of what is material, and seeing the light, it is resuscitated from its former submersion”; adding his own comment: “And what speaks through persons – in their entire being – enlightens me.”

In the morning, on the way to work, Ran would often pass a tall and frail-looking young woman, walking slowly with the aid of a stick; her hair long and blond and hanging in curling strands. He thought (whether correctly or not) that she had some form of blood-disease.  

Sometimes he would see her unexpectedly in the street, as he turned a corner, and it always had the effect of a shock; in the way that the sight of someone you love, or a powerful work of art, or anything epiphanic, may jolt and disrupt your state of being. Her affliction drew his compassion; her beauty drew his admiration; and the two things fused into this intense and painful emotion that could make him recoil, as if he had been struck.

One morning he saw her coatless and bareheaded in the rain, and thought, yes, that is how she is.

In imagination: sitting in a public square, with fountains, pigeons, a stream of people. Of each passer-by she asked me, What would you think of that one?

Black railings patterned with rust and with splotches and threads of light blue paint. Steps, stone, down to basement dwellings. Rotten leaves, papers, other trash on steps or beside, unremoved.

A shadow life. And that is dangerous.
– Would you want to know him? Does she attract you?

I couldn’t bear the sound of their voices any longer.

I was beginning to cry. The only direction available was that leading back to the house, and I took it.

Having taken refuge in the room upstairs, the voices of the girl and her friends, the couple we were staying with and their other guest, penetrated that refuge and gave me no peace.

Precise red leaves. Stones. Blue flame. Window.

In the morning: through the morning: and into the afternoon: sparrows come into the kitchen through the window; noise of wings, of feet scrabbling on surfaces (table, floor).

Two people: walking in a field, looking for a path in vain, then taking the main road a long way. 

One morning he saw her coatless and bareheaded in the rain, and thought, yes, that is how she is.

 

 

David Miller

 

 

 

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Gym

 

I’m in the room about 10 minutes early and there’s a noise just above ambient, high-pitched and pulsing, is it an alarm no one is sure. Someone calls for admin to come down, they’re not sure either. The room is full of cameras, audio equipment, vents, no one can tell where the sound is coming from; should the class be cancelled, no one knows, not even the instructor. The noise stops but then as soon as someone says something it starts again, eventually it stops seemingly for good and the class starts. The instructor puts on some music, the feeling of alarm subsides: the feeling of command somewhere belonging to someone else for some purpose we do not understand, but is this not also the noise we experience all of the time. As someone who suffers from tinnitus I’m aware of this background whenever I think about it, so I choose not to think about it because it would be too much to always think of the noise in my head, the ringing, the alarm. This is the sound that sounds like poetry should sound, a wound opening into space. The sound exists along layers of probabilities and axes of what is possible as if a voice is asking me in the strangest language don’t you think that you were actually dead and I look down to check my body to see if it is still there and whole and it is but I have to look into myself in case I am not. I discover a whole part of mind that I hadn’t been aware of as if I was a person who had never checked my spam folder before, finding thousands of messages most of them probably nonsense but among them messages from people I had cared for greatly and who had been trying to contact me for years and I had been unaware their thoughts were directed towards me. In the gym I’m looking at the spandex of regression, a discontinuity in which I can’t really see where I am or where I am going, in its own body, this is where I am.

 

 

Giles Goodland

 

 

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COMPOSER!

 

Let us improvise true love

As J.S. Bach turned inside-out

Retains a quintessential harmony

 

Place the root-note randomly

Hear its small circumference expand

To make home of Infinity

 

Love renews all things at once

It is a Lifeboat careless of dimension

To gather every straggler safe aboard

 

Ones our history misses

Ones who have side-stepped that juggernaut

Eluding ‘praise’ or ‘blame’ of printed pages

 

Let us make true love our composition

The world has no further need to exist

Its show business a farce

 

Shine as melodic night-lights

In the sleep of a crooked nation

Don’t be poets straight from ‘central casting’

 

Meanwhile love your enemy

As yourself since you may be

Your own worst enemy

 

Let us improvise true love

Until the heart may play the tune ‘by heart’

The song beyond all formal church or ‘chart’

 

Though nothing here is new

The notes transpose on cosmic cue             

When true love – ‘incognito’ – takes your name

 

 

 

 

Bernard Saint   
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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