Please specify the group

BACK INTO THE NIGHT

                                                            A Twilight Zone Chiller

 

Oh yes, I am the agent.

The agent from Renegade City.

Dazed and distracted I recall my former life:

Blood orange sands smoke trails shapes of infinity darker side of iconography origin of sexual differentiation – this is very much a personal statement

I stood resplendent in polyester in a series of Fellini-esque entertainments filigree solarised film footage seemingly straight portrait of underlying action knowing genre piece spectacular effects kick ass lotsa love… now you begin to look like an eerily atmospheric cult movie from the sixties. This is mission critical.

Highly polished twilight zone chiller beautiful colour negative images ethereal visions strange telekinetic powers pulverising visceral energy truly terrifying emotionally charged engrossing fantasy elements bathed in dramatic Technicolor inserts excruciating jokes nudge-nudge humour central premise revitalises well-worn amnesia device with expressionist lighting

Unable to cope with accidental death but retaining the style of the original I fell into the arms of a vengeful Hispanic street gang tribe of down-at-heel Puerto Rican hookers took refuge in the sewers captive zombies rebelled using experimental methods to bring them back into the night delighted to welcome an acclaimed singer-songwriter paranoid outsider looking for inspirational source of new album sing back the symbols enter through a mirror tricks me into drawing cross and curve with bandaged hands

Intriguing striking mysterious haunting theme soundtrack set on location in Renegade City: impressively photographed fanatical guerrillas huge gold doorway leading to modern day troubles detailed black and white sets words from all twenty-four books stunning use of graphics intelligent ambitious key example of avant garde poetic metaphors traditional training rituals courtship marriage greed life-power-money original tinting and toning

In the throes of new lusts dying multi-billionaire explores opposing cultural worlds teenagers who like Salsa and Carmelita’s monologues women’s prison films (subverting stereotypes of mature ladies and post-modern men) complex subjects of social identity what exhilarating nerve what a dazzling display of sheer zest comic romantic melancholic drawn from space-age pop dawn of hi-fidelity original talent dark companion showcase high end audio reproduction indispensable veers from surreal hilarity to political upheaval and back again

Zillion trends in hi tech jinks with gangs of twatted clubbers lurching about like idjuts to unfashionable springy rhythms neon-lit underworld sea of love spiritual journey through Hell On Earth

A glossy comeback vehicle no more editing with razorblades no more quirky signals etched on walls no more lonely soul-searchers ruthless specialists in military flesh piercing long-fingered aristocratic fops Celtic daydreamers potential suspects celluloid visions of secret agent or menaced doppelganger involving themes of fun hugs and cuddles, sexuality and violence just watch our jet-set gaucho zoom into overdrive

Where’s the supernova?

Sombre skies link dotty monologues drag performances over the top production numbers drugs booze and drive-by shootings peek inside the editor’s war room complete with quantum beam splitter and a cornucopia of collectable rarities try impersonations with improvised dialogue sharp cruel witty no more pimply street-boy types just examples of red-hot live merchandise a solo performance until the cops show up and follow a group of women who set sail in a Chinese junk seeking adventure new life far from this shrieking abrasively satirical foray into wanton abandonment crazed family abducting stray refugees incorporating them into Golden Age of Hollywood shock

Echoes of mad interviews packed with astonishing revealing moments

Spaced out like a toothpaste commercial projected over dark intimidating housing complex we immerse ourselves in an amazing neural world exhibiting flare to spare and aural clichés holding this thing together is Leon Theremin’s Ether Wave an all-too-regular feature rising to the forefront of memory unusual poise pizzazz playful provocative tip toeing along Boulevard Haussmann skirting the middle of the night neatly tongue-in-cheek outlandish costumes neither sympathetic or understated script dense awash with arty French movie tropes revealing the killer a young violin player

Back from the land of the dead like the poet who knew too much I arrive on Bitch Island grim cyberpunk world desolate wasteland populated by a few anguished young men looking like Pasolini threatened by environmental disaster and loops of Barbara Streisand songs amplified soundtrack roll call of the great and gorgeous no plonkers no chaser standard situation indefinite TV self-portraits lots of silent black and white photography

 

(We have been working on this since that mid seventies first feature about a young woman bored with her boyfriend smashes violin sucked into universe of downmarket noir features with the all the hallmarks of knee-jerk gore this means we reassess our future

Visions of irrational netherworlds suppurating ecstasy pleasure-pain downtrodden masses thousands of extras unforgettable hunger trendy interiors classic seductions Antipodean disco-dancers showcased in epic productions watch the crowd go crazy depth emotional insight vast international nuclear conspiracies mixing politics with myth and fantasy these were both our strengths and weaknesses plus my poetic fascination for the interplay between inanimate objects sinister metamorphoses split screen contrast situations and the dark malevolent tone of the post-war Absurdist tradition)

Meanwhile on the far-out fringes of ‘the permissive society’ lurks an irreverent humour explicit material which may offend some viewers with luck and a fair wind hey ho precipitating usual yuppie nightmare of young Manhattan literary agent pushed ‘over the edge’ into the whip-cracking world of a wicked dominatrix plastic clients prowling through labyrinth of rooms acting out grotesque parody of undercover secret society pain humiliation so-called double-agents lurk in corners elaborately montaged astute media manipulators can you have the rock without the roll the swing without the…

In Europe nothing has changed steam still splutters from the pool leitmotivs rain down from the sky in gay abandon buildings are old dirty magnificent stylish and dramatically allegorical I erupt into frenzied bloodshed over two hundred locations two thousand costumes elements of a giant fresco running time three hundred minutes with intermissions to allow for sinister moves towards our hero a local boy scene a remote country house where Gladstone spent many a weekend researching The Estranged Attractor background modelled on vague vista-vision cosmopolitanism celebrated climax at the Royal Albert Hall as a bunch of hard-nosed space-marines pitch headlong into a web of extracts from Rimbaud’s poems a network of cross-border kidnapping and one of the best loved British thrillers

Naked as tortured emotion

Singing symbols back to front round and round all places the poet used to visit on the run in London one of most terrifying moments in current drama not so much a search for the East more a deflation or ‘deconstruction’ of big time aspirations as he festered underground in Mrs Scarlett’s Rooming House Camberwell dosser’s paradise brilliant new wave language of verbal colour criminal love paraphrase of maybe/maybe not rewrites off-cuts personal memories found objects old bus tickets possibly work of self-objectified fashion-conscious metro-centrics excavating rich vein of neo-Dadaist humour cheeky enterprise harsh times something for everyone skipping through chance encounters semi-abstract associations old punk style ‘no wave’ link-ups with cool jazz

We can never know the answer we can never express the dynamic like an assassinated poet on acid oddly life-affirming oddly oddball familiar faces well worn amnesia device another nice one make you sound like one of last year’s top media personalities

Series takes off uncompromising production design externalising desire warped limits orthodox syntax in equal measure farthest reaches final frontier unearthly terrain mapped out by intrepid explorers of inner space alienated outsiders yes we are at the outer limits of representation folks from the sublime to the ridiculous forget those arty classics rediscover the night with its needlepoint of stars just die for this one brooding visuals heavy head-nodding deep breaks obscenity charges baton charges Goth girls with attitude sinking Chinese junks trippy paraphernalia grief murder dark electro feel months of planning now we can all kick ass lotsa love…

Wailing gnashing teeth true variety style trash stunts back into cinematic night moves comic songs dirty plates juiced up vibes deranged hobos mad tender dark suicides muggers lounge lizards killer docs nasty nerdy head-cases mouldering polemics lie detectors literate dramas wheels within wheels unspeakable obsessions boundaries of known pathology ignore the hype try not get too excited, even: holiday snaps and old home movies send strange signals to shabby weirdo stalker types unshaven smelling of dog’s piss levitating in back alley laundro-mat fear reflecting degeneration, just carry on dreaming.

Sublime gloriously textured hands in air recall my former life as a secret agent in drag orange sands visceral energy mirror trick melancholic dawn over cityscape– now, you tell us a story…did somebody say carry on dreaming?

 

 

© A C Evans

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Stoned Circus Radio Show

PLAYING TRACKS BY

MOURNING AFTERIAN KAYEMBROOKSFABULOUS HEYDAYSMERGERS and more.

2 shows ! CANAL B & RADIOLUX
If you want to send Stoned Circus materials for review
(vinyl, CD, digital download all welcome), please contact me

Stoned Circus Radio Show – Garage & Psychedelia from all over the world (from the 60’s to the 00’s) Freak out the jam !
2-weekly SUNDAY 6:00 to 7:00 PM (Gmt +1 Paris).
The 60 minutes long show superbly highlights psychedelic music, garage punk, , mods, Rock’n’Roll, Rockabilly, punk rock, psychedelia, acid-rock, beat, r’n’b, soul & early funk, space-rock, exotic sounds with sitarfuzz from the 60’s to NOW !

www.stonedcircus.com (streaming, podcasts, playlist, records of the month)

STONED CIRCUS is NOW on RADIOLUX http://laradiolux.blogspot.fr/
—————————-
If you want to send Stoned Circus materials for review
(vinyl, CD, digital download all welcome), please contact me

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The Wibbly-Wobbly World of Zion Train

Alan Dearling catches up with the extended family of musical dub mayhem.

Has a virtual chat along the waysides, whilst imagining a drink or three, and some magic, special cakes…Brain Food!

WobblyWeb: https://www.wobblyweb.com/

**************************************************************************

Alan: There are often too many labels in music. Back in the day, I was living in Lyme Regis, down on the Dorset coast, having just cast my moorings, moved off from living full-time on a narrow boat on the River Severn and the canal system. That would be 1991. But still heavily involved with the Travellers in the fight against the Criminal Justice Bill, the road protests, working with the Skool Bus and the Travellers’ School Charity. My earliest memories of Zion Train are of a melting pot. A whole collision of dance – reggae – dub – djs – mixing – brass bottom-line. What were the origins?

Zion Train: The musical origins of Zion Train is that we are Dub soundsystem lovers who also have a deep appreciation for electronic music (EDM), for the energy and politics in Punk and hardcore, and for the vibes and improvisation in mixing live instruments with DJs and live mixing techniques plus the non-conformity of all of the above.

You’re right we are a melting pot, musically and culturally and better for it.

Alan: I’ve actually forgotten quite when I first met members of Zion Train and witnessed a performance…Early 1990s definitely, my first album was ‘Passage to Indica’ Deep Dub Conscious Toots Music. …probably in the Green Fields area at Glastonbury, but it could also have been at one of the new Traveller festies. It was actually in the early days of the Internet, and I was given the link to the Wibbly-Wobbly World and the Universal Egg label! The band members were political, but it was more an eco-consciousness thing. Does that make any sense at all?

Zion Train: Your recollection absolutely makes sense in space and time. ZT started in 1988 but became better known and started to release our own music on Zion Records and then later Universal Egg in the early ‘90s when we also founded our first studio (the Wibbly Wobbly World Of Music). The band/collective members were all political but with a focus on Gaia and her constituents that continues to this day.

Alan: I’d been a close friend of the many of the members of Gong, through Daevid Allen, and so had experienced the idea of a floating anarchy of a loose art-music-collective. Bands like Captain Beefheart were experimenting like mad, and later in  punk, the taking on of ‘identities’, whether it was Captain Beefheart or Captain Sensible set the template… So, Zion Train with members’ fish names, Neil Perch, Colin Cod and David Tench et al. were different, but seemed familiar… how did this come about?

Zion Train: Hakim Bey’s TAZ (Temporary Autonomous Zone) is a concept that is powerful both in society and the arts.

Collectivism with an anarchic approach is by far the best way to harness everyone’s talents in a group dynamic.

With Zion Train we were particularly influenced by stories of one of the great reggae bands (who also happened to be comprised of three brothers), squabbling over royalty splits on their group works and therefore decided that all were contributors to the ZT project. So, they would be required to choose a fish name to use in place of their surname whilst contributing to the project – hopefully reducing the role of ego in the creative and post-creative spaces and therefore the probability of soft arguments about ownership.

We also really like fish (not to eat), just to watch.

Alan: My original work was as a youth worker, much of it in London and then Scotland. I was lucky and privileged to be around West London as Misty in Roots in the ‘70s evolved from being a youth club sound system into a major musical force. For me, one of the most authentic and unique of the UK reggae world. I was also a huge fan of Ernest Ranglin then. Do you guys rate them, and who else are in your musical roots? Did the name for the band come from the Bob Marley song of the same name?

Zion Train: Misty in Roots and People Unite Records are without doubt, a cornerstone of British black activism in the musical sphere and are totally under-rated as such.

Equally Ernest Ranglin is a musician, who if he was born in the USA rather than post-colonial Jamaica would be recognised by Jazz fans the world over, rather than being seen as a bit part player in the story of Reggae as he is.

Our musical influences are many and diverse from King Tubby to Stockhausen, from Merzbow to Fela Kuti, from Aboriginal creation chants to sea shanties. If it is done with a community purpose and is musical in some way it can easily serve to inspire ZT.

Alan : ‘Zion Train’ have always struck me as a collective state of mind. Almost a ‘hive’ mind but without the Queen Bee. Does that make any sense at all?

Zion Train: Yes it does. We firmly believe that collective consciousness serves human existence much more positively than individualisation in almost all cases.


Alan: Neil Perch and the Zion Train were really kind to come to play at the Coombe Street Party in Lyme Regis. It was a real sense of dance, high energy, freedom and One Love. Some of you guys played on a roof-top scaffolding. A fine mix of the vocals, especially Molar, electronic, instrumentation, DJs, bass line and the brass section… ‘One Love’! Do you remember that gig?

Zion Train: Yes I remember it reasonably well, on the ‘balcony’ improvised stage with the room in the house as the backstage area. It seemed that lots of local people had turned out for the event – perfect situation to play music really – free event, not age limited, in a central location in a small town. Good weather – rarely gets better than that in reality. We are big fans of community events they provide a much warmer scenario than commercial events in general.

 

Alan: ‘Siren’ andHome Grown Fantasy’ were major albums. It was a cross-over sound. It was a collision, a fusion with the free party music.  Sounds across into to the major festivals…How did you feel at that time?

Zion Train: I guess we felt like we were on the crest of a wave, we had just started touring worldwide and were getting lots of attention in the mainstream but we also were pretty militant still in our progressive positions.

We had shows cancelled by the Catholic authorities in Poland due to our overt promotion of hemp and managed to publish an anarchist archive using the money of our then record label (Warner Brothers) unbeknownst to them.

We were introduced to a global network of free-thinkers, anarchists and progressives in art, politics and life and we are the better for it.

It also felt like a time when real change was possible – especially in the UK and EU there was a general vibes of positive possibility, of expectation.

Alan: You were hailed as the Dub Love Revolutionaries. But, you have always stuck to the roots, of dance, reggae and dub. Often playing at small, more alternative festivals. I remember a lovely set at the Endorse-it festival, sirens blaring… but there were many… What memories have you of festies?

Zion Train: A festival is a celebration of life.

The big festivals, worldwide seem to suck the life OUT of everything.

They are bright, loud and very, very famous and they can yield amazing experiences BUT the real wealth of the festival world is to be found in the smaller (under 10k capacity) events where you can smell and taste and see and hear and feel the love and positive vibrations that have gone into every millimetre of the thing.

Endorse-it was a great example – there are many others and none of them cost 100 quid a ticket…

Our favourite festivals are all culturally mixed, fun for all ages, volunteer-run, politically motivated and absolutely pumped full of positive human energy.

Alan: I’ve followed the band through many twists and musical turns. In fact I’ve just found eight of your albums, maybe there’s more. The Zion Train members have come and gone, musical styles have changed. You do like a catchy, ear-worm, tune. Especially Live!

Can you tell me some of your tales…, pretty please?

Zion Train:

That sounds like you are asking me to write a book J

Suffice to say we have been incredibly fortunate, touring the world for 30 years, bringing a message of peace, love, respect and social engagement and learning about our planet and its inhabitants along the way. We have seen the highs and lows of life in general and the beauties and dark depths of the music business along the way. We have encountered many, many bright souls and shared energy with so many of them and continue to do so into the distant future!!

Let someone else write the book if anyone should see fit to!

Alan: You had a lot of popular records that made it onto ‘Single Minded and Alive’. Real crowd pleasers…anthemic tracks, like ‘Dance of Life’ and ‘Rise’… Were Zion Train a different posse in the 2000s?

Zion Train: Zion Train is a different posse every 5 years or so, and I like to think we are better for it. The tunes we make however don’t just represent the preferences of the members of the collective at any one time, but also the cultural context of the time. ‘Single Minded and Alive’ was a collection of ZT singles produced during the ‘90s in a time when Dub (especially UK Dub) was seriously underground and had relatively little political traction.

Dance music, however, was on the frontline in a much bigger way politically speaking, due to its mass appeal and I think that is the biggest reason it was at the forefront of our output in the ‘90s and yielded the anthemic tunes you mention.

Alan: In the 2000s, I met up at quite a lot of gigs with Johnno ‘Dubdadda’ as the Zion Train vocalist (and Lua). With Johnno it seemed more of a Two-Tone, Specials, Madness sort of vibe? Is that making any sense? Was it a different ‘State of Mind’ around 2011?

Zion Train: Any ‘State Of Mind’ that lives and breathes must be in constant evolution – so yes it was different around 2011.

Dubdadda brought urban UK to the ZT sound in a different, more masculine way, than we had really had it before his advent (actually from ‘Original Sounds Of The Zion’ in 2002 onwards). He is one of the best UK based reggae MCs of his generation.

Maybe elements of a white Englishman being a Dub music MC reminds you of the rock against racism/ multicultural UK vibe of the two tone scene? For ZT, Dubdadda was the best man for the job in his time – simple as that – we choose on vibes and energy and nothing else is considered.

Alan: Did you guys feel especially close to other musicians and sounds? I always kind of felt like you were on a similar wavelength to Radical Dance Faction, Inner Terrestials, Eatstatic, Lee Scratch Perry, Dub Pistols, Tofu Love Frogs, Chumbawamba….

Zion Train:

Love RDF, Scratch, TLF, Chumbawumba and many others of course…

As far as wavelengths go…

We are closest to…

Jah Shaka (in terms of dedication to the Dub cause and autonomous soundsystem culture),

Chicago & Detroit house (the black underground-type in terms of dedication to hardcore dance music),

Fela Kuti (in terms of political expression in music and the colonialized global hivemind),

SunRA (in terms of his beliefs that music contains higher societal forces that can be used for good) and

Jimi Hendrix (in terms of the ability to paint musical visions by mastery of the art).

Alan: ‘Land of the Blind’ was billed as ‘Players of Instruments’. Quite a slice of deep, dub ‘n’ bass and some rap/hip, hop influences, such from Fitta Warri and Jazzmin Tutum. Lots of dance riddims too…and rich jazz sounds…and new-to-you sounds…

Before the Covid lockdown I was performing in 2019 at the OZORA festival over in Hungary. It was great to catch up with a Zion Train in full flow. A very much, crowd-pleasing set live. Great Fun too… What was your experience of OZORA?

Zion Train: We played at the first festival on the OZORA site (then known as Solipse) on the occasion of a full solar eclipse in 1996 and have had the pleasure to return to OZORA several times over the intervening years, and it is always an amazing, warm human experience.

Alan: Did you catch up there with Youth and Gaudi’s set? Some magnificent bass sounds…

Zion Train: Excellent artists and a great collaboration!

Alan: I was able to the review the recent new Zion Train album ‘Illuminate’ album Zion Train with lots of vocals from Lua and Cara (and friends).  It seems to add some extra textures and sounds. What do you think about the new music?

Zion Train: The music we make is like a diary of the lives we lead, both individually and collectively, as members of society and as empathic humans. I think at all stages in ZT’s musical output that has been true and nothing changes with ‘Illuminate’.

The collective shifts, the collective mood and expressions shift, the whole Zeitgeist shifts.

From a compositional and technical point of view we attempt to continually challenge ourselves and so it’s gratifying when each new release heralds evolution in sounds, thought and collaboration.

Any art should be a reflection of the artist’s life and we hope we remain true to that.      

Alan: I’m much looking forward to catching up with you guys again – Live and Direct – at the Electric Brixton in August, there on August 2021, along with Chris Tofu and lots of our friends…

Let’s make it a Celebration of The Universal Egg!

Zion Train: Indeed –  a celebration of life – as we should every day!

On a side note Alan – maybe we’ll have a chance to chat in Brixton and there may be a couple of anecdotes worthy of reproduction – we’ll be travelling with the full crew then.

Which will definitely help the memories flow.

Cheers

Neil

 

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SAUSAGE LIFE 182

 

 

ZUCKERBERG ANNOUNCES NEW SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORM

 
 
 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE

The column that doesn’t know anything about bigotry, but knows what it doesn’t like

 

READER: Did you have a flutter on the name of the new Royal baby?

MYSELF: I’m not much of a betting man but I had a fiver to win on Frank, and a pound each way on Alan.

READER: What a waste of money!

MYSELF:  In what way?

READER: Alan? Frank? Come on, don’t you read the papers? It ain’t exactly Waldorf science is it?.

MYSELF: I think you mean rocket…

READER: Sorry! It ain’t exactly rocket salad is it?

MYSELF:  As I said, I’m not much of a betting man. So what did you put your money on in the end?

READER: Following a dead-cert hot tip from a friend of one of Meghan’s obstetrician’s stable lads, I had a pony on Donald, and a pangolin on Oprah.

 

SHOWBIZ NEWS
by Ryan Ayre

The Hastings Royal Ballet Company have announced they are to stage a mammoth production of Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s ambitious new dance musical Sloth of the Antarctic (libretto by Russell Brand), this summer. It will be choreographed by Max Petomaine (Legs Eleven, Tutus on Broadway) and will feature a chorus line of top ballerinas, specially trained to perform Max’s legendary Pas Ballonnés and Chassés au Fondue in sub zero temperatures. It is rumoured that the cast may include 79-year-old torch singer Fifi LaRoche, who will be required to learn the rudiments of ballet in just a few days. The theme song, There’s No Blindness Like Snow Blindness will be rush-released ahead of the opening, and is expected to dominate international sales charts.

 

PANTOMIME HORSE SHOT

An East Sussex man has died after participating in the London Marathon as the back end of a pantomime horse. Roger Hind (39), of Plumpswelling, broke a leg crossing Tower Bridge after treading in a pothole and had to be humanely destroyed by an armed division of St John’s Ambulance Brigade.
“We were galloping along, doing really well,” said Hastings-born Thomas Dowting, 43, who was in the front part of the horse, “we had just overtaken a Tellytubby and two Ewoks when I heard Roger cry out and quickly became aware that he had pulled up. It suddenly felt like I was hauling a huge sack of coal. Almost immediately we were surrounded by race officials and when I heard a loud bang, I knew instinctively that Roger had been shot”.

A spokesman for the RSPCA told us: “This sort of thing is more common than most people imagine. During the 2017/18 season for example, eight rear-end and four front-end pantomime horse operatives regrettably had to be shot. Three of these tragic incidents occurred in the same show, the notoriously hazardous Charge of the Light Brigade -The Panto”  

DICTIONARY CORNER
Rapidophilia (n) The irrisistable compulsion to tell everyone how far and how fast you have jogged that day.
Hollyoaks (n) A mythical place where people who can’t act are given things to say by people who can’t write.

 

CHAIN MAIL

Have you ever had one of those sinister chain letters? This one came through my letterbox the other day in a plain brown envelope, reeking of fish.

This is what it said:

 

WARNING: UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES READ THIS LETTER

Too late. You have started so you must finish. These are the words of Brother Luigi Smegmatini founder of the Norwegian Order of the Cloistered Herring, who originated this letter in 1804:

Dear specially selected friend,

so far, over eleven million people have received this personal communication. To ensure that your remaining years are dogged by good luck rather than crammed with calamitous misfortune, you must make 600 copies of this letter and send them to friends, relatives, colleagues, and if necessary, people you have never met. Then, in a separate envelope, send a cheque or PO for £50 made out to Vivien Graula Associates, at PO box 17, Keynsham, Surrey.

THE FOLLOWING TRUE TESTIMONIALS ARE FROM REAL PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY EXIST:

Alfalfa farmer Zeke Spoonbender of Kneejerk, Colorado

I made 600 copies and sent them all to my sister-in-law in Appaloosa. Three days later she gave birth to bouncing twin boys, despite being 75 years old, and a sexual deviant.

Maureen Xeno, Innuit housewife, Anchorage

I had 600 copies of the letter engraved on blocks of ice and transported overland by dog sled to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, where I made many friends stationed as a tank driver during the war. Due to a clerical error they were diverted via Colombia and Venezuela, to a pole dancing club in Havana, Cuba, where they eventually melted, breaking the chain.
The very next day my husband Nanook, a plumber, was working on the septic tank of a mobile igloo with a Rudyard & Kipling helium arc welder when he was crushed to death by a herd of stampeding Emperor Penguins.

Lawrence Van der Gouda, stone cladding salesman, Rotterdam

I woke two weeks after receiving this to find my entire house had been redecorated by people with no taste. The only thing left untouched was the fourteenth century Ming Dynasty wastepaper basket in the study, where I discovered the cynically screwed up copies of this letter, which I had forgotten to post

Derek N’Gunu, Estate Agent, Goose Green

I had my Mexican houseboy make 600 copies on 300g vellum in an obscure Indonesian dialect and post them to my extended family in Jakarta. Four days later I was astonished to discover that my left leg, amputated after a childhood supermarket trolley accident, had miraculously regenerated. I later dedicated my life to becoming a world-class athlete, winning a gold for East Falkland in the 1998 South Atlantic Game 8,000 metres sheep-shearing.

 


Sausage Life!

 

 

 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 
 

CAUTION

DO NOT BUY THIS PRODUCT

 

GREENSHILL BLUES
EX-PRIME MINISTERS MAY NOT BE SURPRISED AT THIS UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

POLITIKAL POKES

By Lobbytroll

BACKSTAGE PASS

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 
 
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Covidectomy

 
 
“I’ll give you a covidectomy!,” said the surgeon
 
 
Let me ride inside the beast
I volunteered for this
Put my life on the line
Just to see all the other people
 
Normal.   Sitting in the sun.
Youth released from school or metronomic drudge
Now skateboarders, click-clicking, swishing by
Entertaining us above Trafalgar Square
Our new National Gallery of the living
Nodding policemen grasping,
Counting groups of six
 
Figures melting, mutating, moving, re-assembling
Crowding around the clear water fountains
Standing, sitting all around, or on the pedestal lions
Watching, listening; music, joyous words beginning
Together once more
Transported to this new land
And the new beast to tame
 
Inside
 
 
 
©Christopher 2021
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Acts of Subversion and Commentary

Collected Poems 1975-2020, Ken Edwards (Shearsman)

Ken Edwards rightly notes that a collected poems is a kind of tombstone, though most might prefer to think of it as a summary or marker. Either way, having never been persuaded by the idea of poets writing ‘occasional poems’, it’s always good to have the chance to look over the whole of an author’s output, to chart their obsessions, themes and the development of ideas and ways of writing.

Edward’s selected poems came out a few years ago. It was impressive but – as I noted at the time – it missed out what many readers, myself included, regard as his best book, which at the time was still in print. Thankfully, Good Science is here in its full glory, gathered up with a lot of other work.

For much of this book Edwards is a city poet, one of a number of (for want of a better term) experimental poets rooted in popular culture but also engaged in critiquing that culture, often by engaging with the actual language that culture uses to maintain itself. So here advertising slogans, news reports and contemporary music rub shoulders with each other, recombined and remixed in acts of subversion and commentary.

Edwards also has an eye for image and detail. Earlier poems here are small snapshots focussed on moments (he returns to this later on in the haiku-esque miniatures of Chaconne) but gradually develop into longer, more politicised and self-aware texts. City life, free jazz, contemporary classical and improvisation, the rhythmic ebb and flow of the places he lives in, along with how the television and newspapers report what is going on, feed into the work. Rioting and fires, police brutality, political shrugs and avoidances are all here, as is the more mundane and everyday, in fluid poems that slip and slide across the page: moments of lucidity, opinion, narrative and reportage juxtaposed one against the other, just like in real life.

This is not a poetry of declamatory simplicity though. Edwards is aware of both linguistically innovation and lyrical traditions and much of the work here is at its best when the narrator self-critiques, questioning what he writes even as he is writing it; but there are also moments of stark beauty and self-awareness, informed epiphanies and questioning self-expression. Later work is sometimes – or, at least, appears to be – autobiographical and reflective, the author trying to chart his personal history, how he got here from there; again, making sense of the world from the information given and received.

Like all good poetry this is writing that challenges, doubts and reinvents as it goes along. Edwards may have (mostly) moved on to writing fiction rather than poetry, but he has left us an astonishing 500+ pages of tumultuous, engaging poems that chart 45 years of living and lived poetry and language.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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The Sound We Hear

Life is very different on the shop floor
yet our mission is far from over and this
is the best-looking pub sign we’ve ever
seen. “Give me the gist of it,” she said.

There’s a hint of a limp in his gait but
Hot Rats is playing in the background
and this may be a warm-up to the main
event. Can a smaller force deliver a more

potent punch? Sunlight brings a flash of
greenery to the forest floor. “There are
no skeletons in my cupboard,” she said,
but it seems that the whole system has

become unstable and things are starting
to fall apart. What’s the betting that our
prints are all over the scene of the crime?
For those who choose to stay, condolences.

 

Steve Spence
Illustration Rupert Loydell

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Houseplants

Janice is worried that her houseplants are growing too big for the apartment. Ever since watching a documentary which showed how plants send electrical impulses through their tissue when cut or damaged she’s been unable to bring herself to prune them. She has lived with these plants for years and thinks of them as family. Their luxuriant foliage now fills every room. Each has come to occupy a particular spot suited to its needs. But the prickly cactus she’s nurtured for a decade is now so tall it is almost touching the glass roof above its shelf. A Monstera deliciosa occupies nearly half the front room. She talks to the plants, and imagines them listening to her, picking up the vibration of her voice through their leaves. She has even given them names. ‘Can’t you just trim them a little, darling?’ her mother says on the phone. ‘You eat vegetables after all, and they’re plants.’ She can hear her father in the background getting agitated. ‘Let me speak to her,’ he says. ‘We’ll soon sort this out.’ An hour later they are outside her apartment. From her hiding place deep in the foliage she watches them peering in through the front room window.

Simon Collings

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THE CUMMINGS CANDY

 
 
And so he peeled them like fruit, in order to expose
What was rotten, if not with a kiss, Cummings’ candy
Seems to blow Judas back breath by breath, 
 
As he snitched like the boy that everyone bullies,
Intent on revenge, unrepentant, with those inseminoid eyes
As inhuman as any creature or state beyond death.
 
Which he was careful to place at Number Ten’s door
In front of those who do not comprehend what our lives are,
As their detachment and hunger for some higher realm
 
Makes us ants. While Cummings oozed through, 
Like sour sap from a blister, to deny his involvement. 
His role was convieniently circumstance. Hired to heal 
 
The fresh wound that this Prime Minister makes us, 
And yet it was Cummings’ Take Back Control credo 
That Brexited Britain fast to the brink. He made us all ants 
 
To scold once the money kettle boiled over. 
It was his poison that made even good old English tea
Damned to drink. So, while he now calls the shots 
 
From an outsider’s rifle, his taking aim, his snide sniping
Is less like Hungerford’s haunting Huntley and far more like
Edward Fox in  The Day of the Jackal; cold, crisp and more
 
Than a little psychotic. The Number Ten numpties’ ineptness
Failed to pass Dom’s damned dictates so he’s cast his kittens 
Out in a box and attempted to drown them, at that
 
In the spit of public opinion, and while the things he said
Will have happened, in shaking the state what’s the point?
Or should I say aim. As it will be all of us in the target. 
 
Pinned into place, fit for spearing and securing too. 
Petards hoist. And yet more than this sour kiss, for there is
No way that Boris Johnson is Jesus! We have witnessed 
 
The death of the Statesman and Stateswoman, too
In our time. For now, the fruit has no juice. And even the pulp 
Calls for pity, as we search for seeds now to scatter, so that 
 
In better days they will climb to yield Eden trees, under which 
No new snake may shadow, or slide through to try and excuse 
His transgressions and where the fruit for temptation 
 
Will be caught in a net Angels seize.
 
 
 
David Erdos May 27th 2021
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Stroud Celebrates Dylan’s 80th

 
 
YouTube version for those without Spotify

– but some specific versions are not available in the UK for YouTube so there are some variations substituted.
 
 

Bob Dylan’s 80th Birthday : 24 May 2021 



Sorry for making this so hard (and straying from the brief myself)! 

How do you choose between invective, sarcasm, tenderness, storytelling, anger, atmosphere and much, much more?

Thank you for rising to the impossible task and sharing your choices, thoughts, memories and stories.  

I hope you enjoy listening to our resulting collaborative playlists as much as I’ve enjoyed putting it together.
much love 

Ella Fantasia aka ione/ionella

 

01_Bob Dylan’s 80th Birthday 24 May 2021

 

02_Covers of Bob Dylan songs 24 May 2021

Chosen to celebrate Dylan’s 80th birthday


https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4nNwfsjwqEi52Ho2e551ZaW6o52IMeaS 

PDF document attached and text of it copied below…..



01_Bob Dylan’s 80th Birthday 24 May 2021

 
Blowin in the Wind : The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan

Chosen by Pat: “I was overwhelmed at the thought of picking a favourite, I love them all and wasn’t sure how to express why it’s special. I’m sure loads of people have chosen Blowin’ in the wind (No!), it was the first time I heard him on the radio when Annie Nightingale said you will be hearing a lot more of this young singer with the gravelly voice of an old man! How prescient was that! 



Corrina, Corrina : The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan

Chosen by Gaye
 
Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right : The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan

Chosen by Rick: “This is special for me cos it was the first Dylan song I learned to play on acoustic guitar……brilliant harmonica too”.


It’s alright Ma (I’m only bleeding) : Bringing it all Back Home
Chosen by Cavan: “The line about being bent out of shape by society’s pliers seemed to chime so much with the tensions and idealism of the sixties and a yearning for a better society. To think we had student protests across the western world, black people in the states rising up against racism and now so little has changed.”

“But then there’s “It’s all over now Baby Blue”, “Like a Rolling Stone”, “Black Diamond Bay”, “Visions of Johanna”, “Desolation Row”, “Forever Young”, “Tangled up in Blue”…and so many more!”



Chosen by Tim: “When I first heard this song I was a teenager. 
I recall thinking, all they say about Dylan being a great poet is true.”
 
Highway 61 Revisited : Highway 61 Revisited

Chosen by Don: “Dylan has been so provocative and so important when i was first exposed to him in the early 60s.  He has always raised questions I couldn’t even form yet. He always niggled under my skin and helped when I listened, got me to face new problems …still does.  Blonde on Blonde with Stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again, and with the title song from Highway 61 Revisited and Ballad of a Thin Man.   The Freewheeling…. Don’t think twice, it’s all right…..”

Ballad of a Thin Man : Highway 61 Revisited
Chosen by Don: 
 
Maggie’s Farm : Live at Newport 1965

Chosen by Marion: “Not yet born when this happened – but looking back I think the whole acoustic/electric controversy is hilarious. 

The lyrics of the last verse sum up Dylan’s view….
‘Well, I try my best to be just like I am
But everybody wants you to be just like them
They say, “Sing while you slave” and I just get bored
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more’”
Visions of Johanna : Blonde on Blonde

Chosen by ione: “Every note and inflexion of this album is ingrained in me in the way that only music from your early teens listened to over and over and over and over and over can be. This album is more personal than political telling fantastic stories, words painting pictures of both familiar and unknown worlds. The music is hypnotic and still has power to evoke that yearning.”



Stuck inside of a mobile with the Memphis Blues again : Blonde on Blonde

Chosen by Don



She’s Your Lover Now : Bootleg Series Vols 1-3

(If you want to skip the pre-amble, start at 3’44” in)


Chosen by James: “an unfinished song from the Blonde on Blonde sessions.  

a dramatisation in which the singer is trying to unravel a tangle of complex emotions.  all of my songs rolled into one.  now your eyes cry wolf / while your mouth cries I’m not scared / of animals like you. . .”



Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands : Blonde on Blonde

Chosen by ione: “Still no idea what it’s really all about, this is purely teenage uninterrupted snogging backdrop – a slow, flowing rhythm for one whole side of the LP before you had to get up to replace the stylus at the beginning or change the record”
Hurricane : Desire

Chosen by Fred: “Picking a special Dylan song depends on the day and the time of day, there are so many. But here’s the thing. When Lynn and I first got together Desire had just been released and we listened to it over and over again. It seemed to be a return to his epic story telling and that violin of Scarlet Revira was out of this world. I don’t think it was so eye watering as Blonde on Blonde and Highway 61 or as kicking down the door as Rolling Stone – but for personal memories it’s Hurricane.”



New Morning : New Morning

(Missing – unavailable on YouTube in the UK)

Chosen by Lynn: “It’s what we listened to on the morning I decided my future was with Fred.” 

Chosen by Pat: “I also love New Morning because however awful things are, that always happens”



Forever Young (concert version with The Band)

Chosen by Lynn
Lily, Rosemary & the Jack of Hearts : Blood on the Tracks

Chosen by Marion

Chosen by Pete: “A great track from a favourite album”

Chosen by ione: “What a story, I have a fast crayon animation of this running through my head each time I hear it.  I always want to bring that to life, but suspect I never will as it couldn’t do it justice.”
Idiot Wind : Bootleg Series Vols 1-3

Chosen by James: “pain and sadness exemplified…..and within the recording process his initial sadness turns to anger it seems”
Watching the river flow 

(Live. No studio version available on YouTube)
Chosen by Philip
“In our last week, the boss came down one afternoon with a visitor.  He said there was someone he wanted to introduce to us:  Bob Dylan, who stood there in jeans and a denim jacket, suffused in deep blue light, and nodded gruffly.  If ever a nod had a smoker’s cough it was Bob Dylan’s nod when he was introduced to us.
 
How are you doing, Bob?  the boy asked.  He was doing very well.  Just over for a few days.
 
The boss said he’d leave his visitor with us, and come back in a while.  Dylan lit up and sat backwards across one of the chairs that were lying around.  It was that kind of basement.  The girl sat back, and fetched a cigarette from her bag.  They puffed away, while we carried on slowly with our work.
 
He asked us what we were doing.  We explained briefly.  He wondered whether they couldn’t get a machine in.  It was surely a waste of human endeavour.  It paid, we said, but he sniffed at this.
 
We asked what he was doing.  He’d been working on a film – this must have been Pat Garret and Billy the Kid –  and had been preparing a book of his lyrics for publication.  He seemed to sneer at this as an idea.  He always wrote the lyrics before the melody.  He used a battered typewriter which he carried with him everywhere, though, no, he didn’t have it now;  it was at the flat he was using in London.  He liked employing traditional blues forms.  It’s good enough, it works, why change it, he said.  Like John says, he added.  He meant John Lennon.  
 
The boy stopped even making a pretence at working.  He began asking questions.  Dylan said, for example, that he didn’t care whether people took his work seriously or not.  For him it was his life, of course, and nothing could be more serious, to him.  He was just a song and dance man, though.  He wasn’t Verlaine or Rimbaud.  You are, said the boy, but he faded away as Dylan gave him a look.  A look which said, No, don’t push it.
 
We asked him about the Beatles.  Would they ever get back together again?  What for, they’d said everything.  Did he see them at all now?  George was a mate, they’d written some stuff together and tried for an album, but it hadn’t come off.  I’m a draughtsman, he said, and the Beatles work in oils.  You could hear that he’d said this kind of thing before.  Wouldn’t he like to make an album with the Beatles?  They’re a good little band, he said, non-committal.
 
We asked about the film  Why was he making a film?  What was it about?  He was making a film, he said, because he wanted to be Elvis Presley, like the rest of them.  He smiled and looked younger, much younger.  It was about death and silence, the film, he said.  Again, he added.
 
We sniggered politely.  I could see the boy wanted his autograph;  I could see him start fidgeting as time went on, and looking, apparently idly, through papers on the desk.  He was looking for a blank sheet, I was sure.   The boss came in, said something to Dylan about the time and about someone called Neil who was now waiting.  Dylan put out his cigarette in the ashtray he’d been sharing with the girl, stood up and smoothed his jeans.  He didn’t look very tall.  In fact, he looked every bit a young, angry poet, next to our conservative boss there.  He felt in his back pocket and pulled out a scruffy, folded bit of paper which he gave to the boy, saying, This is for you.  Then he nodded to us all, quite chummy, and went off with the boss.  We heard them walking away along the corridor and shutting the door which led to the stairs.”
 
Beyond the Horizon : Modern Times

(Live. No studio version available on YouTube in UK)

Chosen by Sharon: “Beyond the horizon … across the divide …For obvious reasons! “

(Sharon & Don have been separated by 5,350 miles across an ocean and two continents for nearly 18months now due to COVID-19)


I shall be released : Bootleg Series Vols 1-3

(Different version on YouTube)


Chosen by Jeff (who happened on unwanted tickets and saw Bob Dylan at a moment’s notice in December 1962, Dylan’s first trip outside of USA, aged 21. If you haven’t heard Jeff’s story of this day, ask him!)

“I once had
(I gave it to James Dick)
a bootleg LP 
in white cardboard cover
of ‘The basement tapes’ 
recorded by Dylan & The Band
in 1967
it was given to me by
the tattooed wild man of St Albans 
Ginger Mills
in the late 60s
in 1969 I bought
The Band’s debut album
‘Music from Big Pink’
which also has a lovely track
of ‘I shall be released’
and is a great cover itself
however
my chosen Dylan track is 
‘I shall be released’ 
recorded in the basement
with its extraordinary
mythic atmosphere
I don’t know what
the song is about
have never tried
and don’t care
to understand
I just love the words
and love its
sinuous tune –
and The Band is 
Dylan’s best ever support”
(NB from ione: Not quite sure which version Jeff had, but we’ve agreed to put this one in mainly because of The Band.)
 

Make you feel my love : Time out of mind

Chosen by ione:

No-one does a love song like Dylan.  This is incomparable, in both lyrics and delivery.  Dedicated to the man who has swept me off my feet 🙂
 

02_Covers of Bob Dylan songs 24 May 2021

Chosen to celebrate Dylan’s 80th birthday
 

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4nNwfsjwqEi52Ho2e551ZaW6o52IMeaS 



All along the watchtower : Jimi Hendrix : Electric Ladyland

Nominated by almost everyone, (yep incl me) even by those who don’t like covers generally.  

Chosen by Jeff who cited Dylan himself:
“It overwhelmed me, really,” Dylan said. “He had such talent, he could find things inside a song and vigorously develop them. He found things that other people wouldn’t think of finding in there. He probably improved upon it by the spaces he was using. I took license with the song from his version, actually, and continue to do it to this day.”

Jeff

“as for my actual favourite
cover of a Dylan song
there’s no contest…
like ‘I shall be released’
I’ve never bothered
to try and understand
what this wonderful
song is about
but Jimi Hendrix’s version
of ‘All along the watchtower’(1968)
takes it into
another dimension
it’s a four minute work
of magic realism and 
– if push comes to shove –
I prefer it to Dylan’s version
because Hendrix somehow
transcends it via  
his intuitive interpretation
and its brevity
after JH died in 1970
an EP disc was
quickly released with
‘All along the watchtower’ on it
and I rushed out to buy –
I had it for years
until it mysteriously
disappeared”



Lynn: “All Along the Watchtower, Jimi Hendrix, though would always go for Dylan for preference, but as covers go, it’s brilliant. No real story except a reminder of Jimi’s brilliance as a musician and Dylan’s brilliance as a composer and lyricist.”



Cavan: “This album was one we played over and over when I was in a flat in my second year at uni in London in 1972. The cover has varied but the one we had was outrageous at the time, decorated with naked women calmly holding images of Hendrix himself.

(All along the watchtower, continued)

Fred: “I’m not a big fan of covers but Jimi Hendrix and All Along The Watchtower is monumental.”


Mr Tambourine Man : The Byrds

Chosen by Gaye and Sally



Simple Twist of Fate : Joan Baez

Chosen by ione : “mainly because Joan Baez is pretty much the only person on the planet who can get away with mimicking the man himself”



Born in Time : Eric Clapton

Chosen by Rick
 
Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right : Eric Clapton

Chosen by Sally 



Dear Landlord : Janis Joplin

Chosen by ione – for Don who said “…..these are my continued listening …all cheap thrills, Oh wait, that’s Janis….” 



Chimes of Freedom : The Byrds

Chosen by ione: “the definitive version for me, something about the plaintive voice and that distinctive Rickenbacker”



What was it you wanted : Bettye Lavette, Trombone Shorty
Chosen by ione: “I’m a sucker for a lazy jazzy number and this one has great beats too, her delivery is very different from Dylan but retains his grit”
Positively 4th Street – Johnny Rivers

Chosen by ione: “I’m not sure you can have a cover of this one but I’ve included it because it’s the only version Dylan said he preferred to his own.”
 
Tomorrow is a Long Time by Rod Stewart 

Chosen by Philip: “Rod Stewart does marvellous Dylan covers and this is up there with the best.”


Girl from the North Country : Passenger

Chosen by Rick: “This is special for me cos it’s part of a long musical chain interaction with a wonderful, beautiful friend of mine who I am starting a relationship with, I am so in love with her.  This version is beautifully sung with a soft emotional voice and is such a contrast to Dylan’s original.  Very interesting accompaniment, particularly the piano part.”


Senor (Tales of Yankee Power) : The Bob Porter Project 
Chosen by Tim

“They are a band who live locally. I’ve seen them perform this song numerous times around Stroud. They do it very well. 
It is my favourite song from the Dylan album Street Legal.”
 
 
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Marcus Aurelius at the BBC/Red Light

 

“Would you awfully mind if Wardrobe
Fitted you with sandals and a toga?   –
It jogs collective memory   –   you see
Our viewers are all Liberal
Arts Graduates retired into confusion…”

‘I never wore a toga in my life   –
Though Britain has discounted
Its youthful modernists
Might not my midnight-blue
Three-button mohair suit
Equally fit the bill?
My slip-ons are glove-leather
So unlike sandals
Won’t raise friction-sores
Between the toes   –
This knitted tie is retro though brand-new
And therefore it is typically Italian

You’ll notice I’ve slimmed down a bit
And trimmed the Stoic beard?   –
Some take me for Jeremy Corbyn
Who most mistake for Pete Seeger

I look forward to your questioning in live late-night debate   –
To plucking your microphone from my lapel
Then storming for the door into the street
Declaring all mass-media ‘Asinine   –   a Lie
So far up itself it may not formulate one Truth’   –
Three-quarters through proceedings might be right?   –

I have a date in Bar Italia
With Ms. Emin and Ms. Lucas
Jarvis Gibb and Little Barry
Cocker’

 

RED LIGHT

 

‘That memento mori over there…
Bald old boy with leopard spots
For hands…   and still
A flower in his lapel?
Be kind to him
He always tips twice what he pays
To girls who might remind him
Once he was the lover of…

Yes…of Ballet Russe…
So keep your wits about you
On your toes
And fly…

Don’t ask me!
This world is full
Of novelties   surprises
Love conundrums’

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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Hannibal and the Masked Girl – Chapter 2 (extract)

 


Portrait of the author aged 21, by Stanislaw Frenkiel. 1971.   

 

8 am

November 11th 2003

Martha’s dream fades but its atmosphere remains.  The colours too: ochre yellow, cobalt blue, the greens, pinks and greys still blooming in her mind.   She opens her eyes to the ceiling.  His face looks down on her, like Christ’s in the Turin Shroud. She’d seen it everywhere this week, in old doors, puddles – dreams – not young anymore, but full of character and experience.   Turning her head towards the window, the early morning light filters through the white blinds, illuminating his first portrait of her.  Drawn in the style of Holbein, with a soft pencil on canvas, the emphasis on the curves of her mouth and upper eyelids, then painted with the relish of an eight-year-old.  She sees something new in it every day; undertones of green in the flesh, different brushstrokes in the long wheat-coloured hair, the gradations of orange, brown and black in the background. The anxious hands.  Eye contact is deflected, sitter and painter unable to maintain it for very long, unlike the fleeting glance of a photographer.  A collector had offered her six grand for it. She’d refused.

‘Should I go tonight?’  she asks.  But the twenty-one year-old staring into the middle distance has no idea.  Anyway, she’d torn up the invitation. 

She turns her head the other way, to the clock radio. The digits shimmering in its face say 8.30.   Just four hours sleep – enough she supposes – and turns on the radio for the half hourly news; only half hearing about student tuition fees, Bush’s UK visit, more horrors from Iraq.   

 ‘And now,’ announces the presenter, ‘an interview with the painter, Josef Stefko.’   

 Martha sits upright,  snapping on the light, her reflection in the wardrobe mirror looking more like a deranged infant than a middle-aged woman.   Hair all over her face, dark smudged eyes – spotty pyjamas.

‘Mr Stefko,’ continues the presenter, ‘Tate Modern is honouring you with a retrospective, opening tonight.’

‘Good morning,’ says Mr Stefko.

‘Congratulations,’ says the presenter.

 ‘I said good morning Mr Humphrey.  Why can you not say it back, hmm?   Is this to save time?  Money? There, I have just taken up the time and cost of two good mornings.’

Martha laughs. His voice has lost its strength, an octave higher maybe, but the wit and bloody mindedness are still there.    

‘I’m so sorry, good morning,’ says Mr Humphries.  ‘You have had a long and productive life. What would you say you have contributed to contemporary art?’  

 ‘Nothing, I am a modernist.’

‘Our listeners may not be aware of the difference.’

‘Are you? ‘

 ‘Of course,’ says the presenter, and then a punctuating cough. ‘Your depictions of women have come in for some criticism.’ 

‘All artists must receive criticism, and I do not depict, I paint. You have to see my work in context, like Lautrec’s, Carravagio’s.’

‘But theirs was of their time.’

‘So is mine,’ snaps Stefko.  ‘I do not paint for puritans.’ 

‘I’m sorry?’ 

Then a few seconds of dead air before Mr Humphries declares,  ‘Josef Stefko seems to have left us.’

 

Jan Woolf
 
 
 
 
 
.
 
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A Gathering of Basquiats, Lichtensteins, and Warhols …

At The Broad in L.A.

The Broad museum in Los Angeles re-opens on May 26 with an “in-depth installation” of works
by Jean-Michel Basquiat, Roy LichtensteinKara WalkerAndy WarholChristopher Wool, and others.

Have a look at some of the Basquiats that will be on view. Totally punk.

Well, totally punk in its time.
Now it’s historical, having seduced the collectors and vanquished the museums.
But it looks in pixel reproduction as fresh as ever.

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SAUSAGE LIFE 181

 
 
 
 
 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano
The column which says “give me a razor big enough and I will shave the world”

READER:  Have you seen how much it costs to post a letter these days?

MYSELF:  I know, it’s outrageous. I ran out of stamps the other day and all the shops were shut. That’s when I had my money-saving brainwave. I simply ran one of the new plastic indestructible £5 notes through the tumble dryer until it had shrunk to the right size, glued it to my tax return and posted it. Voila!

READER: I say! Touché! Brilliant idea! First class!

MYSELF: Alas no. First class would have required two.

BIG FIGHT LOOMS
Hastings-born brawler Typhoon Anger is in Rio de Janeiro, preparing for the heavyweight Olympic qualifier against Thailand’s Ladyboy Chaluay. Just how fit is the reclusive Typhoon? Can he beat the awesome Bankok Bruiser and go on to win boxing gold in Tokyo? We sent our reporter to Team Typhoon’s penthouse training centre at the Copacobana Hilton to put these questions to Anger’s flamboyant manager Ron Maserati.
“Ladyboy doesn’t stand a chance,” he told us, “Make no mistake about it, my boy is tauter than a coiled spring. He’s super-fit. Skipping is our secret weapon. Typhoon is mad for it and skips all the time, including in his sleep. He’s eating nothing but the new superfood, tofu grass. That’s all he eats. It’s made him not just angrier, but hungrier. He’s like a boxed set of Breaking Bad combined with the last episode of Game of Thrones.
“Let’s face it,” he continued, “the Thai’s footwork is shoddy. My boy’s feet are like Fred Astaire meets The Bolshoi Ballet in Riverdance. His fists have been described as two blacksmith’s anvils fired from a medieval catapult. The Bankok Bruiser is a loser. We are already winning the social media battle. Typhoon’s TikTok dancing is going viral and his 24/7 Twitter team tweets Ladyboy’s HQ day and night making sarcastic comments about his mum and suggesting he wears ladies underwear, which he does.”

READER: I can’t wait! I’m so looking forward to the Olympics, aren’t you?
MYSELF:  Put it this way, I can think of better things to do.

READER: Better? Like what?

MYSELF:  Like saw my own head off with a breadknife? Like criticise a Hell’s Angel’s tattoo? Like run across the M25 during the Friday rush hour?

READER: God you’re such a misery sometimes. Don’t you like anything?

MYSELF: I love Peppermints.

READER: Peppermints? Is that it?

MYSELF:   …and pretty much anything that doesn’t involve half-witted, self-obsessed, narcissistic sports-bores who dress like chavs and appear to have learned nothing of value since the age of nine.

READER:  Heavens. Don’t beat about the bush, will you?

DICTIONARY CORNER
Lambasted (n) A sheep born out of wedlock.
Musketeer (n)  Mild deafness caused by the frequent firing of antique rifles.
Mumble (n, colloquial) A cow.

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“Thanks to Long Wang Dog Laundry, My formerly aggressive Bull Mastiff now has the self-confidence and poise of an elegant supermodel.” 

Rupert Hindsite (plumber), Silverhill:
“Cartel, my Mexican Hairless, used to drink heavily and shoplift to feed his gambling addiction but after a wet shave, a manicure and a few sessions in the Long Wang Steam Kennel he’s now sociably affable, and to my mind, much more comfortable in his own skin”. 

Wristian Cock (poet), Wangford, Norfolk:
“My cross Staffie/Yorkshire terrier was aggressive and bad tempered, and would frequently attempt to copulate with people’s legs. I yearned for a normal life, free from the constant dread of excruciating embarressment. I can’t tell you how much happier Wordworth and I are now that he’s had a proper Long Wang shave.”

ART SHOW
Poonerismo, the retrospective at Hastings’ latest and hippest art centre Il Galleria Fantasco of the work of Milanese installation artist Fellatio Poon (real name Sardello Semolini), continues to shock visitors. Whilst classic Poon pieces like  Atomic Bomb Occasional Table (1995), and the enigmatic Bulbous Lampshades (2002) have lost none of their terrifying frisson, the contemporary work is just as obtuse and inaccessable as one would expect from the great man.
The first thing that strikes you as you enter the gallery is fearsome curator Celia Canthé, who greets you with a hard punch on the upper arm as if to say; “This is art you insignificant peasant – open your beady little eyes, or I will punch you again.”
Once inside, you are confronted by The Poonies, the knot of dedicated fans who gather under the artist’s vast, epic canvas If I Had A Million Pounds I’d Spend It All On Breakfast (lemon curd, tea stains and peanut butter on prepared tablecloth, 2005).

They stride jauntily around the foyer in small groups with their sleeves rolled up, arguing, comparing bruises, taking selfies and in one case, yodelling.

All in all then a typical, provocative Poon show, summed up for me by the four dazzling new interconnected pieces, Unseen I, II, III & IV (media unknown, 2016)all of which are installed in a locked refrigerator with the artist’s instruction that it be kept securely sealed until February 14th, 2051.

The sheer audacity leaves one stunned, and as to the work’s contents, one can only speculate. Would it be a typically playful Poonish juxtaposition with all the attendant ramifications of circumlocution? Or perhaps a playful smørgasbord of tittilating voyeurism, harking back to his earlier, smuttier, Wonderbra period? We may never find out, since rumour has it that a certain socially connected art collector has secretly purchased the piece for £350,000,000.

 

 

Sausage Life!

 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 
 

CAUTION

DO NOT BUY THIS PRODUCT

 

GREENSHILL BLUES
EX-PRIME MINISTERS MAY NOT BE SURPRISED AT THIS UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

POLITIKAL POKES

By Lobbytroll

BACKSTAGE PASS

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 
 
 
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Art Love Nature Think to Dupe

 

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Dreamed

Robert Montgomery

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Glastonbury and Eurovision events 2021

Euro Trash, or?

Glastonbury and Eurovision events 2021 –Alan Dearling

Held on the same day: two events  – one, a virtual, on-line, pay-to-view Glasto event in the UK – and a second ‘live’, crowded, extravaganza, Eurovision song-contest in Rotterdam. Two very epicentres of the musical universes. Diversity – Vive la Difference! But, are Coldplay and Damon Albarn et al., cutting edge and alternative anymore? Is every entry into the Eurovision contest, pop trash, devoid of talent, and just plain, naff?

Sadly for Glasto organiser, Emily Eavis, her curated event was beset by technical gremlins. Many punters couldn’t get onto the live-stream platform, many tickets were refunded, and a free, repeat stream of Glasto acts was shown on-line, during a second, catch-up day.

https://www.theguardian.com/music/2021/may/22/technical-fault-ruins-glastonbury-streamed-event-live-at-worthy-farm

 

The debut at Glastonbury  from The Smile, the new trio from Thom Yorke, Johnny Greenwood and Tom Skinner look interesting. I will certainly look out for them and their new music.

https://www.nme.com/news/music/thom-yorke-johnny-greenwood-tom-skinner-live-at-worthy-farm-2946260

The Dutch Eurovision Final was the end of a long journey of nine filmed events, each with 3,500 members of the audience filmed, six rehearsals and three live shows, culminating in the Grand Final on the Saturday night streamed live to terrestrial TV for over four hours. It was sometimes facile in the UK show, especially with Graham Norton’s incessant chatter, coupled with his poor knowledge of music. But, there was a double-helping of voting – first from the voters from the official 39 participating countries taking part, AND, from the phone-in public from those same countries. In all, 26 countries actually had entries in the Grand Final. It  turned up some unusual styles of musical offering – heavy metal, French chanson, world folk, indie, and ‘yes’, lots of gooey, glittery pop confections. The new voting system seems to have injected some new vigour into the format and probably gave Italy’s Måneskin –‘Zitti E Buoni’, their winning votes. They were certainly eye-catching, energetic, noisy and genuinely rock ‘n’ metal with their song. It really was quite exciting stuff – not quite The Prodigy, but pretty good. “Make some noise”, indeed!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVH5dn1cxAQ

The UK entry, ‘Embers’ from James Newman, looked and sounded ‘tired’, sad and a bit old-hat. ‘Nul points’ for the UK entry for a second time in Eurovision history.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxNOynEJ6wc

The UK public awarded its 12 maximum points to the Lithuanian entry – a bonkers, wild and imaginative performance with a genuine’ whizz, bam and thank-you maam’ about it from The Roop with ‘Discoteque’. A lively dance track with a bit of flair. Sort-of a kinky Kraftwerk, with shades of Talking Heads. Maybe. I like them.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNweec5olYw

The French entry was classy. It was very close to winning. A belting chanson that is well worth giving a listen to, from Barbara Pravi, with ‘Voila’.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Unj9WbeLzRU

It is a song which would have sounded good in an old-fashioned black and white movie starring the likes of Bogart and Bacall.

So, Eurovision or Worthy Farm? I’m not sure anymore. Certainly, Eurovision 2021 had flashes and flourishes of classy, Euro-Trash. Not too bad for a washed-up old musical Dodo!

 

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COLLAGE

 

gathering

scissors

glitter glue

blue ribbon

beer

 

shuffling through

memoried recollections

some perhaps

best left

faded & forgotten

 

photographs

postcards

cities & countries

traveled

roads travailed

 

cards

from

fine dining

&

other

dives

 

 

fragments of the future

seem to always be

covered shadowed by

where did I file those

pieces of the past

 

 

alpha hydrox

box tops

sip & sigh 

outside the lines 

nip & tuck

 

 

words of wisdom

if there is such

horizons

waistline

ever expanding

 

 

 

 

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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How He Wrote Us into Existence – A Fiction Ch 11

I return home with a black plastic sack full of carrots and French beans, find everyone has administered some more sleep to their morning. The house mimics a dying solar system.

Nearer to the centre of that solar system comes the cat to lick and lap leftover milk first, and then peace, a decorative Buddha’s headpiece bought in Myanmar by my brother’s ex, and following Zen, we let the dust rest on it. I watch it fall.

This early, the last night’s teal-colour pill still in the house’s system of dream toiling and dredging the V depth of our collective consciousness, and I fall back beside my wife, join in the fugue where we cannot decipher whether those twinkles we see are some stars or wounds caused by our own solar-storm.  

This early, all is singular and vague. I try to call back the feline, urge it to complete its cleaning, because we have so many leftovers from the life corroding away from our memory, but the cat incident may be a trick, or a verity sucked away into our days’ black hole.

By eleven everyone is doing their daily routine that set in during this pandemic. The new routine is what you call a pause – an extending pause, extending as time rolls out, authorities stumble upon the objectives and procedures, and the virus shifts its existence, and in this new routine everyone wakes up, answers his/her nature’s call, eats, talks, tells, forgets and sleeps as if he/she is in a camping trip – his/her father is there making a monster out of him with a four battery torch or better even forging quivering hand-shadow puppets against the fabric of their tent or time itself. I mean to say, time is caught in a loop. I cannot complete one single thought or act; Poet keeps his tale, how cliché it might be, unfinished; from the cat’s expressions we retrieve the story of three murders, probably in this neighbourhood, worse even – in this household, we came only last year, after all; Elora reads a lot, but not the texts prescribed by her school – now an online school; Prisha fails to say what she dreads in the name of the future. I forgot (this thing I do), I refrain from drafting the request for a job or some money and send the same to all my friends. The first and the second drafts sound formal and informal at once, the way sometimes we feel something intangible and almost touch it, but not quite so. Perchance Poet could have written it in a better way.

I and Prisha stand on our flat roof. The boundary wall of the roof shines with verdant moss. Even wind can skid and slink on it. I thank my OCD ever since the virus outbreak, but today I cannot thwart my hands from touching the green velvet. The moss embraces me, and for a jiffy I imagine it eating me away, or worse shaping me into its formlessness – I am Swamp Thing, the Alan Moore version. 

Prisha asks me if I have any notion of finding a living, and I stare at the tiny dot of a falcon. I left my last job, that of a legal representative at a trading concern when I suffered a panic attack. The job involved certain cooked documents, siphoning funds, and even washing black money, and I studied law against my will, nudged and prodded by my father, I had no stomach or courage to evade the ordeal without a wound.

My wife supported my decision. Now we need another way. The last few droplets of dough keep us running, but we are mere passengers and are nervous, and the driver has left the locomotive.

We need to feed the cat, although it has its lunch on placenta. Below no one seems to need us. We can ponder us until the thoughts kill the thoughts, and we have nothing, but the full moon rising softly, and we tiptoeing down to prepare something for the dinner.

The Scotch broth we prepared has no meat in it. The cheaper version tastes fine. The house yonder screams at the silent full moon night of quarantine. Three people live inside. Husband shouts at the wife; sometimes son crashes some heavy object against the wall or father’s head, and yet they stick together, in love and hostile to all neighbours.

Elora offers to lead us to the pond a few yards afar. We accept.

The reflection of the moon at its peak looks like a before & after photo, not a pair of fake shots used for selling something, but one real you stumble upon in a spring cleaning. The water seems more smoke and less mirror one moment, and more mirror and less smoke the next. Anyway, you would have thought the scene fake, and yet loved to show the same to your best friend. You cannot do so in this virus outbreak, but that doesn’t explain why you do not call him, why sometimes coming out and staring at the lake is the only thing you do other than washing hands.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture by 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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Blodwen


One man claimed
“I love you”
As triple moons
Waxed and waned
Into her radiant child

Who was stolen away
While papers were signed.

She’s been kept
Close confined                                   

As decades crawl by

She draws owls
On the walls
And goes out of her mind.

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Photo Nick Victor

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

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FITFULLY DREAMING


(from the paintings of Edgar Ende)

The swan returned as winter, cold and white, buried itself in the distant landscape.

Just as the prophet foretold, the great egg is cracked: oblivion.

The angel rolls the earth ready for another attempt; we will try again to sink beneath and under.

We play skittles with the birds before we are dismissed, drape our empty bodies in repose across the stones, borrow Lazarus’ umbrella and attempt to learn the language of trees.

The white horse is aloof but has similar expectations, as well as an ability to ignore the light.

We all move to yesterday through our own shadows. Icarus will learn to fly, just as we will learn to heal ourselves.

We hold language in our mouths or talk to the ghosts that levitate above, play ourselves out of tune, submerged inside our corridor selves.

We decamped to morning, where time was impossible and a thunderstorm blew us out of our own window

The tunnel is of no use and we are not allowed to enter.

 

 

 

   © Rupert M Loydell

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DREAM FRACTALS

Dream Fractals I

      I saw all the mirrors on Earth and none of them reflected me. – Jorge Luis Borges

 

     In the mind’s eye a Dream Fractal is a way of seeing infinity.
     Imagine a dreamscape. Now imagine a transformation – take the centre section of a dream, attach a secondary dream, identical but a third the size. The result is a star.
     Take the clear outline of the new dream and repeat the transformation. It seems absurd and yet it is an exact analogue of what is now understood about geometrical dreams and the coastline of (say) England, continually threatened by mirrors.
     There is a kind of relativity in which, as usual, the position of the observer, near or far, affects the dream.
     Variation between dreams is not arbitrary, like the variation between mirrors.
     Variability follows certain rules and differences between dreams means that a different sort of image remains fixed. In the case of Dream Fractals it is the mirror image, a nostalgic constant that can be used in other dreams: this re-normalisation provides a shortcut into extremely dense clusters of problems, acting as though a quantity of awareness is not fixed at all.
     Such quantities seem to float up and down depending on the mode consciousness from which they are viewed.
     Take another dreamscape and repeat these transformations.
     As always, the result will be a star.

                          THE WAVE FUNCTION OF ALL DREAMS

                                                   Dream Fractals II

      Work with Dream Fractals may allow us to find the wave function of all dreams everywhere; all our dreams. A wave function is the hyper-embodiment of a fractal dream system. It treats the radius of a dream as analogous to the position of a sub-atomic event, and its rate of expansion as analogous to the event’s momentum in Fractal Space.
      This Fractal Space, the super-dream, is an abstract plenum that contains all possible oneiric geometries and, therefore, all possible dreams. Compare the super-dream of Fractal Space to an infinite warehouse containing one example of every conceivable dream, each stacked next to the ones that most closely resemble it in shape.
     The wave function of all dreams would, if correctly formulated, select the actual oneiric geometry out of all the dreamlike spaces because it incorporates the idea that the Dream Fractal is completely self-contained. There is nothing outside the dream.
     The boundary condition of the dream is that there are no boundaries.
     The ‘no boundary’ aspect of dreams arises from a set of fractal geometries that place the dream and the non-dream on equal footing. The result is that ‘reality’ emerges internally from the plenum of the super-dream, rather than being imposed from without.
     By doing away with any initial state of dream, or non-dream, this method also dispenses with the hypothetical initial non-dream or any primal state of waking. It is suggested that even non-dreams may incorporate improbable states, not just probable events at the sub-atomic level. Therefore there is no moment of waking. Rather, the existence of an oneiric ‘event’ is a consequence of the fractal geometry.
     By avoiding the initial hypothetical state we may hope to develop a coherent account of all dreams and all realities (or quasi-realities) contained within them.
     It is perhaps unnecessary to warn that the wave function does not explain the origin of ‘reality’ or even the origin of dreams. It represents only closed dreams – that is, spherical ones, those dreams in which omega is equal to or greater than one.
     The greatest challenge is to measure fractal densities and rates of expansion for open-dreams; dreams outside the super-dream but still defined as either ‘real’ or ‘un-real’. In that way the indeterminacy of the Dream Fractal itself may, finally, be understood.
     However, Dream Fractals can exist only as indeterminate probabilities. Therefore we must enlarge our frame of reference to grasp how the apparently waking world of observable reality seems to have emerged from the Fractal Universe in something like the way that the hyper-embodiment of a chaotically billowing cloud formation may turn into a sudden downpour on a Sunday afternoon.

 

© A C Evans

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Sunday Sermon No 24.

Steam  Stock

Tracklist:
Ennio Morricone – The Strong
Christine Perfect – And That’s Saying a Lot
Sly and the Family Stone – Just Like a Baby
The Flaming Lips – Lay Lady Lay
Bob Dylan – Tempory Like Archiles
The Velvet Underground – Jesus
Smith Jubilee Singers – Have a Little Talk with Jesus
Al Green – Jesus is Waiting
Willie Mitchell – Soul Seranade
The Delfonics – Ready or Not Here I Come (Can’t Hide from Love)
Gordon Lightfoot – If You Could Read My Mind
Rotary Connection – Tales of Brave Ulysses
Brigid Dawson and the Mothers Network – Heartbreak Jazz
Darondo – Didn’t I
The Deirdre Wilson Tabac – I Can’t Keep From Cryin’ Sometimes
Mama Cass with the Mama’s and Papa’s – Dream a Little Dream of Me

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Anti-Pop Pop Art

 

‘Audit’ 10” EP by The Attendant

Perhaps the ongoing onslaught of interminable winter has coloured my thoughts, but there is something marvellously apposite in experiencing the steely grey aesthetic of The Attendant’s ‘Audit’ collection in the midst of a bleak and chilly May. From the industrial glass grey of the 10″ vinyl, through the utilitarian plastic liner (neatly, subtly embossed with the Faux-Lux label logo in one corner) to the slim A5 booklet of poetry and photographs, the whole package is a magnificent Modernist/Brutalist homage to the (sub)urban experience. Originally released on a series of lathe cut singles, the sounds assembled here are the work of Pete Astor and Ian Button, two quietly iconic monuments in the landscape whose varied works with the likes of The Loft, Weather Prophets, Thrashing Doves, Death In Vegas and Papernut Cambridge have surely populated any number of Unpopular record collections in the past three or four decades.

There is something marvellously post-industrial about the act of making and distributing essentially hand-crafted artefacts that simultaneously embrace and reject the Pop prerogative. In this respect the recent resurgent fashion for lathe cut singles is to be applauded. For me they seem to exist in the exquisite void created by digital musical distribution and consumption, a void that Pop rightly insists be filled with Product. You don’t actually PLAY lathe cut singles after all, do you? And even if you do, they pay you back with a louche grin and disintegrate before your very ears like Dorian Gray rapidly decomposing the instant his painting is unveiled. There is also something rather appealing about artists making lathe cut releases in an era when The Vinyl has returned to a position of exalted worship. So, when Major Labels muscle in on the remaining pressing plants with their absurd Anniversary Reissue demands, bullying the tiny independents into the gutter in the process, perhaps the lathe-cut is simply an act borne of necessity. Either way, they are cult collectibles, anti-Pop Pop Art sculptures and political conversation pieces in one delicious package.

‘Audit’ of course is not a lathe-cut artefact but an industrially pressed 10″ vinyl treat for those of us who were too slow and/or insufficiently hip to scoop up the ‘originals’. Those originals were born to an extent in the early semi-apocalyptic haze of the 2020 COVID lockdown, The Attendant appearing disembodied and blinking into the light of eerily emptied city streets, an excuse and a reason to assemble some of Astor’s poetry into a form perhaps more easily consumed in the realms of mediated culture we like to inhabit. Responding instinctively to the (post) Punk edict of do-it-fast and do-it-now (also, do it clean), Astor and Button reacted to their environments and impulses, crafting Astor’s words into concrete form. The end result is not unlike listening to Lou Reed with a soft English accent recounting gently surreal tales of marginal members of extended families (‘Magnificent Aunt Mary’), the hidden complexities of people we think we might know (‘Music On’) and, my own personal favourite, “The hyper-intense banality of those years when everything is achingly, mind-blowingly significant.” (‘Teenage).

‘Audit’ reminds me too of the great suburban surrealism of Animals That Swim; of Robin Hitchcock’s psychedelic urbanity with the humour dialled back to a shade above zero; of Gravenhurst daydreams rotating under a disco ball at midnight; of The Kinks slow dancing with Saint Etienne illuminated in the flickering glow of an 8mm film projector showing a James Fox screen test; of Blue Aeroplanes in sleep mode given a blood transfusion of funk and electronica; of Stephen Duffy living on a hill with Wire as house guests, taking the world apart and reassembling it beatifically off-kilter, just so. A barrage of imagery. A slow burn of reference and illusion. The sound of “Film stock oxidising below” as Astor himself might say.

There is also something neatly cyclical in the idea of ‘Audit’ collecting together collectibles into a slightly more accessible form, in that there is a mirror held up to those inexpensive early Creation compilations where we were encouraged not to scrabble around collector’s zips for 7″s and where perhaps we first heard The Loft and The Weather Prophets. It was always good advice, and I’d certainly suggest snapping up a copy of ‘Audit’ before it too attains the patina of desirable rarity.

 

 

Alistair Fitchett
2021

‘Audit’ by The Attendant is released on the Faux-Lux label on July 2nd 2021 and can be ordered from Bandcamp https://peteastor1.bandcamp.com/album/the-attendant-audit
There will be a launch show for ‘Audit’ at The Betsey Trotwood, London, on 2nd July with further live performances to follow.

 

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Hannibal and the Masked Girl


Self Portrait Stanislaw Frenkiel – 1978

 

CHAPTER ONE

11th November 2003 

7am

This art business

The cab door opens.  A contraption appears like a flattened tripod, tapping at the ground.  Then a battered shoe, grey corduroy leg, and the whole of Josef Stefko. steps into the bitter breeze coming off the Thames.  Bundled in a black coat he wraps the red woollen scarf around his neck and ears, his thick hedge of white hair making a hat unnecessary.

‘Bit early for Tat Modern?’ says the cabby.

  ‘Old tat, and so it is,’ says Stefko, deliberately thickening his accent, ‘especially mine.’   

            ‘You famous, then?’

            ‘Nie,’ he says, handing over a twenty-pound note.  ‘And please do keep the change.’ 

As the cabby drives off, Stefko and his peculiar walking stick make their way down the long concrete slope towards the entrance declaring – 

JOSEF STEFKO – A RETROSPECTIVE.

A side door opens and he steps into the rarefied atmosphere of Tate Modern.  

‘Dzien dobry, Mr Stefko,’ says the security guard.   The door closes again, sealing off the outside world.  ‘Good morning to you yunk man’’ he says, ‘and learn English if you want to get on, you bloody Pole.’  The bloody Pole, grinning, gives a middle finger salute.   ‘You need to search me for bombs, no?’  says Stefko, holding out his arms, cruciform, the walking stick hanging from his wrist.

‘No,’ says the guard, ‘and good luck for tonight.’

‘Thank you.’  

Stefko continues,  down through the Boiler Room, past the shop with his own works miniaturised on bags and T-shirts looking back at him.  Then into the Turbine Hall once containing the beating heart of the great power station. There is a massive virtual sun, not yet switched on.  He like’s the Dane’s work: well-intentioned, plenty of heart.  And heat. 

Turning left, another glass door opens and Stefko walks into an place that reminds him of a hospital reception, with its cloakrooms, lifts and escalators.  He smiles, thinking about all those paintings and sculptures waiting in wards for their visitors.  

His bladder hurts and he heads for the toilet.  

Unzipping, he thinks of how well his little doll has served him over the years. But the energies coursing through him now are mental, spiritual.  As he waits for his  pee to come he looks down at his derelict brogues.  Bought in Oxford fifty years ago, when he’d been the keynote speaker at a conference The Importance of the Émigré Artist.   His body had absorbed their stability, up, through his legs, into his heart and brain, rooting him finally in this country where he’d nourished a pallid English art scene with  new form and colour. 

   After a small amount of urine, he zips up, walks over to the washbasins and washes his hands.    He looks in the mirror: his blue eyes  still lively under the wire-rimmed spectacles, like creatures in a rock pool. His jowls drag only slightly at his mouth, and he can still manage that charming smile, the hearing aid a discreet beige button behind his left ear.  He’d preferred his hair and stubby moustache grey, but the white comes eventually, like the snow on the Tatra Mountains.   

 

Jan Woolf

 

 

.

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New Things I Done

 
 
 
Hello and welcome
 
 
 
SPIES IN BLUE BIBS
 
 


My sign at the
#KillTheBill May Day protest in London (Photo on the left by Joe Kibria).

 

I’ve now made the print files for this sign available to download from my website, you can also order a printout at cost price.

‘Blue bib’ cops at protests are there to gather intelligence on protesters which the police then use against protest movements.

The Police monitoring organisation Netpol found evidence from FOI requests that ‘Police Liaison Officers’ at protests are trained in intelligence gathering, and information they acquired through friendly chats at protests has been later used in prosecutions against peaceful protesters.

(I’m currently selling these ACAB /SEGA stickers to raise funds for Netpol)

The nationwide protests were about the dystopian police powers in the new Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill currently being pushed by the government. It would outlaw any protest which caused ‘serious annoyance’, i.e every protest worth its salt, would expand attacks on Gypsy, Roma and Traveller communities and increase already misused stop and search powers.

 

New Drawing

 

 

New work. All genuine US military insignia. This is just a small selection of the many like this. Bigger version for looking at on my website.

 

I’M IN A LOT OF VERY BIG,
VERY BORING TROUBLE

 

I’m not sure if anyone who subscribes to this mailing list happens to be an expert in business rates or property/tax law, but I’m in a pretty bad situtation and not sure what to do. Lewisham Council have sent me a letter retroactively cancelling the retail discount of my small business rates relief for the Museum of Neoliberalism and my studio, because I didn’t reopen to the public between July and November 2020. So now they want me to pay them £11,000, an absolutely crippling sum for a small operation like this.

I didn’t open to the public last year because it wasn’t safe to do so. There were more daily cases of coronavirus last July than there were in March when lockdown started and the museum is a very small space, without a great deal of ventilation (something I’m trying to fix before reopening this summer). Since the space is also my studio I would have been at high risk of catching any coronavirus brought into the museum and would have then put my flatmates/bubble in danger. It feels more than a little unfair to punish a shop/gallery/museum for taking a decision to protect themselves and the public, especially when the decisions from the government about when to open or close public premesis was often wrong and led to tens of thousands of deaths.

My only option is to appeal the decision but I really need to get the appeal right, so if you have any expertise in this field please do get in touch.

 

2021: INTO THE THUNDERDOME

 

 

I recently finished this post apocalyptic London taxi to go along with the Brexit bus and assorted fiends I made last year. I’ve been working on some scenery too so hopefully will have a full diorama to show at some stage. More photos here.

 

 

SUNDAY TIMES EAT THE RICH LIST

 

 

It’s that time of year again!

 

NEW POSTCARDS

 

Got some new postcards in the shop along with all the usual unusual bits and pieces. You can order here.

THAT’S IT FOR NOW

This update is public and shareable so please feel free to pass it on. If you’re not on my mailing list but would like to be you can sign up here.

 

Eternal thanks to anyone who’s ever backed my work on Patreon or through the shop!

 

And thanks for reading!

Website | Facebook | InstagramTwitter | Shop

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Railway Passenger


 
Under cover of spring nights 
I ran for my life, north, 
reading the sky 
for my motionless lover, 
my lodestar, freedom,  
best chance of escape. 
True north, truly loyal. 
 
Dogs hunted me like an animal.  
I waded through 
Ohio and Potomac waters,  
travelled as a bundle  
of wood, a parcel sometimes. 
North Star bonded, fugitive slave,  
into Canada, no compass, no map. 

Maggie Mackay

 

 

.

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Marcus Aurelius at the Theatre/‘Quiet on the Set’

 

Every vice of man’s delusion
Amplified by an actor’s mask

I’d sooner stay at home
Sipping espresso e aqua
In my corner store-café
Though even here is not
A bolt-hole from the Theatre

Those passers-by
Surely they are ‘extras’
From ‘Sword and Sandal’ epics
‘Westerns’ all gore and spaghetti?

Forever clad in Armani
They stroll about in a bubble
Of self-regarding Soap

When did the world become like this   –
A playground for the narcissist?

Self-publicists deny sound sense
Preening on the Internet
While from a corner of your home
Reality T.V.
Distracts you from reality

They cannot eat the scenery  
Rarely many roles receive a realistic wage   –  
A company of Thespians pulled this way and that
‘Who are you?’   –   We are your very selves
Elevated here as icon-food

If this world should make me Caesar 
I shall not enact ‘The Caesar’
Eluding the purple dipping in dye
That amplifies all character
Then like an actor’s mask
Inflates the slightest flaw

I will retain my rough Greek cloak
Reject the duck-down pallet
So when I sleep on the floor
I keep my feet on the ground 

 

‘QUIET ON THE SET’

 

“Now you turn to him a long look of regret
Wordless yet   anticipating this   –
The audience must know
You are of royal blood   –
Romance cannot be realised
But always   always   you remember Rome   –

The freedom of the senses
From which the population drink their fill
In this exhilarating and intoxicating city
Free of royal obligation
Free of abstract duty and duress

And furthermore   –   I do not wish
To hear your private conversation
Your words of Woe
Ingratitude   Opinion
Keep those for the movie magazines   –

The hardship of Los Angeles
Stardom cruelly scrutinised
Struggle of a Childhood   save all this
When you phone your psychoanalyst

We are making furthermore a happy picture
Heartfelt family picture
With Rome our glamour backdrop
And furthermore   our budget overdue”

 

Bernard Saint 
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

.

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GAZA STRIPPED/THE SECRET SHAME

 
 
War is raw in reverse, which is the state of foul play in Gaza.
Now, more than ever is the wrath of God reinvoked. As those
Once chosen now choose to persecute their close neighbours
In methods as lethal as the holocaust’s harsh killing joke.
 
For a joke can be seen as something separate to clear reason.
As with what Hitler decreed; all that followed was seeing how far
That tale spun, which is clearly happening now, as over seventy
Years of resentment breeds hatred, stemming it seems from
 
The sharing of what was thought at first to be won – after both
Tribulation and trial, Exodus and excoriation, but which has now
Become to my horror and to the horror of all the next nail
Hammered into the hands of the Palestinian born boy Bibles
 
Worship, whose equivalent today bleeds in Gaza. As his children
Are torn, truth’s impaled. One would never believe that so called
Holy Land was fought over. Or that the same soul stained city
Would be rendered in twain and reduced as being the homeground
 
From which the Palestinians are evicted by Israeli force
And by soldiers, as what we thought we were falls traduced.
I write this now as a jew and in a near state of panic, for while
Irreligious I am proud of my heritage, which contains survival
 
And strain, the pyramids, yes, and Shylock. Hollywood,
And a culture of tailors and towns long pillaged. So this has
Always felt like revenge, of the sourest sort, and more bitter
Than the pungent root sucked at Pesach to remind us of course
 
Of the past. I can taste and hear it today as Hamas fire rockets
And the threat of War like the virus and after Trump sounds
Like signs storming out of the earth, as a burning bush
Reconfigures, but which remains unseen when surrounded
 
By so much fired faith and crossed lines. If God is indeed
Speaking there, then no-one close can bare witness,
Or indeed hear the calling as the shouts of life and death
Duly clash. For just when the top end of the west thinks its free,
 
The Middle East carves fresh chaos. And what we thought
We knew about people and other places on earth fall to ash.
This need now for land, which seemingly can’t be shared,
Creates ruin; the kind that runs from the desert all the way
 
Towards overload. In our green and once pleasant land
There’s been plight that no-one ever dreamt of. The last few
Years have brought scandal once more around jewish codes.
But is anti-semitic feeling still that, or solely concerned now
 
With Israel? Zionism for me is as separate as the trainer is
To the road. I wear them not only to run, or rather to walk,
But for comfort. And yet once applied there’s a process
That others would call exercise. So, what has it become
 
Over there, but a set routine they can’t loosen. And what more
Will it take; how much horror, before they finally recognise
That unlike the knife Abraham placed against his son Isaac’s
Throat to test favour, these brutalities will not save them,
 
And nor, will it in time, bring them peace. For there can be
No true peace once there’s war. Everywhere’s raw once
That happens. For peace to come we’ll need Noah, or fresh
Tablets to form and release some new unknown truth
 
Belonging to Mohamed, Christ, or just Moses. And then, latterly,
Buddha, though only of course from rebirth, and at a time
When one’s race and one’s place as well is location and where
Each faith is the journey that with no destination reached
 
Achieves worth. There are protestations today.
Temples fall, raised. Lives are bartered. If one child cries
Is religion , or humanity itself doused in dirt? This is the question
Today: what do we live or die by? What do you believe?
 
For what reason? Look, Gaza is stripped. So’s the earth.
 
 
 
THE SECRET SHAME
 
 
When you have to be silent about what you are
Because of the shame in the name spelt by others,
Then, as with past days, or Peter’s first denial of Christ,
 
Danger is spread, impossibly thick; blood as butter,
Or, rather, the threat of blood rises, its pressure perhaps
Reaching spike. And suddenly the world holds its breath
 
After having that breath broiled by Covid, with News
As the next sharp injection, and there is no vaccine at all
For the germ that has lain under the skin for as long
 
It would seem as all sinew, as the Middle East,
Having fractured, makes every bone brittle and every
Moral upheld more infirm. Will America intervene,
 
As China calligraphies on the margins, after watching us
Cower and destroy ourselves all the more? And who will
Rake the ashes that fly through the warp in the wind
 
Made by missiles? In this new Next Testament story
Will a Messiah appear to walk through heaven’s door,
And re-emerge onto streets that are now full of landmines,
 
While we  in England grow more detached within Pubs?
Its all people have wanted for months; the chance to compete
At the bar and see nothing but the next lager coming
 
While lugers abound over there and screams club
Whatever reason was won in 1948. That’s long over.
If its not Mumbai, or Haifa, or Tel Aviv, or Tehran,
 
Its Washington State, or Paliament fields in Westminster:
Which sort of war rages and runs rampage right now?
To who’s plan? Perhaps the world really does rest on the backs
 
Of that infinite number of turtles. If so, as we topple,
We’re spinning, no doubt, on a top, that is already
Starting to slow, and cast us all into orbits in which
 
The stars themselves become signals and not destinations
To save, or to seek, as skies stop. War is always something else,
Over there. Until it is over here. We’re all jewish. And more,
 
Importantly, we’re all Palestinians, too. Indians. Pakistanis.
Chinese. And those in Hong Kong. We’re all Chauvin.
We are George Floyd, and the countless; we are the eternal
 
Disappeared and the found. I do not want to teach the world
How to sing, as a song at best, must explain things. But I want
To bring the world back to poems, as poems contain
 
Common ground. And perhaps common prayer.
Or common sense, retranslated into a new code for being.
For while poems naturally can be fires, it is the embers within
 
That astound. Behaviour is faith and language now is religion.
For that secret shame to be mastered the waves it creates
Must be drowned and folded into themselves, so that we may
 
All sail and speak through a surface that no-one can part.
They won’t need to. But as Jerusalem burns besides Gaza,
And all systems suffer, I still need these words to wonder
 
Just which sort of waiting force will be crowned?
 
 
 
                               
 
                                                                            David Erdos May 18th 2021   
Reply Reply All Forward
 
 
                                                David Erdos May 15th 2021       
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THE MUSIC LESSON


When I came down to the kitchen for breakfast
Music was already awake, turning up the radio
and scanning through white noise and babble
to tune to his favourite station:

‘I was there when Butler shouted Judas!’
Music bragged, as Dylan’s Like A Rolling Stone
filled the kitchen with a swirl of organ
and I smiled knowingly, mumbling my way

from verse to refrain. Static fizzed and,
through the haunting choir of tuned-up voices –
newsreaders, adverts, unknown languages –
Music’s fingers led us somewhere new:

‘No denying it, punk rock changed the way
we think and dress.’ I nodded to the Pistols
and looked down at my sheepskin slippers.
‘Or maybe you prefer the Blues?’   Already
 
I was ear wormed… I woke up this morning

 

 


Andy Brown
Illustration Nick  Victor

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Brion Gysin Uncut

 

Have you ever seen a more revealing photo of Brion Gysin than the one on the cover of BRION GYSINHis Name Was Master: Texts & Interviews? It shows a profound sense of dislocation, something Gysin often talked about but rarely showed in his demeanor—which was characteristically grand and worldly and laced with humor.

This sprawling book by Genesis Breyer P-Orridge, with Peter Christoferson and Jon Savage, offers Gysin in talking mode. It is Gysin uncut. Having already been comprehensively reviewed in The Brooklyn Rail, it needs no review from me. More interesting than anything I might have to say is an excerpt from one of the interviews with Savage, which gives Gysin’s account of his brief, teenage involvement with the Surrealists.

°°°

Brion Gysin: I’d met this Greek who knew the Surrealists, and he introduced me to them within the very first few months that I was at the Sorbonne. And I hardly ever went to any of my classes after that…They liked my drawings, and then I met their whole kind of ‘group,’ and everything…

Jon Savage: WHAT WAS GETTING INVOLVED WITH THE SURREALISTS LIKE AT THAT PERIOD?

BG: Oh, that was very overwhelming, and very inclusive—inasmuch as they were the dominant group in Paris at that moment, and had been the first, in a way, to turn an Art movement into a terrorist Political Party…and had allied themselves with leftist politics, on one hand, and the sort of ‘Haute Couture’ world, on the other—so that they had a nice spread between…you know, left-wing Duchesses, and Communist millionaires…and Trotskyist intellectuals. And they covered the ‘scene’ in the thirties here [in Paris]. It was, you know, people who had left the movement, for one reason or another because of the sort of ‘Party Politics’ that…It was a Party, it was really definitely a terrorist Party, where you were supposed to think Surrealist, work Surrealist, eat Surrealist, and naturally, of course, dream Surrealist…and it was run by…an iron hand…! Breton was a tyrant. And he eventually lost his power. But the whole thing was a very dubious enterprise, I thought, such a dubious enterprise, that I was very  quickly expelled for “sedition.”

JS: EX-COMMUNICATED.

BG: Ex-communicated in full flight! In 1935, I had been to Greece that summer, and had come back with a series of very finished drawings—which I still have, unfortunately—and they had agreed to organize an exhibition of just drawings. And everybody in the group participated, and that was the only time, even, that they had Picasso…[he] went along with them. It was the only time that he exhibited with the Surrealists, who were naturally flirting with him like mad…because they had lost Aragon, and Tzara, who had left the Party for one reason or another…expelled by Breton—more power politics. And they had all become members of the Communist Party. Picasso had not YET joined the Communist Party…I’ve forgotten when he did…I think it was after the Spanish Civil War, the next year, in 1936, that he joined the Party. But I still went on seeing Picasso. I went, actually, to the Spanish Pavilion at the World’s Fair of that year and saw him over the two or three weeks that he painted the famous “Guernica.” I saw it in various stages as he changed it from one day to the other…and went home, furiously, and laid out more drawings, and then came back the next day and then changed it.

JS: DID IT CHANGE, FROM HOW HE SAW IT AT THE START?

BG: Oh yeah. Sure, I mean, I saw it change right on the wall, before the exhibition was opened.

JS: HOW DID IT CHANGE? DID IT BECOME SORT OF HARDER, OR…

BG: Harder, and richer, and tighter, and more highly organized, from the point of view of…

JG: AND YOU GOT EX-COMMUNICATED.

Genesis Breyer P. Orridge (left) and Brion Gysin

BG: I was ex-communicated very brutally for a tender nineteen-year-old… I went [to the exhibition] thinking that something might be necessary…Keep an eye on things…I went early…The exhibition was to open at six o’clock in the evening, and I thought, “I think I’d better go there about five.” And I got there about five, and I found Paul Éluard unhanging my pictures, and I said, “What’s this all about?” And he said, “Orders from Breton.” And very shortly after that Valentine Hugo arrived, and she had been Breton’s mistress in some period or other, and she too had been expelled from the…ex-communicated from the movement, and was on very bitter terms with Breton, so she took up my defense, which was, at the same time, rather embarrassing Then there was no question about it. I was OUT. I mean, if I was being defended by Valentine Hugo, all I had to do was go off with her…I went off with her for a while…Some six or seven years ago, a dealer had collected all that sort of stuff, and he had bought the entire…her succession, when she died, which must have been about ’73, ’74, like that. I read in the newspaper, in ‘Le Monde,’ that letters were sold, and e-v-e-r-y name in the whole list was of very famous people—except my own. But apparently MY correspondence was also sold publicly, along with everybody else[’s] of that period. But that also never added up to anything because I never…um…I didn’t admire her painting, I didn’t really particularly want to be associated with her—there was no future in that for me. There was SOME future in that for her, to have a handsome young dissident around […] I just couldn’t see myself becoming a lapdog in her house…and I sort of went off on my own, and then my first one-man show was in the Spring of 1939. The same gallery which had been on the Left Bank had moved off to very Right Bank…Right off the Champs Elysée there, in the Rue D’Avignon, and I had a v-e-r-y sort of…’social’ opening. All sorts of…

JS: QUITE CROWDED?

BG: Mmm, sort of…Everybody who was passing through at that moment was there. So that’s why some of those early pictures of mine got so dispersed. […] And I then met the Surrealists again in New York, where I got to by 1940. They trickled in a little bit later, for one reason or another. I was quite well established, and of course I spoke the language—which they didn’t—and I had a big studio right on the corner of 56th Street and Madison Avenue, which was very central…I just sort of opened my house to them and gave big parties, mostly with Peggy Guggenheim, who was an old friend of theirs…Naturally, she was one of their patrons, and was always a friend of mine. And a patron I guess, in a way, in as much as she gave various pictures of mine to museums around the world. My motto was, “There’s no point in carrying quarrels from the old world to the new.” So we would go through that AGAIN, if necessary.

Out of that, nothing of any interest came, except my friendship with Matta at that time, who hadn’t yet joined the Surrealists. In 1935 he was still in Chile someplace, as an architectural student. He had come in the interim, and had joined the group, and so then I met him, and we became intimate and worked together, and you know, drew all night in front of live models and things like that. Which you wouldn’t quite suspect from…from any of us. But we did.

JS: WHY DID YOU GO BACK TO NEW YORK? HAD YOU BECOME SORT OF TIRED OF EUROPE, OR DID YOU WANT TO GET…

BG: Oh no…One RAN to New York—what do you m-e-a-n…? 1939, 1940…! One didn’t want to be anywhere ELSE! E-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y came to New York. It was a V-E-R-Y extraordinary city at that time. It REALLY was Babylon, very little English spoken, anywhere…whether it was in the streets, or in a bus, or in an elevator, or wherever you liked. There was every language spoken there that you could think of, except English…American English. And sort of EVERYBODY from Berlin was there, EVERYBODY from Vienna was there, EVERYBODY from Budapest was there, like everybody that COULD get there who wasn’t already dead in a concentration camp, was in New York. Everybody from France—at least one half of France—came, and certainly all the painters came who could. They ranged all the way from the Surrealist group…That means Max Ernst, who married…or was married BY Peggy Guggenheim, and Matta of course, and Tanguy, who had married an American…on and on. Masson and his whole family were there, and then people that weren’t of the Surrealist group, the most important painter was Legér, who spent all that part of the War in New York. One saw him regularly. And there were all the European composers, they were there, all the musicians were there…It was an extraordinarily brilliant period. It was really [an] amazing three or four years. 

Brion Gysin Uncut

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‘Unnatural Light’ from Cold Turkey Press

 

‘The eyeballs of an overpaid narcissus / begin to leak all sorts of nothing . . .’


from a Cold Turkey Press limited edition folio, 2021.

 

‘Unnatural Light’ from Cold Turkey Press

 

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THY KINDOM TO COME

Meditating
meandering
through the
Garden of Eden
today
I saw
a sign
of revelation
SHORT SALE
lack of believers
God
was moving
heading south

 

 

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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Flag:  Don’t tread on me:  Jan 6th 2021

  

Are you sure it was Antifa who trampled
a woman to death
holding this flag?
You say it wasn’t you with swastikas
beating Capitol police with stars & stripes
You aren’t racists who
wave confederate flags
wear MAGA hats
The girl wearing hearts on her pink tee
didn’t point &  shout nigger at a black policeman
No one was a terrorist carrying a noose
for Pence & a rifle to blow out Pelosi’s brains
no one planted pipe bombs
or used zip ties
recorded videos
chanting  Stop the Steal 

It was you  your loyalty to Trump misplaced
scaling the wall bringing disgrace
needing to bury senators & leave no trace
hating your neighbours but still saying ‘grace’
and isn’t that a gun in my face?

 

 

 

 

Kathleen Strafford

 

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Tales to Survive the Stars

Tales to Survive the Stars has landed! Greenteeth Press’ latest anthology is inspired by retrofuturism: the collection of prose, poetry, and one-page graphic novels centres on an era of chrome ray guns and murderous artificial intelligence.

This is science fiction ripped from the pages of a post-war comic book, imagining far off planets and a doomed future where astronauts hurtle through galaxies unknown, never to return.

 

Get your copy at

https://www.greenteethpress.com/books-1/tales-to-survive-the-stars

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*Promised Land*

               

 

Look at it,
It’s a country
Despite on the map.
But it fades and vanishes.
How it is…

It’s my place
Where my parents were born.
And forefathers too
And lived…

Look,
It was at here
Until I was born.

And yet
Somebody promised
A land
A home
And a country
To someone 
Which was not his own.

It is very simple
When you hear…

But,
I became a stranger
In the home where I was born,
In my bed where I slept, and
In my kitchen where I cooked…

The soil at my feet
It fades and
Becomes another country.

Look,
It easy to erase

As ink from the paper
The greenish colour of my map 
Is drying to white.

Why is my country fading like this?
Can anyone  tell me?
Everywhere
Our country is soaked with our blood.

And we are watering our country 
With the blood 
Like pulp of red roses…
And yet how is my country 
Fading like this?

 

 

 

 

Poem by Bahiya
Bahiya is from Kerala, India

 

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Always Already 



a performance installation 
by Karen Christopher & Tara Fatehi Irani 

Free/online: Thursday June 3: 11am-7pm (UK time)

Always Already uses materials, text, sound and movement, to explore the weaving together of plant, human and machine, including human/plant and human/machine hybrids. You’re invited to drop in and out over the 8 hours, and also to stay for the penultimate hour (5-6pm) when the performance aspect becomes a thicker weave. The 8-hour scale references the length of a working day. 

Always Already draws on practices of weaving, from Persian carpets and their weavers’ pattern singing to textile machines. Weaving revolutionised the textile industry in the 1800s, subsequently influencing the development of computing: looms were programmed via punch cards, the prototype for computer programme cards. And with weaving, the whole is built of small parts through a time-consuming process often associated with “women’s work”. These histories significantly affect the ways we live and interact, but often go unnoticed — they informed this project.

Through the act of performance, we’ll make a machine which assembles the performance — a machine constructed of 100 Forgotten Questions, which turns the room into a loom, as we focus on the repetition of small gestures, insignificant singly but gaining strength through accumulation.

Supported by Dance4 and co-presented as part of Birmingham International Dance Festival 2021, produced by DanceXchange.

https://www.dance4.co.uk/event/always-already-by-karen-christopher-and-tara-fatehi-irani/

Photos by Jemima Yong

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Bob Dylan Closer

New York City

Positively West 52nd Street
Roseland Ballroom
New York City
October 19, 1994
00:00 Jokerman – beginning cut (from Master)
06:26 If You See Her Say Hello (Bob Dylan harmonica)
14:11 All Along The Watchtower
19:52 You’re A Big Girl Now (Bob Dylan harmonica)
28:02 Tangled Up In Blue (Bob Dylan harmonica)
36:50 Most Likely You GO Your Way –and I’ll go mine-
43:46 Mama, You Been On My Mind (acoustic with the band)(Bob Dylan harmonica)
49:34 One Too Many Mornings (acoustic with the band)
55:07 It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue (acoustic with the band)
01:02:12 Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again
01:11:50 Shelter From The Storm (Bob Dylan harmonica)
01:20:03 Maggie’s Farm
01:28:52 Like A Rolling Stone
01:37:21 It Ain’t Me Babe (acoustic with the band)(Bob Dylan harmonica)

October 20, 1994
00:00 Jokerman
07:31 If You See Her Say Hello (Bob Dylan harmonica)
14:34 All Along The Watchtower
20:01 Simple Twist Of Fate (Bob Dylan harmonica)
30:01 Tangled Up In Blue (Bob Dylan harmonica)
38:48 Positively 4th Street
45:49 Mama, You Been On My Mind (acoustic with the band)
50:23 The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carrol (acoustic with the band)(Bob Dylan harmonica)
56:33 Boots Of Spanish Leather (acoustic with the band)(Bob Dylan harmonica)
01:02:52 God Knows
01:09:17 Joey
01:18:41 Maggie’s Farm
01:27:22 Most likely You Go Your Way-and I’ll go mine-
01:35:22 My Back Pages (Bob Dylan harmonica)
01:42:57 Rainy Day Women #s 12 & 35 –Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen on guitars-
01:53:11 Highway 61 Revisited –Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen on guitars-

Bob Dylan (vocal & guitar)
Bucky Baxter (pedal steel guitar & electric slide guitar)
John Jackson (guitar)
Tony Garnier (bass)
Winston Watson (drums & percussion)

Photo by Barry Feinstein

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How He Wrote Us into Existence – A Fiction Ch 10

In the morning, I venture on a surreptitious stroll. Prisha and Elora still asleep, the eggs in their makeshift hatchery, the cat tired after birthing four kittens, and Poet still in his basement, I open and close the doors silently. The breeze blows heat already. The street bears the burden of people violating the lockdown in herds. Near the Jain temple south, people from the outskirts have built a temporary market.

People in singlets and shorts or vests and trousers sell green mangoes, watermelons, cabbages, and sweet potatoes in tiny netted sacks to people extending their hands through the rolled down windows of their cars, and to the people like me, jogging, strolling, stumbling, startled because he has never come in this place this early and has not encountered a crowd since the outbreak.

I want a break from Poet’s story and my thoughts, find a bench in the park beside the temple, and the park seems empty because of its vastness, and its dust clouded meadow as its midriff.

I need cuppa tea but dare not tug my plague mask down for a sip. The traveling tea-seller goes ignored, his tin cage of fire and his utensils jingling-jangling. I close my eyes to a memory of when I used to work as a half-hearted legal representative at a collapsible furniture maker.

I remember a summer we duty-travelled to Japan. I and my business companion were welcomed by a man named Morita who owned a faux-monastery/resort. I keep staring at the toggle the man from the east wore. It sported a rabbit riding the turtle it competed in the fable. While we agreed upon the business terms the summer breeze threshed the adolescence of the nearest maidenhair tree, and Morita told us, Ginkgo trees are ever-youthful, survives hundreds of years, and that we should eye for the long run of our business. I kept my eyes on the Ginkgo that would redeem its grace before the sunrise next, and on Morita’s swaying netsuke, the toggle, the rabbit-on-the-turtle ornament hanging from a sash of his kimono. The rabbit asked the turtle about the pace of their progress; they nodded together that they would finish in the same chronotope, within their lifetime, and that eventually, earth would move on to other races.

I close my eyes.
Morita reminds me –
to meditate one must keep his eyes open.

I wonder how those eggs Elora gathered will open and what will emerge from it. Not for a single moment I doubt that our artificial hatching may fail. How much I may meditate I can never be balanced, aloof to hope, or angry because I feel hopeful about something that does not happen the way I imagine it should.

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Photo 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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Philip Sanderson – Not Even My Closest Friends

The man who recently came to fix my bathroom tap told me that his son, aged 14, was so disillusioned with music being made at the current time for people his age that he decided to have a go at the classics of the 1990s. Nirvana, Queens of the Stone Age, Smashing Pumpkins, Red Hot Chilli Peppers – and Dinosaur Jr. Not long later he watched a video on Youtube of Dinosaur Jr as they are now, promoting their new LP. He saw a group of middle aged men skateboarding. He was so disgusted he hasn’t listened to them since.

Time was that one’s music affiliations were tribal – Beatles vs Stones, Mods vs Rockers, Stax soul vs Motown, punks loathing almost everyone, very often themselves specially. Your music of choice was a key part of your identity, and came with clothes, haircuts, posters on the bedroom wall, and all the rest as part of the package. Music was less widely available as a consumer product, and if you bought an LP it was so expensive you almost had to convince yourself you liked it. That world is long gone.

During the lockdowns of 2020 there was much debate about Boris Johnson’s government failing to support the arts. In my experience, Tories have always been committed philistines, so no real surprise there. The real irony for me though was that it’s not just government – or the royal family, or whoever – passively disparaging the arts through their lack of interest – artists also very often fail to support other artists. Someone else’s success – anyone’s – entails your own failure.  For the average struggling undiscovered genius mainstream journos are little help. In the 2019 movie How to Build a Girl, the central character, wonderfully played by Beanie Feldstein, gets a job in the 1990s at was clearly meant to be the NME. A cynical staffer there tells her that their remit is to give support to the 20 favoured artists du jour and to blow all other comers off the mountainside. In the intervening 30 years much has changed, but the basic paradigm remains the same. The route for the aspiring chart-topper now is not to work their way up through the clubs playing night after night in dingy toilets and throwing up in the back of the van on the way home, but to do stage school or a course in sound design at Uni, get in a PR team and social media manager and to pin one’s hopes there.

So I decided during the last series of lockdowns that I would support other artists. My friend Richard Cabut, sometime scribe for this august journal, told me that his most-played LP during that period was Dark Jazz, the latest release by my band Necessary Animals. I knew this was not idle and disingenuous flattery – it would not be in him to do that. I also knew that he had really listened. I was dead chuffed.

In a similar way, one of my favourite albums of last year was by Philip Sanderson, founder member of Storm Bugs, avant-garde sound artist, historian of cassette tape culture, visual artist, experimental filmmaker and seasoned tunesmith whose label Snatch Tapes has a series of excellent releases on Bandcamp. Philip and I have shared history. In 1980 we both played on the bill at a punk weekender in Maidstone’s Motcombe Park, organised by my long-term friend and collaborator Dave Arnold. I was in the Good Missionaries (sans Mark Perry by this time), Philip in Storm Bugs.

Thirty years later we collaborated on a series of events for Trash Cannes Festival, where I am creative director. Our last planned event was scuppered by Covid. He did though send me an advance copy of his album Rumble of the Ruins. I was hooked. Now, he has a new collection of his idiosyncratic tunes in the pipeline, due for imminent release.

Trying to describe music in reviews, or make the inevitable comparisons to other artists is not something I warm to, so in a moment of hypocritical cognitive dissonance, I’m going to suggest that Philip is something like a one-man post-punk independent-artist revivalist. His music carries echoes of American avant-garde band the Residents, Brian Eno, John Cale and Anthony Moore. The tracks on both last year’s Rumble of the Ruins and the forthcoming release, Not Even My Closest Friends, weave a sonic web of synths, keyboards, programmed drums and vocal harmonies , with Philip’s very English vocals declaiming a kind of detached bemusement at the world and its many vagaries. The track that inspired the album’s title, Bye, seems to be a phone message from his father  – from someone’s father at any rate- imploring the recipient not to give out his phone number, ‘not even to my closest friends’. It’s an intriguing moment in an album that is both uplifting and curiously unsettling. Judging by the number of supporters he has on Bandcamp, it seems Philip has at least a modest fanbase – but this is music that deserves to be more widely heard. Getting oneself heard in a world swamped with music, much of it good, is a conundrum that exercises even hardened music biz veterans.

For Dinosaur Jr, releasing albums in middle age of music that sounds vaguely retro but weighed down by forces imposed by the passage of 30 years, and then making a video of oneself looking utterly ridiculous, probably won’t help. For us ageing bedroom producer -groovers, even the chance to be consciously ignored by a younger audience might seem like a step up, sadly.

Not Even My Closest Friends will be available on release on Bandcamp – https://snatchtapes.bandcamp.com  – and a physical release of some kind is allegedly in the pipeline.

 

I conducted a remote interview with Philip a few days ago:


KR: I first became aware of your work in 1980, when we shared a bill at an
all-day punk event in Motcombe Park in Maidstone. How would you
describe your work with Storm Bugs, and where did things go from
there?

PS: The gig we played with you in Maidstone was something of a one-off as
Storm bugs was very much a studio or bedroom recording project rather
than a band in the regular sense of the word. It was all very DIY with
electronics and circuit bent radios, tape loops and scratched records.
At that time I had access to the Goldsmiths electronic music studio
set up by Hugh Davies and so quite a few of the recordings employed
the full range of equipment found there including VCS3 synthesizers,
sequencers and so on. Overall Storm Bugs would fit loosely into the
industrial/noise category, but with more humour.  In 1980 we released
an EP on vinyl and an album on the Snatch Tapes label called A Safe
Substitute, which has recently been re-issued on CD by Klanggalerie.

In the following year, 1981, Storm Bugs had a second single released
called Tin, and then the project went into hibernation.  I
began experimenting with different approaches and collaborations; for
example working with a couple of female singers, mixing electronics
with vibraphone and recording soundtracks for friends making short
experimental films. A selection of these tracks was compiled
on the On One of These Bends LP that came out in 2019.

KR: How would you describe your work as a visual artist? What were your
formative influences, and how has it developed over the years?

PS: During the Storm Bugs time I was constantly cutting up magazines and
making collages, and had a strong interest in visual art but aside
from winning second prize in a primary school painting competition had
had no art training.  Working on the soundtrack projects for other
people gradually encouraged me to start making Super 8 films and
videos myself. I took a year-long 16 mm course with Paul Bush and got
heavily involved with the London Filmmakers Co-op in London. It was a
great opportunity to see lots of experimental/artist film. With the
help of grants from South East and London Arts board I made a small
number of short moving image pieces and then started working with a
range of electronic circuits to link sound and light together to
create installations. This was in the 1990s and the heyday of the
alternative space in London, and I showed work in a former bus garage,
fire station, church vestry, hat factory, and my own flat to name but
a few unorthodox venues.

In the late 1990s I was back at the Co-op helping with the move to the
Lux centre and began using the Apple computers they had there. I soon
bought my own Mac and this encouraged me to start making single screen
work again and also recording music. I eventually did an MA in fine
art and then a PhD in the noughties – all a little back to front.

KR: Currently, much of popular music seems tied up with self-promotion,
personal brands and a kind of theatrical narcissism [this of course has long been the case for solo pop performers, reaching back to Bowie, and probably further]. The musical
content seems to take a backseat. Is this simply the view of someone
from a generation who thought they invented popular music, or is music
adapting to its social and cultural environment, and the expectations
of a generation rejecting conventional notions of what music is and
how it should be made – or is there something else going on?

PS: About three years ago I was teaching a class of students and whilst we
were looking at some pictures online I noticed a figure in one of the
shots and said idly “oh look Bryan Ferry”.  I immediately realised that
nobody in the class had either recognised Ferry or for that matter
knew who he was. I was a little taken aback and then wondered if when
I was 25 would I have recognised artists whose heyday was before I was
born.  Buddy Holly and other early Rock N Rollers yes. People from
Dixieland revival probably not. To a lot of people under 30 artists
like Roxy Music or PIL who people of my generation consider to be
significant beyond their status as musicians of the times are no more
relevant than Harry Hump and his Hill Street Hoofers were to us. That
thread or trajectory that starts in the late 1950s with the birth of
Rock n Roll and seemed to lead inexorably onwards, in some way binding
everything together, broke down somewhere in the 1990s, and music
became segmented, atomised and factionalised. There are lots of
paradoxes; simultaneously popular music became ubiquitous, and yet far
less important. In the glory days of the NME, it didn’t seem too
ridiculous to tie intellectual discourse to popular music whereas the
majority of writing that takes place now about music is by the over
50s for the over 50s. In a sense popular music has returned to the
more relaxed cultural role it has pre 1958.

KR: How would you describe the music you are currently making? Where does
it fit with other music being made today?

PS: The music I started making after getting a computer in 1997 was
largely instrumental, in some ways a continuation of what I had been
doing in the late 70s and 1980s, sometimes very self-consciously so. I
had always been interested in the song as a form and gradually the odd
vocal tune began to appear amongst the instrumentals. The song writing
style is a little unorthodox as what generally happens is that I
record a sequencer pattern in a way not dissimilar way to how some of
the Storm Bugs tracks were recorded. I then sing over these,
improvising until a verse and chorus appears. There is then a long and
occasionally torturous process of adding all the parts that turn the
track into something approaching a more recognizable song structure.
There is that term Baroque Pop used to describe some of the lusher
strands of 1960’s pop music and one might characterise the songs on
the new release as Baroque Bedroom Pop.

As to where it fits, that is the question. Though the linear
trajectory of popular music that has broken down the three-minute song has
a history that goes back to the time of the travelling minstrel and in
a way I am trying to connect with that broader seam. I don’t think for
a moment that these numbers will be bothering the charts anytime soon,
but being so out of sync with what is happening may give the songs
a weird longevity. Always out of fashion so to speak. So the audience
is small and select, join up to be in the best of company.

KR: Do you have any gigs planned?

PS; The number of live performances I have done is by most standards tiny
and that stems less from any antipathy to performing as to the music
having come together in the studio rather than through playing per se.
When I have performed live either on my own or as Storm Bugs (with
Steven Ball) I often feel as if I am trying to recreate something. It
is an inexact and slightly naff analogy but it can be rather like
re-painting a picture but in front of an audience. To perform the new
album would need either a well-honed five-piece band or a lot of front
to simply sing along with a full backing track.  So the short answer
is no, but after a year spent at home, along with everyone else I’m
keen to get out there and do something visceral.

 

 

Keith Rodway

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AVOIDING EARTH-XIT  A FREE Economy Freeing Up Society In Audio

 

The following talks unpack some of the existing roadmap features to taking back control of the economy and replacing dependency upon money and those that control it. AVOIDING EARTH-XIT was a series of talks for the Sustainability On Sea Festival. Hastings 2019. The features mentioned are more thoroughly examined in the book –

‘A Chance For Everyone: The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy’ by Kendal Eaton

LIVE RECORDINGS BELOW (also available in the link above). 

The book is available on Amazon in hardcopy & Kindle; or FREE in PDF-WORD-MOBI-EPUB downloads, or pay what you wish here

Quotations from Harry Cleaver; Noam Chomsky; Karl Marx; Tejvan Pettinger; Laura Gottesdiener; Ada Colau;
Wikipedia & various organisations have been slightly detuned to distinguish from the narrative.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Kendal Eaton

 

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Martin Frost MBE, artist-extraordinaire!

 

 

Listen-in to ‘many lives lived’ in the Art-Zones: Martin Frost in conversation with Alan Dearling

The vanishing art of Fore-edge painting:

https://www.foredgefrost.co.uk/

There was always something quirky and mischievous about Martin. He wanted to be more naughty than he really was. And that was just during our school years in and around Bognor Regis Grammar School in the 1960s. He went on to become a world-renowned artist. Indeed he is virtually an ‘endangered species’, as the last professional Fore-edge painter in the world! He’s also a committed, err, umm, Morris Dancer!  Here’s a recent chat I had with Forever Young, Mart, who is based in Worthing in West Sussex.

****************************************************************

Alan: Beginning, as they say, at our mutual beginning, we were in the same year at school. Two forms – about 60 pupils in the year group. That was at Bognor Regis Grammar School from 1962 (and Bognor Regis School – an enormous comprehensive for the final two years). ‘Boggie’, the infamous seaside joke town on the West Sussex south coast of England. We shared quite a close group of friends, including your brother, Tim, and his mates. We were both fairly arty, involved in local theatre, school magazines etcetera…What are your most abiding memories?

Martin: BRGS was a brand new school, although one of the last of the Grammars, and benefitted from quite a few (but not all) enthusiastic teachers.

As so-called ‘arty Marty’ I got involved with the school magazine, the stage productions, decorations for the PTA socials and secured a reputation for my less than flattering caricatures of my fellow pupils. At weekends I would work with my dad, Dennis, in his portrait studios at local holiday camps, mounting and framing his 30 minute sketches. When it got really busy I would don a black beret and set up another easel alongside.

Alan: Neither of us were liked by the art teacher, Mr Porch. He hated the fact that we liked doing detailed illustrations and cartoons and caricatures – which you were especially good at. Your Homework Diary sketches were legendary amongst your fellow students! What were your favourites from that time?

Martin:

One of the pages from my Homework Diary

Alan: And you went to Worthing Art College…was that on theatre design?

Martin: Having gained insufficient O and A level grades for a degree course in architecture (although I am really better suited to the craft side of building) I swanned into an Art Foundation course in Worthing College of Design who only required sight of a half-decent portfolio. As a professional artist my dad had always encouraged me to draw and paint so that was easy. This course was amazing, as it gave me an opportunity to play at print making, textiles, photography, industrial design, pottery, graphics, sculpture as well as the conventional drawing & painting. It also had a well-established Theatre Design department with access to workshops for sets, props and costumes and connections with Worthing’s Connaught Theatre within spitting distance of the college buildings. The Theatre staff were an interestingly colourful bunch, as were many of the other theatre students, so at the end of the course I signed up for the two-year college diploma. I even tried a bit of acting with a performance of Becket’s one-hander, ‘Krapp’s Last Tape’, with a self designed and constructed set. My fellow students gave me the obligatory ‘kind’ reviews but later heard that it was more Crap than Krapp.

With the offer of a job prop-making at Glyndebourne Opera House I bunked the last term and spent that summer season playing with lots of lovely materials and tools on some lovely projects and some very ‘luvvie’ people.  As the House was so far from any town we stage-monkeys were housed in Nissen huts in the estate grounds, so the life there was pretty hot-housed! Weekend trips back to the family home and my girlfriend’s flat was via my Isetta bubble car that really struggled with the hills around East Sussex. The contract finished with the opening of the season and I found myself seeking another local job to stay close to Carol, who I married soon after. Theatre work is unstable and the pay is lousy so I joined the paste-up team of a local newspaper, learnt the basics of the trade and moved to heading the art department of a small printers’ firm in Emsworth.

Alan: You were a young dad, living in Littlehampton, and a neighbour of yours was Don Noble, who made a part-time career creating Fore-edge paintings, which were ‘sort of’ forgeries on antique books? You got involved too and began to learn the craft…

Martin: I had met Don when we both were painting sets for the Littlehampton Youth Theatre. I was intrigued that there were commissions to be had for his weird magical vanishing book edge paintings, so I hawked round one of my own to the local and London antiquarian bookshops (remember them?). The work was not very demanding or strenuous and just needing a table, a chair and box of paints. Along with the day job it helped with paying the mortgage. With our daughter Rachel starting school and Carol returning to her science work, I took the plunge as full-time stay at home dad/Fore-edge painter.

Alan: Your own dad, Dennis, was great fun to be around and he’d become a full-time artist by the time you left school. I exhibited with him a couple of times. This was an early cartoon you jointly produced with dad.

Alan: At what point did you start signing your own Fore-edge paintings on old and rare books?

Martin: For the first 30 years I decorated antique leather bound volumes supplied by the trade who only wanted classical picturesque scenes appropriate to the age of the books. Identifying the artist wasn’t encouraged, however, I would discreetly add my monogram somewhere in the composition and have done on all 3,500 books I have painted.

Alan: I think you also developed your own skills in book-binding and also links with the antiquarian book trade around the world?

Martin: The market for ‘antique’ book edge painting crested around Year 2000, but I now undertake book-binding and gilding and can handle just about any sort of book.  Commissions to teach and lecture have taken me all over the UK, as well as the US, Canada, Norway France and Holland.

Alan: Meanwhile, I think you began to get involved with Morris dancing. When and how did that come about?

Martin: Studio painting is a pretty inert and unsocial activity, so I do a bit of dancing with the Sompting Village Morris. We get to patronise all the local pubs and have performed at many UK and European festivals.  Being one of the seniors (almost 30 years) I am now allowed to brandish the Fool’s pig’s bladder rather than caper in all the dances.

Alan: Your Morris side, Sompting Village Morris, seems to relish risqué publicity and courting ‘stars’. Spill some choice juicy stories…

Martin: A few years back there was a fashion for producing Naked Calendars which was an opportunity for us to strip down to our bells and baldrics raising money for our local hospital. Having printed and sold over 1,000, I keep an eye on ebay in case a copy surfaces.

 

Alan: What about the musical side of Morris – has it introduced you to some interesting music?

Martin: A few years back some of us dancers and musicians found ourselves featured in one of Dizzee Rascal’s pop videos for ‘Dirtee Cash’:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1hf4B5pyjQ

Recently we have also created a rather curious Lockdown video:  https://youtu.be/F9YrMqtx_C0

Alan: I guess there must have a point in your life when you moved from being a Fore-edge book illustrator to being the ‘last’ professional purveyor of the genre. When was that, and what publicity did it lead to? You’ve done a lot of interviews for magazines, newspapers and TV and radio. You’ve certainly developed the quirky side of your character!

Martin: Fore-edge painting by its very nature is a hidden book art and doesn’t lend itself to being displayed or mass produced. However over the last twenty years I have been evangelising the art with magazine, press and radio articles, videos and features in many TV programmes. The Heritage Craft Association have included Fore-edge Painting in their red list of endangered British skills, which helped my nomination for an MBE for sustaining the art. The Queen reckoned my work was ‘jolly interesting’… but she didn’t order any!

Alan: Returning to us. We’re now both 70. Real Senile Delinquents. What’s still on your bucket list?

My current enthusiasm is posting my archive photos on Instagram, so there is a record of one painter’s work in this very quirky British bookart:

https://www.foredgefrost.co.uk/

https://www.instagram.com/foredgefrost1/?hl=en

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4_2xGZy6Jk&t=23s

 

 

Great British Life/Sussex Life profile of Martin and his work: https://www.greatbritishlife.co.uk/people/worthing-artist-martin-frost-7237336

You might also be interested in this very neat video that my daughter, Rachel, put together earlier this year:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Ig9h04iZoeyHrBiplGkaFTt3c7J9Mz2E/view?ts=5f2d76f4

 

 

 

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On the day after (i.m. Boris Pasternak)

On the day after he died
Pravda gave extensive coverage                                   

To something else.

On the day after he died

A hand written sign giving funeral
Details is briefly displayed
At his local station: a beacon fire:
Which within an hour is answered
By others flaring right down the line

So now dozens defiantly file
Through his dacha,
Some kneel,
Many sob angrily
As they carry him shoulder high
Open casket flower brimming:

His final stroll across an open field.

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

 

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Dust

We and certainly you, have really not been around that long, it will take you 5 minutes on the internet to learn the numbers, 14 thousand million years ago, 4 thousand million, 200,000, 6000 years ago and today.

All figures are approximate and will have a margin of error but I think my point is solid.

Also, from what we can see today, the earth seems the only place in the universe there are us.

If there is a god, a creator, and humans were made as the image of this creator, then it seems odd to me that there are not more of us, the universe is mostly fucking dust. Dust seems to have been the priority, not people.

That’s not to say Dust is as important as us. Of course, it isn’t, just because there is way more of it.

If there is no god then maybe all humans are freaks of the universe. None of us should have ever been here and none of us should be here now. The good news is that over those 6000 years we have been working tirelessly on seeing to that. From the first monkey to sharpen a stick to a monkey today with his, probably his, fat stubby finger on a red button.

Our sun will of course see to it, eventually. All the freaks will burn or something like that, I am told.

In the meantime, we are here. 

And every human has the right to be here too. Every human has every right you have. Every human. Every right. You are not special and neither are they. They have nothing to prove and neither do you. 

So many of them, 7500 million. And a lot are not like you surely? 

Look at the colour of their skin, the shape of their eyes, their hair. Look at the food they eat, the clothes they wear. Listen to the nonesense they talk, the lies they pass as truth. They are not like you. You are not like them.

Except.

They are human, they are all you have. All we have is each other, if you think you have more in common elsewhere in the universe, good luck to you. Really, go look.

And if you just can’t stomach getting along with other humans, then if there are enough of you and there seems to me, to be more and more of you these days, then you will win. 

Or rather, Dust will win. The lifeless earth will fit right in. God’s work will be done. He fucking loves Dust.

 

 

Nathaniel Fisher
Illustration Ava Daniels 

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MY TOOTHPASTE HIGH

 

got some hemp toothpaste made
from genuine sativa hemp seed,
brush my teeth and wait
for the high to kick in,
I systematize my T-shirts
I systematize my socks
I systematize my underpants,
fresh socks each day
fresh underpants every two days
fresh T-shirt every three days,
once laundered they go to
the bottom of the pile,
so they percolate to the top,
it’s good to be I systematized,
while I wait for my toothpaste
high to kick in…

 

 

Andrew Darlington

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How Things Work: Painting, Writing, War


Into the Light
, Mark Dunford (80pp, Tregony Gallery)
Joan Didion: Substance and Style, Kathleen M. Vandenberg (173pp, SUNY)
Apeirogon, Colum McCann (463pp, Bloomsbury)

If you don’t stop to think, it’s easy to label Mark Dunford’s paintings as realist depictions of landscapes and still lives. But if you slow down and look properly you will realise that they are not realistic at all. They do engage with how things look, or are perceived, but they are as much about the act of seeing and re-presenting as what is or may be out there.


Creek Evening, Spring Light, Mark Dunford, oils on panel, 26.5 x 59 cms

The paintings evidence their construction: there are pencil grids and crosses, measured intervals and spaces, overpainting, simplification, angles and approximations. How does the light fall on this hill, how does the shadow or difference in tones create a line or shimmer over there, how to deal with the difference between daylight and dusk on the subject being studied?

This, of course, makes the work sound academic and dry, which it isn’t. Dunford’s paintings are vibrant and colourful, but they are as much about colour, form and light as the hills or flowers, trees or fields, fruit and flowers which are the ostensible ‘subject’ of the work. Dunford has considered when to simplify (areas of flat colour), when to accentuate the construction of the work, when and where to use a certain colour as light and colour change minute by minute.

Dunford takes many months, sometimes years, to paint each of his works. The book makes clear that each flower in a certain picture is a composite from several flowers over the time it takes for Dunford to capture the essence of it. In a similar way clouds or wooded areas, the water in the creek, the gardens and distant fields are configured in a certain way for maximum effect, recognition and engagement. Dr. Elizabeth Reissner suggests in her essay that ‘Dunford’s paintings are embodied responses to the world’ and that they are as much about being in the world as what the world looks like.

That is, they are far more than a reproduction or description of what is depicted. They are about the act of looking, the way light illuminates and changes, how clouds and water move, the contrast of near and far, what we can see or imagine we see, what we choose to focus on (how we ‘look’), how we feel about what we see, and about the transformation of all that into a two-dimensional approximation, selection or version.

Dunford knows in the end his work is pigment and oil placed on board or canvas, is only one interpretation of the world, a personal and tentative one. This allows him to continue making new versions, to keep looking and painting. The creek in the village he lives in, with its fields and woods beyond, its gardens, washing lines and ancient buildings, is one ongoing subject; flowers and fruit are another. Like all good artists Dunford is inquisitive and interested in the world around him, wants to understand the form and nature of what he sees and where he lives, and uses everything he can to make work that evidences his thinking and wonder.

One of the intriguing things about critiquing writing rather painting is that what is discussed is often a by-product of the writing, is not what is planned (let alone named) by the writer. It is something critics, readers and academics bring to the work once it has been published, to try and understand it. Whether they write novels, poetry, non-fiction of something else, authors are unlikely to decide that now is the time to use anaphora, asyndeton, anadiplosis, apposition or any of the other terms that Kathleen M. Vandenberg names in her study of Joan Didion’s work.

Much of what Vandenberg has to say about Didion’s writing and use of language – often discussing the use of rhetoric – is interesting and useful, but the endless dropping-in of technical terms (and, no, I don’t know what many of them mean either) does not add anything to the general discussion, which is best summed-up in the ‘Conclusion’:

Beginning with her time at Vogue where ‘in an eight-line caption everything had to work, every word, every comma’, she [Joan Didion] evolved into a writer keenly aware of how she composes sentences, revising them constantly, retyping her own sentences, finding and refining her rhythm, working with the way ideas and words echo across a text.

It’s clear that Vandenberg understands Didion’s writing in musical terms, and indeed much of the book plays with ideas of phrases echoing within a text, how sentences and ideas ebb and flow, speed up then slow down, reiterate and emphasize, catch the reader up in their swell. The technical terms feel like an addition here (inserted I suspect for a PhD submission) rather than being a natural part of the book.

If you can bear to either stop and look up lots of long words or skip over them, like I did, there is a fascinating study of Didion’s writing here, especially useful and welcome because it focusses on the text and not Didion as author or biographical subject. What is the language doing? How does it work? How does it coerce, persuade and engage us as we read it? And to what end?

Colum McCann uses language in his new book, Apeirogon, to explore how war works, specifically in relation to Israel and Palestine, occupation, terrorism, resistance, fighting and detainment. He does so by telling a story built of facts, allusions, fictions and asides, in numbered sections, which rise then fall from 500, the central section and story of the book. Rami and Bassam are the recurring constants, two fathers whose daughters have been killed by ‘the other side’, both choosing to try and free themselves and others from the traps of political spin, war and death.

McCann stays away from authorial intervention, preferring to offer real-life events and incidents alongside the day-to-day lives of his characters, leaving the reader to engage with the story on the level they wish, to interpret the tesserae of images, quotes, reports, asides, facts and fictions as they see fit. By making the conflict –  which we often perceive as abstract, political and a given – personal and individual, by zooming in to a human level, McCann makes us think again about people.

Here there are no goodies and baddies, let alone easy answers. Here are individuals and families being evicted, starved, beaten, shot at, killed, tortured and abused. Here are individuals and families eating together, praying, shopping, talking and dying. Here are people who are mostly powerless, trying to survive in a situation they did not choose or cause.  Here are characters who choose to resist and try to change things, not through armed resistance or politics but simply by telling their stories to each other and anyone who will listen.

McCann offers no answers, and he has not changed my mind about illegal military and political occupations and invasive regimes, or how religion and power corrupts, or the basic fact that violence doesn’t solve anything. What he does do is show the reality of living in certain situations and how grief, violence, poverty and imprisonment leave their marks on people; and – more importantly – how personal actions and individual stories can and might change things for the better.

 

Rupert Loydell

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AN ENTENTE CORDIALE… JANE BIRKIN

 

With the old moralities crumbling before the assault of new liberations, in ‘Blow Up’ Jane Birkin was the sixties’ most perfect ingénue. Then there was her much-banned record with Serge Gainsbourg that nevertheless made no.2 on the UK chart. Now, her new 2020 album ‘Oh! Pardon, Tu Dormais…’ is tousle-haired songs of louche seductiveness, regret and memory which tell mesmerising tales. Andrew Darlington listens…

Je T’Aime… Jane Birkin is a goddess.

‘It’s always circling around love, passion, and love at first sight that doesn’t last.’ She’s describing the subject matter of her album ‘Oh! Pardon, Tu Dormais…’ ‘Either the regret of no longer being in love, or the panic of being in this state – where we’re just afraid of losing, the domestic scenes at night when you see your partner sleeping next to you. You want reassurance. If you ask a very important question such as ‘do you love me?’ at 2 am, it’s by no means sure he’ll say ‘yes’ to you… and besides, that won’t be enough because it’s not only ‘do you love me?’ but ‘will you always love me?’ But your partner is half-asleep and not quick to respond. The answer is often not the one we hope for, so it turns sour, as we say in French.’

Why an album title that translates as ‘Oh! Sorry, You Were Sleeping’? ‘I often found this sentence when rereading my diaries. It’s not just me, I think other people will recognize themselves in this album’s stories of insomnia and loneliness. I always had the same anguish of being the only one who could not sleep, in boarding school or when I was seventeen and married. At the end you don’t even say ‘is there someone awake?’ for fear of the silence that follows. It seems to me that I’ve always been a very poor sleeper. Then suddenly I have a crazy chance to do this job where it’s not necessary to wake up and be smart first thing in the morning.’

It must be very gratifying to finally unveil the CD to the world after the long process of writing and recording. She’s done many musical projects prior to this one, so is it still an exciting moment to premier a new record? ‘Well, I’d finished the vocals in February, March (2020)… so it’s been a long wait since then, and… actually it’s a relief when it’s out… suspense to see how people appreciate it or not, but it’s like a baby that’s been growing and now it’s bursting out of it’s cot and clothes!’

Smart and sophisticated in dark trouser-suit over simple white open-neck blouse, Jane Birkin is the goddess who started out as a shy English girl growing up in Chelsea. She had a stuffed cuddly-toy called Munkey, and ‘I had Cliff Richard in bathing things on my bedroom wall, and read the adventures of heroic dog ‘Rin-Tin-Tin’, ‘The Dandy’ and ‘Topper’ – but ‘Beano’ was the best!’ Later, languishing at an Isle of Wight Boarding School, she acquired a contraband copy of the sexually-explicit 1956 novel ‘Peyton Place’ which made her feel ‘very coarse and common’. Then she met John Barry… and they married 16 October 1965, when she was still just nineteen, after he’d written Bond’s ‘Goldfinger’ (1964) score, but before he won an Academy Award and a Grammy for soundtracking ‘Born Free’ (1966). And there were her own iconic movies. Own up, Michelangelo Antonioni’s ‘Blow Up’ (1966) is just about my favourite movie of all time, each frame immaculately focused, each focus perfectly framed. She’s there, elfin, wide-eyed, romping with David Hemmings. None of that to bare or not to bare dilemma, it’s all so natural. As the old moralities crumble before the assault of new liberations, with her long, choppy fringe, the gap in her smile, the planes of her cheekbones and her insouciant style, she’s the decade’s most perfect ingénue.

I feel in awe of even posing these questions. And I apologise for this very personal indulgence. But what memories do you have of making that wonderful movie? What was it like working with David Hemmings? ‘He was charming, helpful… I was so afraid of showing myself to the cameras, at least twice I think… and he smiled gently and said ‘It’s me you should be shy of’ as an actress… it was ‘juste’… nice boy.’

And Michelangelo Antonioni? ‘He was a real gentleman, I’d done the screen test and written my name on the wall as demanded, then I’d broken into tears when a man accused me of being ‘a show-off all full of myself writing my name all big like that on the wall, did I think that was the way to get a role?’, than Antonioni intervened, and said ‘cut’… he explained he’d wanted to see if I was vulnerable… he was very kind and gave me a few pages which was the part of the film he was offering me… no more… and he recommended that I think it over, that I’d be naked so see how I felt about that, yes, discuss it with my husband …,’ then when we looked for our costumes, Gillian (Gillian Hills) and I, nothing suited him, so he had the dresses painted, I became blonde, Gillian brunette, even painted the shoes… and just as precise in the shooting, details had to be right, he was an architect… I loved his face, his curiosity, his kindness in continuing to follow my career… giving his vote to me for the Venice film festival for Jacques Rivette’s film… I was so touched…’

Yet she once confessed, ‘when I look back at photos and see myself in ‘Blow Up’ or ‘La Piscine’, I’m not very interesting.’ She was the ‘Exquisite Thing’ in ‘Kaleidoscope’ the same year, then ‘Penny Lane’ in the George Harrison scored ‘Wonderwall’ (1968).

Of course, there was her record with Serge Gainsbourg – the ‘Bad Boy of Gallic Pop’, which was condemned by the Pope. When a shocked BBC radio banned “Je T’aime… Moi Non Plus” due to its hard-core Porn heavy-breathing, Fontana panicked and promptly withdrew it, while Paul McCartney recorded a hasty cleaned-up version by studio-group Sounds Nice. But the opportunistic indie Major Minor acquire the rights and simultaneously reissue it, for a week or so most dealers stock both versions on their shelves, to the extent that Serge and Jane’s erotica was held off the no.1 slot only by Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising”. Originally intended as a vehicle for Brigitte Bardot, who declined his invitation, ‘the song I sang with Serge’ Jane muses, ‘will stay with me. When I die, that’ll be the tune they play, as I go out feet first. It’s quite a comfort to know what it will be.’

‘Serge was such a perfectionist in the studio’ she emphasises, ‘quick tempered and not easy… sarcastic and most irritated by my slowness and lack of rhythm… thank god for Philippe Lerichomme (producer and musical director) who intervened and was patient! BUT Serge gave me his very best work, from “Babe Alone” onwards, gems, and emotionally the first to cry and appreciate emotion…’ 

Relocating to France to become their favourite ‘petite Anglaise’, learning French from a tape-recorder, she was in Gainsbourg’s sexually ambivalent 1976 ‘Je T’aime… Moi Non Plus’ movie with Warhol star Joe Dallesandro and Gérard Depardieu, before leaving a glittering trail of albums and films made with Agnès Varda, Jean-Luc Godard, or Jacques Doillon, across the decades since. As documented in her ‘Post-Scriptum: Le Journal Intime De Jane Birkin 1982-2013’ (Fayard), her 2013 memoirs.

In fact ‘Oh! Pardon, Tu Dormais…’ is partly a musical adaptation of a 1992 TV-movie she wrote and directed, so, when you came to write and direct your own movie, which Director – if any, most influenced your own directorial style? ‘Jacques Doillon… by being his assistant and script-girl on ‘La Fille De Quinze Ans’ (‘The Fifteen Year-Old Girl’, 1989) I saw how you do a ‘plan sequence’, turning around the characters and doing scenes that could run six minutes, as much as the can permitted, I saw the importance of monologues, dialogues, two-people films, a couple… a crew of eight… how to catch a performance, a first genuine tear, be sure the technique’s right then let the actors go into emotion-passion-hate… he gave me the occasion to have two of the best performances I ever gave, ‘La Pirate’ (1984) and ‘La Fille Prodigue’ (‘The Prodigal Daughter’, 1981), by working me up then making me jump and catching me on film… it was a wonderful school of cinema… Rivette and his wild idea of not giving you a script at all!  Or within minutes before shooting, or Agnès Varda who used everyone and everything, a documentarist, a styliste, and when I was frustrated at what she’d done to my little script for ‘Kung-Fu Master’ (1988) she replied, ‘If you feel strongly…  do it yourself!’ she gave me the confidence to do just that! And I made ‘Oh! Pardon, Tu Dormais…’ with – I must add Pierre de Marivaux in mind as I’d just done ‘La Fausse Suivante’ with Piccoli under Chereau’s direction in the theatre, the story was, amongst other things about a woman, a countess torn between two men, she’s indecisive, flattered, mean and lovely… he said to one of us in exasperation one day ‘why in hell’s name do you want to be noble! It’s not very interesting! People are good and bad, generous and mean, they change their minds, are loyal and unfaithful! Those are the great parts to play!’

Now the thirteen new Jane Birkin songs, with lyrics written during the album’s production, take chanson forward into a wistful air of melancholy regret, set to music by producer Étienne Daho – who is the title-track male voice, and the other voice in the brief “F.R.U.I.T” dialogue, with Jean-Louis Piérot. They are tousle-haired songs of louche seductiveness, emotionally damaged, yet wrapped in a swirling erotic cabaret of orchestration.

The album is largely sung in French… but for two songs. Will there be an English-language version – or a lyric-insert translation, for those of us less fluent in French? ‘I don’t know, maybe they’ll do a translation but I’d rather do it myself…’ And, excuse my limited understanding of French, but can you explain what the dialogue on “F.R.U.I.T” is about? ‘It’s a joke! I’m sure other people have words they can’t say, out of embarrassment… the sound of the words, what they evoke… for my brother sister and me it was ‘FRUIT’ and anything that describes it – ‘juicy’, I can describe but not say… ‘succulent’! For Charlotte, my daughter it’s ‘moist’!’

She relates the backstory ‘when I played my film ‘Oh! Pardon, Tu Dormais…’ at the Gaîté Montparnasse with Thierry Fortineau a few years ago, Étienne came to see me… often. Because he really liked it, and he spent years trying to convince me to do a musical adaptation. I went to Étienne’s house for our first session, along with my dog Dolly. I sat on the sofa and Étienne and Jean-Louis Piérot had me listen to some melodies they’d been writing for me for a few months. That’s how the writing sessions began. Étienne reworked my words to their music, and I asked him to give me the line. It worked like a charm. The care with which Étienne suggested changes, reworked my monologues with an incredibly light touch, tender like a lover, ensuring he was in the same headspace as me. Or maybe we are kindred spirits? He saved me from an old wound, delivered me from melancholy and inertia. We gave everything, took everything, and I’m still amazed and stunned at what the three of us created. We gave birth to this thing… and this moves me.’

“Cigarettes” is a nod at burlesque Brechtian music-theatre, “Telle Est Ma Maladie Envers Toi (Such Is My Sickness Towards You)” adds a descending bass-line and playful piccolos. She whisper-talks intimacies over the “Max” fade-in, dropping back into spoken-word as rich as absinthe. When her voice is less than perfect, it’s the imperfections that make it tactile, more touchingly human. The brief dialogue-piece “F.R.U.I.T” leads into the electronic edge of “A Marée Haute (At High Tide)”. Yet the album seems to concern itself with memory, regret, poignant reflections of times passed, “Pas D’Accord (Disagree)” honey-drips poetry, then “Ta Sentinelle (Your Sentry)” starts with simple guitar, but builds into epic dimensions, with exquisite ebb and flow. She describes it as ‘a melancholy and envious look at lovers’, wistfully haunted by the phantom of past love affairs. Is there a story behind this beautiful song? ‘Thank you… well a lot of the text came from the ‘Oh! Pardon, Tu Dormais…’ film and play… but it’s about the pain you feel when you see lovers kissing on the porch, the love-at-first-sight story that we recognize in others, those furtive gestures under the table, a passion so urgent it doesn’t even give you enough time to take off your coat, that you have to stay by his side like a sentinel to watch over him, because if not he can’t sleep… and now… it’s a bitter lucid thought about ‘love at first sight’ and how it wears off, and you become ‘just anybody’ to him… whereas you’d been everything, and you feel like screaming ‘I’ve  known that feeling too’!… I’ve known that incredible passion! You make me sick!’

‘I like to stroll in Brittany on the beaches of the Pays des Abers’ she explains, and between the beach walks, reading historical books about Marie-Antoinette at the Tower of the Temple during the Revolution, and insomnia, Ms Birkin talks her way through the album’s memories and passions. In advance of its release, the first title to be leaked is “Les Jeux Interdits”, a bright guitar morning with a catchy da-da-dum refrain and a video directed by Romain Winkler of supernatural children dancing around gravestones. It’s a song that recalls stories from behind black and white photos… ‘“Forbidden Games” is a very sweet, very charming memory. It’s a song cradled by the memory of my daughters Charlotte and Kate (Barry, who died in December 2013) in Cresseveuille when I had the small rectory that overlooked the cemetery. We were asked to put the cemetery in order. Kate thought it was unfair that there were graves in the cemetery with lots of touching words and flowers, while others had nothing. So she began to redistribute everything until nothing matched! It was done with such a good heart, at least, that’s what I explained to the mayor. When you’re a child you think everyone should have a fair share.’

‘I wanted the video to look like a Super-Eight home-movie of my kids. My daughters were fascinated by the René Clément film ‘Les Jeux interdits’, they saw it over and over again. Because they did the same thing, acting out play-funerals, burying cuddly toys and whatever came to hand, even the Sunday roast was there. Absolutely everything. It was wonderfully charming, wacky. But – of course, my daughters are too big now, so I took my little grandaughter Jo (by actress-singer daughter Charlotte Gainsbourg) to play one of the characters. I thought it was a shame my third daughter Lou (Doillon) was not represented, even though she’d not been born at that time, so I put in a very charming bambina sitting on a drum. This song is nostalgic without being sad, well without a depressive side, it recounts these memories, although Étienne Daho made it more malicious, in a more spicy tone.’

How was this song composed? ‘For this song, the writing was pretty dazzling. With Étienne we spent little time together but the days we saw each other we worked a lot, it was magical. One word triggered another. He noted everything I had written recently, in my diary, but also in two songs that I had started during the ‘Birkin-Gainsbourg: Symphonique’ tour (her 2017 album) when I missed Kate too much. It was a mixture of all of that.’

“Ghosts” – one of the two tracks sung in English, is gauzily mesmerising and insubstantial enough to evoke the dead, with a phantom choir haunted by lost time. “Je Voulais Être Une Telle Perfection Pour Toi (I Want To Be Such Perfection For You)” has a compulsive crack-up voice-over, with subtle male background voices, a movie in sound, close your eyes to see it better. Until the closing “Catch Me If You Can” which embraces the sadness of memory, ‘on tiptoes I shut the door on all happiness, to all I knew.’ It’s a breathtaking Homeric journey home, which seems to open her most secret vulnerability with ‘will you protect me from the fear of growing old?’ – her heart and her voice break, ‘when the Earth is cold’. Assuming that this is Jane, and not a persona she’s assuming, it seems a very courageous confessional piece of writing?

‘It came very fast… a couple of hours… the music inspired the thought, it tumbles down, Étienne sent me off to Brittany to write an ‘epitaph’ on that melody, and it wouldn’t come… but falling yes, and the vision, my last vision of Kate by the piano at the party after my show, so I imagined her crossing the room leaving us like puppets in the same pose, frozen image… then her falling, back into our arms, like a post-it note I’d seen on her agenda, ‘home like Ulysses between his parents… as if that was safe… home  at last…’ then entwined were my own fears ‘will you protect me… from the fear of growing old?’… her and me enlaced… then at last the… ‘my mistake… too late’… a mystery…’

She explains how ‘the problem with Marcel Proust’s ‘madeleine moments’ is that you don’t know before you take that first bite where it will lead you. You’re suddenly thrown back by a smell, a taste and then you are in a room with your great aunt or with your grandparents on the beach. As a child. Looking back, there’s a nostalgia that’s almost a sickness. It seems that everything I do is in aid of trying to go back to my childhood again. I am very nostalgic for my childhood, with my sister and my brother in the Isle of Wight, of our wild escapades. It seems to me and it is precisely because we cannot verify that perhaps our memories are even more wonderful.’

I don’t want to get into politics, but – as a European, I consider BREXIT a disaster that should never have happened. From Jane’s English-French perspective, she must have a unique international view on what’s going on? ‘Oh really not! I would make a rotten politician… changing my mind all the time, being swayed by other’s opinions…’ she insists dismissively, ‘but I saw a documentary on ARTE on Brexit last week and I was overawed by the lies… Boris’s campaign bus… Nigel Farage, the posters of Syrian refugees poised as if about to cross at Dover, the front pages of newspapers egging people on to quit – ‘Brits are the best! Out with the rotten Europeans who pinch our fish and ruin our economy… all the money that could go to salvage the NHS now wasted, squandered by… the européens… make Britain great again!’… I’d forgotten all that… well, I was very sad to lose England and it’s great people and their historic courage, to lose the company of such level-minded, sound…  yet eccentric… humorous people… it’s very sad… but given the propaganda… I can see it all now, and how it happened…  but here in France Le Pen looms… so there’s no mirth in view!’ 

In closing, who are today’s artists who inspire Ms Birkin? ‘It might be commonplace to say my own daughters, but it’s true. I can’t wait for Lou to write another record and Charlotte is in the process too. They are so different, really the sun and the moon, but fascinating to me. And musically it’s always a surprise.’   

And which are her favourite places to go? ‘In Paris of course, it’s worth going to the Catacombs for a laugh. There’s the somewhat strange Fragonard museum in Maison-Alfort, where we see skinned corpses that have been preserved in just their muscles. The French don’t know it’s there and maybe it disgusts them a little. But he English come in droves to see it, they’re interested.’

Do you still own Munkey? ‘No. I put him into Serge’s coffin to keep him company and comfort the children…’

 What is her mood now? ‘There’s a phrase Étienne says all the time, so I’m going to paraphrase it, ‘ah this morning you are solar…!’.’

Je T’Aime… Jane Birkin is a goddess.

 

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

‘Oh! Pardon, Tu Dormais…’ (Wrasse Records, November 2020)

 

(1) “Oh! Pardon Tu Dormais” (Oh! Sorry You Were Sleeping) featuring Étienne Daho

(2) “Ces Murs Èpais” (These Thick Walls)

(3) “Cigarettes” 

(4) “Max” 

(5) “Ghosts” 

(6) “Les Jeux Interdits”  (Forbidden Games)

(7) “F.R.U.I.T” featuring Etienne Daho

(8) “A Marée Haute” (At High Tide)

(9) “Pas D’Accord” (Diagree)

(10) “Ta Sentinelle” (Your Sentry)

(11) “Telle Est Ma Maladie Envers Toi” (Such Is My Sickness Towards You)

(12) “Je Voulais Être Une Telle Perfection Pour Toi!” (I Want To Be Such Perfection For You)

(13) “Catch Me If You Can”

 

A hugely expanded version of a feature

that originally appeared in ‘RnR’ magazine

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What is the Point

an entity toyed with,
isolated,
denied human touch,
taught to doubt,
and constantly fear,
chained to a science,
continually changing,
and not yet understood,
behind the masks,
vacant eyes.
allow one entry into emptry brains,
thoughts unseen,
and unheard,
nonexistent,
instead,
mantras repeated,
over and over,
screeching,
loud speakers.
a din,
to adle the brain,
we are all different,
masked, or unmasked,
vaccinated or not,
different colors,
different sexes,
different levels of intellect,
different levels of means,
the most important thing,
finding your group,
before the war begins.

 

 

 

 

Doug Polk

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SAUSAGE LIFE 180

 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano
The column that isn’t over, even when the fat lady sings

READER: Have you booked your hols?

MYSELF: Where to? I can’t afford anything on the green list, and the amber list seems to be saying “you can’t go there, but you can if you want”, I mean, what’s the point?

READER: I managed to get a flight to a red country on Air Q’anon.

MYSELF: What country?

READER: Guam

MYSELF: A US military base in the middle of the Pacific, full of cruise missiles and directly in the path of regular typhoons? Why?

READER: Well fair enough, if you don’t like missiles and typhoons, but the flag’s nice, and I only have to self isolate in the bridal suite at the Ritz for six months when I get back.

MYSELF: Well worth it then.

NO, HONESTLY
As you might imagine, due to the huge salary I get from International Times, I receive a lot of begging letters. Here is a recent, typical example:

My dear and esteemed Bard Guno (sic),
I am Millicent Abebi, a Nigerian princess, temporarily short of the funds required for HRH my mother’s sex-change operation in Las Vegas. It is with auspicious, fawning self-abasement that I prostrate myself and humbly beseech you to deposit the sum of £105,500 in my Jersey bank account, so that my mother Empress Abebi II may become my father, and thus preserve the ancient ancestral line. The monies will be returned to you tenfold, once my husband Prince Rudolph Valentino’s recent good fortune on the stock market has been rewarded with liquidity. Thank you in advance, dear adored friend. Blessings and one dozen pairs of traditionally embroidered Nigerian socks made from recycled tractor tyres are in the post. Your obedient and timorous supplicant, Abebi Qualitistreit Abayomrunkoje III

READER: Careful, that sounds like it might be a scam.

MYSELF: Do I look stupid? I sent the cheque and as soon as I receive the socks I intend to cancel it.

 

NOW YOU SEE IT

Due to a Facebook messenger spellchecking error, a stand-up chameleon was booked to appear at the Hastings Comedy Amphitheatre last week. The packed audience gasped as the curtains opened and there appeared to be no-one onstage. The chameleon, standing in front of a painted backdrop of the Folies Bergére, was completely invisible until the scenery changed to a view of 19th century Berlin, when it appeared briefly before blending into one of the columns of the Brandenburg Gate. Despite the mix-up, the curious act was received with generally polite applause although several customers requested a refund claiming there were “not enough laughs”.

 

NIGHT AT THE OPERA

I was invited to attend Upper Dicker’s famous Tiatro Magnifico the other night, where they premiered Gaberdino’s latest light operatic opus, La Vita Salsiccia. All the big nobs were there, including Hastings MP Sally Ann Hart, who demanded my autograph in exchange for a kiss. 

 

READER: OMG!

MYSELF: It’s OK I didn’t kiss her.

READER: No, it’s not the kissing. It’s just that I hate opera! All that bloody foreign singing!

MYSELF:  Nonsense, you just haven’t given it a chance. Opera is much more accessible than you think. Allow me to give you a little flavour of it here.

READER: (covering ears) Lalalalala!

 

 

Scene 1. High St, Napoli 1797. Exterior, Day.
Cloudy with sunny periods.

Olivia, daughter of Leonardo III, Archduke of Salmonella, has received unsettling news from a distant uncle, whose stained glass window-cleaning business has collapsed after Napoleon’s triumph in Venice.

She runs to the house of Aramis the greengrocer, her lover, who appears on his balcony as she sings the ear piercing aria, La Mia Fondo Sembra Grande In Questo?
Aramis is enchanted, but as he reaches for his accordion, he slips on some discarded grape skins, causing him to plummet from the balcony and land on top of Belladonna, the Rubenesque roast chestnut seller.
Devastated, Aramis and Olivia struggle to carry the limp and unconscious Belladonna to the house of Lucidus the eccentric coiffeur. Lucidus sings the barber’s chorus from La Follico as he welcomes them with a basket of frutta di cera and with the help of Aramis wedges the comatose Belladonna into his barber’s chair whilst he prepares lunch.

After the cheese course, he attempts to revive her by perming her hair but Olivia panics and flees to her husband Bruciato’s ostrich farm on the Strada Trampolino only to find that her favourite ostrich Oswaldo has escaped and fled on the very morning he was destined for the slaughterhouse.

The two servants Alloro and Resisente enter singing the poignant Per Uno Struzzo Perduto:

 

English translation:

I saw an ostrich, he saw me,
and looking up he turned to flee,
with all the speed that he could muster,
like a mobile feather duster.

Distraught, Olivia decides her only option is to become a singing nun.

 

Scene 2. Il Convento di Canto, Puglia, 1797.
Interior. Afternoon. Light Drizzle.

The madre superiora and a chorus of Tuscan sailors on shore leave welcome Olivia with a rousing song: Eccoci Qui, Eccoci Qui, Eccoci Qui.
As the orchestra swells, dancing nuns enter, pick up Olivia and carry her shoulder-high to a frugally furnished room, where they dress her in sackcloth, shave her head and sew her lips together.

 

READER: What? Hang on! Wait a minute! They sew her lips together?

MYSELF:  Just until she gets used to her vow of silence.

READER: Oh my Lord! I take back everything I said. I’m in bits, what happens next?

MYSELF:  Well, she remains mute, and bald until the intermission.

READER: Goodness, how tragic. What happens after that?

MYSELF:

READER (shouting): I said, Goodness, how tragic. What happens after that?

MYSELF (signing): points to mouth, shakes head, makes cut-throat gesture.

READER: Are you telling me that you’ve taken a vow of silence, just as I was getting interested?

MYSELF: Smiles. Nods. Holds up two thumbs.  

 

Vita Da Salsiccia!

 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 
 

CAUTION

DO NOT BUY THIS PRODUCT

 

GREENSHILL BLUES
EX-PRIME MINISTERS MAY NOT BE SURPRISED AT THIS UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

POLITIKAL POKES

By Lobbytroll

BACKSTAGE PASS

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 
 
 

 

BY COLIN GIBSON

 
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Obituette.  Richard Niman  


The Wanderer by Richard Niman

My friend, the artist Richard Niman died on Wednesday May 5th.  He was 88, and his surrealist art is fish (originally typed timeless, but that was a cliché and Richard didn’t like clichés.)   He was also a stalwart of the Free for All Museums campaign in 1998. As chair of the BECTU visual artists branch, where I first met him, he helped steer the museums away from the charges that Blair’s New Labour Government wanted to impose on the public.  We won: but back to the art.  A solicitor turned artist in Muddle age – much like Gauguin’s morph – he drew, painted, collaged and sculpted his lights out.  Richard Niman was an uncompromising creative spirit  – always on it – and didn’t tip into surrealism because it was easy. He was also a fine draughtsman and could handle paint like a chef works pastry.   His sculpture is painterly too and hits the back of the psyche a treat. Images of his sculptures grace my book of short stories Fugues on a Funny Bone. They’re not illustrations but accompanying images – a partnership of artist and writer.  The image on the front – a sticker that brings the book alive is Niman’s sculpture The Wanderer.  A piano and mannequin sized piece, its brilliant – a woman playing life the wrong way – much like the characters in the stories.   If anyone wants a copy of Fugues, the first 10 to reply in comments can have one for free: a free book from a free spirit.  

Jan Woolf  

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Views from Within


 
I               Solitude’s Trail

A trail winds up the mountain. The wind
pushes it a little off course
and rain washes it down slope
but always it returns
to ascend. I’m only the beginning,
it says, only a thread
running through the hawk’s eye
that passes overhead. And it warns
all who would follow, Bring grief
as a companion but never
let it be your guide.
 

II             Solitude’s Wind

Here to sweep the darkness clean
it blows a lullaby
between the tinfoil stars. Once around the universe
and back to Earth
the wind travels light. Listen:
it’s bringing back stories
from other people’s lives.

 
III            Solitude’s Moon

The full moon ‘s balanced on the western ridge
as morning gives it a push into
the unknown.
                      Let it go, let it discover
what solitude has to say throughout days
with no company. Time
becomes more time,
and the planets look down from their centuries
at our minutes
as they pass with nobody
to speak to.
                    Now light
ripples across the rock face
with silence for a guide,
leaving just the inner voices
whose chatter is the static of the soul.

 

David Chorlton
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

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Bravery and Risk in the Age of Truth

Julian Rose

 

Rising-up almost perceptibly now, in an increasing number of individuals, is a powerful urge to give expression to truth at its profoundest level. This is the life-force itself, demanding action and urging all who feel it to step forward into the front lines of a great battle. The battle to overcome the purveyors of gross injustice and stand firm for the global manifestation of truth.

Truth can seem illusive at such times as these, as that which is an expression of Supreme Consciousness does not show its radiant face to those who take no risks and show no bravery. However, each of us are sparks emanating from one great fire, and due to this, are blessed with powers capable of bringing about a total transformation – once we choose to take the risk of living for an ideal that radiates with light.

At a time when ‘the lie’ has never been more dominant within the corridors of earthly power, it is up to us to unsheathe our swords of truth and cut a swathe of light through the dark backcloth of unprecedented deception. This truth-power brooks no equal – and simmers just under the surface with an increasing intent to explode volcanically outwards. It is, right now, weaving a strong and subtle web right under the noses of the insentient perpetrators of the great lie.

Truth can be discerned in many ways. On the subtle plain it is audible in the sounds of rustling leaves excited by the warming breezes of Spring. It is visible in the light that shines in the eyes of the free. It can be smelled in the salt of the sea, the richness of the soil and the perfume of the rose. It is tangible in the warm hands of an uncompromising and loving being.

This is the Age of Truth and nothing, but nothing, can prevent it manifesting. All that is needed from us is a little effort. A sincere attempt to locate the presence of this enigmatic flower, within ourselves. For that is where it resides, offering its irresistible perfume to all willing to give-in to the pull of its majestic presence.

Give-in to this pull – and immediately there arises a strong inner call to break the chains of illusion and death hanging over us, trying to pass themselves-off as ‘the reality of daily life’, when actually they are just ubiquitous manifestations of the Veil of Maya pushed into prominence by servants of a grand falsification programme.

There is a deeper undercurrent of purpose about the awakening taking place at this time. A sense of surety that its momentum will ultimately sweep-aside and greatly outlive the grotesque life distortions presently playing-out their demonic control obsessions on the global stage.

‘The great lie’ is being busted open and all its distorted manifestations are becoming clear to see; but still, in spite of this, not everyone does. This is a choice that each individual makes: to see or not to see.

There is nobody who cannot exert their free will and make this choice. On making the decision ‘to see’, one has opened one’s account with the Divine. But unfortunately for some – who are accustomed to immediate rewards on the touch of a button – it is not an instant access account to the full wealth of conscious enlightenment. It is instead, more truly expressed in the words of Lao Tzu “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

This single step opens the initiate into the sanctuary of his/her unique truth. From here on one can discern the difference between what is supportive of a further flowering and what is blocking that flowering and keeping one in prison.

On recognising this, one’s entire life becomes directed to the demolition of the prison and the fertilising of the soil for a great flowering. The beauty of being committed to the flowering is that all those in love with the same cosmic melody are drawn together, thus forming an increasingly powerful force for the wider emancipation of all living beings.

This incorporates helping to free fellow human beings from the delusions of Maya and urging them to take action in hastening the uncompromising defeat and eradication of the anti-life forces. Those that are attempting to re-engineer and control every last channel of life on Earth.

Being committed to defeating the forces of darkness means embracing the reality of danger and risk at every turn of the road. This is a battle royal, fought on two plains simultaneously: the one which houses our own inner demons and the one in which the external demons manifest their ambitions for totalitarian control over us.

This is the nature of the unavoidable confrontation facing each one of us as the heat is turned-up and the great mass of creation is forged down to its essence.

This is not a place for those who fear confrontation; yet inevitably, those coming face to face with the enemy within and without will find that the victory of truth over the lie can only be assured by raising the intensity of light that resides within, from a dimly flickering candle flame to a powerful ray of the rising sun.

To rise above the ubiquitous fear based pain body engulfing much of humanity today, requires a very special form of courage. On occasions it requires having what Carlos Castaneda’s shaman, Don Juan, describes as “guts of steel”.

How are yours?

‘The truth shall set you free’. Yes, but freedom does not come unless invited, and the criteria for the invitation is burned onto a sheet of parchment in bold script “To be free is to carry the torch of truth. To carry the torch of truth is to be responsible for supporting the health and welfare of Life on Earth.”

Our onward journey therefore translates into a collective effort to raise the bar of fearless action. To defeat the oppressors of the divine wellspring of existence and to redeem the sanctity of life.

Let us confront this unprecedented challenge with courage and bravely beating hearts, for this is our supreme test – and only in unity is our victory assured.

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, writer, international activist, entrepreneur and holistic teacher. His latest book ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind – Why Humanity Must Come Through’ is particularly recommended reading for this time: see www.julianrose.info

 

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HARD LABOURS

 
 
In days of change, twitter bursts into song, turning every tongue
To stung fire, there to fan flames and fuel them as former truths
Turn to ash. Labour lose Hartlepool, as their heartland drowns
On dry landscape; as those former waves of renewal turn
To the poet Steve Smith’s watered thrash. This latest crisis confirms
 
Not only the troubles that claim them, but us as well as we’re clinging
To the rudderless Tory raft, which sees itself rocked by its ‘making
Judas pure’ past advisor, whose testament is not new, or, Christian,
But more in line with the older and God’s call to Noah for Disaster’s
Arc serving as an unknown world’s fresh spacecraft. Now we are all
 
Animals and aliens, too, to each other. A friend in your house is exhibit,
Or perhaps specimen, who may or not house the germ, cast as a curse
Now across us; subject as they are to the objectives of a potentially
Dark regimen. Dr John Lees says it all in a recent posting on Youtube;
The facts long delivered have been as badly scribbled down as a Quack’s,
 
Giving a fast prescription to all, and without due consultation.
Innoculate quickly before both structure and vein start to crack.
The worst case scenario has been sourced and entirely set
As the template.  Fear’s syringe has injected not only scientific
Swamp but the drops that have dripped from on high and been
 
Placed in our ears, eyes, mouths and noses. Death has been turned
into Bingo. And now suddenly we believe it has stopped. But now,
It goes on, the struggle still to continue. It is a right wing world.
Angels spiral, unable to ascend, thanks to this with the loss of the left
As a discerning voice for most people, synthesised panic has primed
 
Every Christlike cheek for its kiss. Research in the Economic Times
Has relayed how Covid 19  is not a respiratory illness. It is vascular. 
This explains it and how it turn sits with cells, which have kept us all
In our own, afraid to see the light, or each other, which while it has
Recently broken, may just form the glimmers of some new
 
 
Understanding of hell. So those far fires still burn, as in the Sydney
Morning herald in which six hoteled and freshly positive people have been
Quarantined and caught Covid, despite vaccination, out of many more,
And so, through spores, its Lotto, from a motto that means its all risk.
Nobody ever said it cured all. But for how long it lasts is the issue.
 
Whether injection is plaster, the facts that are formed remain brisk.
And cheap at our cost, as we are invoiced through our taxes,
And the Government as Pharmaceutical pimps push our bounty
And our booty, too, onto spikes, such as the Sars-Cov 2’s spike proteins
That attach to cells in the first place, and seduce them into surrender,
 
To the point where immunity is indifference and unable to recall
The first like that came from God for those who believe, or,
From the Aliens’ ancient visit, or from chance or the fusion,
Nuclear or not which birthed space. A big bang long blown,
But re-appearing today as explosions of both the human brand
 
And behaviours slyly inserted, or projectiled out from the face.
The truth has been cast into cloud. We’re the breed that Noah
Sailed over. Our systems have turned to cried water and as those
Waters rise, the world turns, apparently away from the light
And into a new form of shadow, where strangely textured,
 
It is hard to read the road or streetsign. One year of life has been
A herculean labour each month, with two more added on
For good measure. And yet, there’s no Princess or prize waiting
For us and no summit claimed  in that time. Just more illusions,
And then the forms of confusion we favour, where we condemn
 
But do little to prepare the path for our climb, so we do a lot
Of moving through mud, hoping such mud will breed fields
And gardens which future communities will plough proudly
Through a return to the soil and pure wells. That sense of
A hard day’s labour, at last, and not one where compromise
 
Can uproot us, but rather send us towards a pride and place
For beginnings that many years from now, someone tells.
But are we just the tale for that time? Only truly here
For that warning? Time will tell. Hell is waiting.
But so is heaven, too.
 
Each works spells.
 
 
                                          David Erdos May 10th 2021
 
 
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LINES FROM THE LIBRARY

The poems were configured for maximum twitch,
words threaded together with forward slashes.
 
Any dancing led to spasmodic jerks at most;
readers simply going through the motions.
 
I was advised to wear good shoes or go barefoot,
travel cross country and keep two metres apart.

Tomorrow will never be the same again:
into the back silence melt.

 

   © Rupert M Loydell

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Replacing Capitalism

Capitalism is an economic and political system in which a country’s trade and industry are controlled by private owners for profit, rather than by the state. The central characteristics of capitalism include capital accumulation, competitive markets, a price system, private property and the recognition of property rights, voluntary exchange and wage labour. In a capitalist market economy, decision-making and investments are determined by every owner of wealth, property or production ability in capital and financial markets, whereas prices and the distribution of goods and services are mainly determined by competition in the goods and services markets. Whereby, concentrating power in the hands of a minority capitalist class that exists through the exploitation of the majority working class and their labour, prioritizing profit over social good, natural resources and the environment. being an engine of inequality, corruption and economic instabilities and which many are not able to access its purported benefits and freedoms, such as freely investing.

Capitalism in its modern form can be traced to the emergence of agrarian capitalism and mercantilism in the early Renaissance

Period. In the present climate of austerity in the UK, between 1 April 2020 and 31 March 2021, food banks in the Trussell Trust’s UK wide network distributed 2.5 million emergency food parcels to people in crisis, a 33% increase on the previous year. 980,000 of these went to children. A total of 14.5 million individuals were estimated to be in relatively low income – below 60% of average household income – in the year to March 2020. There were 4.3 million children living in poverty in the UK in 2019 – 20. That is 31% of children, or nine in a classroom of 30. Overall, Crisis estimated that around 200,000 people were experiencing core homelessness – the most severe and immediate forms of homelessness – in England in 2020.

We have seen that Trickle-down economics generally does not work because: – cutting taxes for the wealthy often does not translate to increased rates of employment, consumer spending and government revenues in the long term. Although good in theory – benefits from tax cuts, capital gains, dividends and even looser regulations on corporations and wealthy individuals would eventually flow down to benefit middle- and low-income earners. When the rich get richer, benefits do not trickle down.

Corruption, sleaze and lies are hard-wired into Johnson and the Tories and by Starmer and Labour attacking on this point alone it will not win them the next General Election. Labour needs to take the Tories apart at every turn to win voters back. But then, perhaps the public are happy with the way the Tories are behaving and like Trickle-down economics they hope that the corruption and sleaze will fall their way too. Good luck with that way of thinking. ‘Repeat a lie often enough and it becomes the truth’, is a law of propaganda often attributed to the Nazi Goebbels. This shows something fundamental about how we update our beliefs – repetition has a power to make things sound more true, even when we know differently, but it does not override that knowledge. The ‘illusion of truth’. To be elected, Labour will need to set out a fair, egalitarian and compassionate alternative that resounds with the hopes and ambitions of ordinary people.

But, what economic and political system can replace Capitalism?

By changing it into a Democratic Socialist system that will be able to provide the structures for maintaining democratic substance and resolving the challenges of a difficult future. An economy and society that is politically democratic, allows private enterprise to generate surpluses and uses government controls to assure profits are optimally re-assigned for both business (profit reinvestment) and public needs (taxation). Government policies, such as subsidising, regulating and distributing, help shape the economy. Social ownership of businesses would be encouraged. These include worker-owned co-operatives, publicly owned enterprises managed by workers and consumer representatives and workplace democracy, where workers sit on corporation boards. Some inefficient and vital industries necessitate some form of state ownership, but most industries are best run as private enterprises.

Would a Democratic Socialist system work?

It will have to be fought for by a mass movement of ordinary people coming together – workers, students, trade unions, etc: – who want to challenge capitalism and fight for something better. This would mean ordinary people using their collective power to change society in a fundamental way. But the establishment will fight any major reforms to their system and in that situation people can look back at the lessons of the past to see what should be done next – and avoid repeating mistakes, bringing a better world tomorrow.

 

 

 

Stewart Guy

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Re-emergence of the divine feminine

 

Quote: Clare Dakin
Painting: Alice Mason

 

Clare Dakin: https://treesisters.org
Alice Mason:https://mermaidartist.blog/

 

 

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Entitled?

 

(Found: protest poem using animal rights book titles)

 

Dead Zone
Where the Wild Things Were –
The Silent Cry,
The Silent Ark.

Dominion,
An Unnatural Order,
(The Longest Struggle.) 

No Wild Justice,
no Heart in the Wild,
no Universal Kinship,
no Duty of Mercy
no School of Compassion,
no Philosophy of Compassion,
no Striking at the Roots.

No recognition of
The Divine Life of Animals,
The Souls of Animals,
no Peaceable Kingdom,
no Pleasurable Kingdom,
in this Farmageddon,
this Eternal Treblinka
of Animal Madness,
of Bleating Hearts –
The Hidden World
of Animal Suffering.

The Forgotten Beginnings of Creation,
of Men & Beasts,
Kinship and Killing,
Eating Animals, From Dusk ‘till Dawn…

Victims of Science,
of Pagan Spain, When Bulls Cry.

When Elephants Weep –
All Heaven In A Rage.

Free the Animals,
The Sea Inside:
The Animals are
Our Brothers and Sisters.

Animal Liberation,
Animal Revolution,
Kinship With All Life.

Animal Thought,
The Mind Of An Ape,
Other Minds, Second Nature,
The Inner Life of Animals;
Are We Smart Enough To Know
How Smart Animals Are?

Do Fish Feel Pain?
Voiceless Victims.

The Pig Who Sang to the Moon,
The Expression of Emotion
in Man and Animals (that’s Darwin) –
The Case for Animal Rights,
Animal Rights: The Abolitionist Approach:
Empty Cages.

A Plea For The Animals:
The Heretic’s Feast,
The Isaiah Effect,
The Ten Trusts.

Replenish the Earth for
The Age of Empathy.

 

Heidi Stephenson

 

https://www.gov.uk/government/news/animals-to-be-formally-recognised-as-sentient-beings-in-domestic-law

 

 

 

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Photographer Removes Our Smartphones to Show Our Strange and Lonely New World

 

In Eric Pickersgill’s “Removed” photos, people stare at their hands, or the empty space between them, ignoring opportunities for human connection.

  • Steve Mollman
couple back to back in bed starting at their empty hands

Out of hand. Photos by Eric Pickersgill

Are you reading this on a handheld device? There’s a good chance you are. Now imagine how’d you look if that device suddenly disappeared. Lonely? Slightly crazy? Perhaps next to a person being ignored? As we are sucked in ever more by the screens we carry around, even in the company of friends and family, the hunched pose of the phone-absorbed seems increasingly normal.

US photographer Eric Pickersgill has created “Removed,” a series of photos to remind us of how strange that pose actually is. In each portrait, electronic devices have been “edited out” (removed before the photo was taken, from people who’d been using them) so that people stare at their hands, or the empty space between their hands, often ignoring beautiful surroundings or opportunities for human connection. The results are a bit sad and eerie—and a reminder, perhaps, to put our phones away.

two guys at a grill staring at their empty hands

4 women in a garage staring at their empty hands

a girl sitting at a table looking at her emoty hands while people look at her

a couple cuddling and staring at nothing in their hands

a couple cuddling on a couch and staring at nothing in their hands

3 boys on a couch starting at their empty hands


a family bbqing outside staring at the nothingness in their hands

an adult and child on a couch starting at their empty hands

Clarification: This story has been updated, and the headline has been changed to make clear the phones were removed before each photo, not edited out later.

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/photographer-removes-our-smartphones-to-show-our-strange-and-lonely-new-world?utm_source=pocket-newtab-global-en-GB

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How He Wrote Us into Existence – A Fiction Ch 9

Poet visited more cafes and pubs than rallies and dimly lit leftist meeting places, most were painted with white lime or with pale green pigments. They had the look of those hospitals from the British Raj era. Most have changed now.

Poet watched more cinemas, musicals mostly, with the woman than he ever cared for, and he felt afloat with fantastic a movie-life possibility, that now he says, he always knew a passing period as if he is a late bloom, and that was his period of adolescent transformation.

Those were the time when he forgot the complex texts he read or semi-digested; he sauntered backward, into an unfading hollow, into a blank page he wanted to fill with laidback beliefs, all because he never had this innocence before, and because under the careful rearing by his father and one friend of his father, the ‘family-friend’, he lost the ease to accept the magic of mendacities.

The woman called one Sunday, not for a movie or another of those vodka cocktails for her and Jameson for him which he didn’t even like; his original taste was darker, peat and dry fruit, or in case of something cheaper – naval rum, neat and appreciated in the company of his earlier revolutionary friends, but to show him some writings, mainly poems, she wrote. For your eyes only. She said.

Poet often reads nothing while reading. Words amble. Black ants. Sometimes one will stop and bite Poet, and Poet will read from the beginning, and this time, understand the tunnels those word ants forge or the food they carry or the rain they predict.

Every word and every sentence bit Poet, and yet he did not even read those poems. He tried and felt the same. He thought, perhaps his testosterone, dopamine, and oxytocin worked in the way they should, or the way he read they should, and as a result he was perplexed. Poet assured the woman that the poems were fine, and they needed a little tweaking.

Two cellmates painting in separate canvases in their cage, I recall one daily-cartoon seen somewhere. The prisoner drawing the bars and grills of the lock-up window turns to see the other convict sketching the sun and the birds beyond. The cartoon seems lame now. The truth is – they both serve time and are staring through a secured pane with a view of the sun and birds in the sky. It is probably mid-afternoon there.

I tell Poet about the cartoon. Poet shakes his head. I am wrong, he says, the truth is they both have eyes to see and canvases to express.

Poet goes downstairs, and then down and down. The hush of the virus hit town drowns in the quietude.

The eggs are safe in a makeshift hatchery. The cat goes into labor. Sleep finds my wife. I doze toward the conscious innocence like my daughter.

 

 

Kushal Poddar
ceramic tile “Ghost Baby,Shelley
By Julie Goldsmith

 

 
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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COLLISION COURSE

 

I admired the writing of William Burroughs

Perhaps I’d bump into him here in the flesh

A literary hero, as I smoked zero zero
At a caff in Marrakech

 

Well I’ll cut to the chase as is often the case
Things didn’t quite turn out that way
I was quite at a loss when our paths did in fact cross
In another place in another year on another day….
 
In a muddy field near Worthing *
By the stage at a rock & roll scene
I finally exchanged words
With a gaunt man in a hat
Who had created
The Soft Machine
 
 
 
*Phun City 1970
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Harry Lupino
 
 
 
 
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OPPOSING OCTAINES: A DIPTYCH

 

And thus have we survived Time’s constriction:
Our birthright has yielded to castration,
imagination consigned to fiction,
the possible straitened since Creation.
Our regular Sunday crucifixions,
augmented by dances and cremations,
reduced by constraints and interdictions
to meaningless recreations.

My universe expanding
from a drop of hydrogen.
My world blessed by dawns and springs,
rainbowed by imaginings.
Any tomorrow has wings.
:This is why I laugh and sing:
Ending joins with beginning,
every closure with an in.

 

Duane Vorhees
Illustration: Rupert Loydell

 

 

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An Uneven Surface

What is it that we don’t know about matter?
Are we about to see the end of the high street?
How does consciousness come from a mass of jelly?
“To understand how it all works we’re going to

need an expert,” she said. Here we have a rich
array of insects but we’re never going to land on
that thing and we need to clarify our repertoire.
A resulting build-up of colour creates a pattern

and suddenly our possibilities seem endless. “What
is sound and how do we hear it,” he said. Once the
sun goes down we are in serious trouble but the
water temperature has risen and it’s clear that some

marine life is where it shouldn’t be. All available
resources will be used in our hunt for the culprits,”
he said. When did you last use dental floss? Half man,
half fish, is that what we’re looking at here?

 
Steve Spence
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

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INDOCHINE MA BELLE

 

 

Their current singles compilation celebrates forty years of success, although French band INDOCHINE are probably the biggest band you never heard of…

 

They are probably the biggest band you never heard of. J’adore Indochine.

In truth, they’re no more Indochine than Japan were Japanese, or China Crisis were Chinese. It’s just a name invested with a certain exoticism, although one of their live albums – ‘Hanoï’ (2007), was recorded in Vietnam, which kind-of qualifies. But long before Daft Punk discovered funk or Air lifted off on their Moon Safari, Indochine were the New Wave band selling records across the French-speaking world, with thirteen studio albums since their 1982 debut ‘L’Aventurier’.

Ah, if you happened to be strolling those Paris boulevards during that summer, the brash adventure-scented “L’Aventurier” was everywhere dancing in the café air. The soundtrack of the city. They even got Serge Gainsbourg to direct their video for hit “Tes Yeux Noirs” all smoky reds, blown kisses and the aging roué himself. ‘It has been one of the best encounters… but also one of the worst collaborations at the same time’ explains Nicola Sirkis carefully.

In fact the thirty-seven track ‘Singles Collection 2001-2021’ plus companion set ‘Singles Collection 1981-2001’ marks the band’s fortieth anniversary, albeit with 2020 remixes and alternate piano unplugged versions. Nicola Sirkis, black hair stylishly slurred down over his right eye, was there in Paris for the group’s ignition, and as musicians have come and gone, he’s been the one constant factor. ‘I lived in Belgium listening to British radio stations playing Rock music all day long’ he recalls. ‘When I went back to France, it was difficult for me as I had to look for artists that I liked a lot such as Jacques Higelin, Serge Gainsbourg and Jacques Dutronc. They helped me realise that the French Pop such as Claude François or Johnny Halliday were not the only style of music.’

There are the enticing electro-waves of “J’ai Demandé à La Lune” – ‘I asked the Moon’, the massive hit from comeback album ‘Paradize’ (2002) – following a run less commercial more intense albums, which also spawned the niggling keyboards and big guitar waves of “Mao Boy”, which uses huge erotic quasi-religious visual imagery in the video, with crosses of light in the pupils of his eyes, all the way to the vagabond thumb-trip imagery of “Song For A Dream”, with the beautiful lost desolation of ‘we will be an incredible dream’ (from ‘13’, 2017).

Fact is, when it comes to music, words are always a barrier, in any language. Kraftwerk were German, but dubbed multiple different-language versions onto the same backing tracks to cater to global markets. Abba were Swedish, but evolved a kind of Euro-Esperanto made up of common phrases ‘Mamma Mia’, ‘SOS’ and ‘Voulez Vous’. To gain access to world markets other Eurovision European artists simply sing in English. Indochine don’t do that. They record in their native language. Accept them on their own terms, or not at all. Is that a deliberate statement? ‘Effectively, we only sing in French’ agrees Nicola emphatically. ‘Which can explain why Indochine is not as successful internationally as could be expected, unfortunately, apart from Scandinavia and South America – especially in Peru, where we had a great success which came to us as a great surprise. We did make some English and Italian versions of a few tracks. Maybe our record company should have been more pushy at the right moment? but the essential remains that Indochine is known in the world which is pretty cool.’

Yet there’s little that’s definingly Gallic about their music. As though the influences were more British and American than they were French. On his solo album ‘Dans La Lune’ (1992) Nicola covers not only Tears For Fears “Mad World”, but Sparks “Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth”… and the Rolling Stones “Play With Fire” too! Some say the very softness of French pronunciation does not a good Rock fit make. Does it matter? That surely depends on the artist? How far do we wish to go back around the time-bend to Edith Piaf, Charles Aznavour, Sacha Distel, the wonderful Françoise Hardy, Téléphone, Air… Jean-Michel Jarre? Some critics compared Indochine to Cure. Best not go there. Touchy subject. But those sharp snappy guitars and drums, the snaggy little keyboard runs are less retro, and not a light year distant from Weeknd’s “Blinding Lights”. For the song “Pink Water” on the ‘Alice And June’ (2005) album, there are guest contributions from Placebo’s Brian Molko. Was that a good interaction? Are there parallels between Placebo and Indochine? ‘Brian Molko is a displaced European, a kind of rootless person like me. He’s English, but lived in Luxembourg. I’m Parisian, but lived in Belgium, so we have this feeling in common as well as sharing a passion for David Bowie. I’m a huge Placebo fan, I immediately loved them from their first album. We met and became friends. At the time I’d already written “Pink Water” in English with basic lyrics – a mixed bag of sounds, as this is how it came to me. So I asked him to help me finalise the lyrics, as it was clear this song would sound better in English. He agreed, on one condition – ‘OK, but I want to sing this song too’ and that’s how it became a duet.’

Another outstanding track on the collection, “Ladyboy” – with massed children’s voices, is also from the tenth album – ‘Alice And June’. Then standout “College Boy”, from ‘Black City Parade’ (2013) which is so uncompromisingly graphic in its depiction of homophobia that the video is prefaced by an adult-disclaimer, it carries the menace of the 1968 movie ‘If’, from muted whispered voices – ‘I realise it’s difficult to be so different here,’ into acoustic guitar strum, as it shows text and physical bullying while others choose to blindfold themselves and not witness it, as the victim is finally crucified, decorated with winking fairy-lights, shot at with pistols and tasers. He raises his head as the video closes and utters the single word ‘Merci’. Are there elements drawn from real-life experience here? ‘This is more inspired by (video-director) Xavier Dolan’s own experience. When we met and discussed it together he confessed that he used to be part of the bullies, so I think he used this music video as a form of redemption. When I wrote the song, through the lyrics, I wanted to expose moral and sexual bullying. We were going through a controversial time in France about Gay marriage – with some conservative people arguing it was unacceptable, and there were many outrageous discussions against homosexuality. All these things got mixed up and it became an incredible music video, the song helped a lot of people to raise their heads with a smile on their faces, feeling some hope and look forward to the future.’

Indochine has supported various political causes, Stop The War and Reporters Sans Frontiéres as well as Gay Rights, so is there a political context to their track “Belfast”…? What’s the story behind that song? ‘Actually, “Belfast” is a track about Sylvia Plath, a poet I really love. At first, it was the secret name of the song, and I finally kept “Belfast” as I thought that it had an incredible phonetic sound.’

The ‘Singles Collection 2001-2021’ marks the band’s fortieth anniversary, albeit with 2020 remixes and alternate piano unplugged versions. The ‘Voiceless Piano’ pieces have an almost classical quality that reveals the melodic beauty of the songs. Was that the intention? ‘Exactly! I am talking about myself here, but the statement is that one needs to know when to stop talking! I also wanted to prove that these melodies were worth listening to and very pleasant. These ‘petits pianos sans voix’ can be listened to quietly in a chalet with a fireplace as if you were listening to (classical pianist) Glenn Gould. It might seem a bit presumptuous, but I like the idea.’

For those of us who don’t agree with Brexit, and prefer to think we are all Europeans, with more to unite us than to keep us apart, Music builds bridges. Indochine, ca s’explique pas, ca se vit (it cannot be explained, it is lived). Belle, magnifique. J’adore Indochine.

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

 

SINGLES COLLECTION: 2001-2021’ by INDOCHINE

(1) ‘J’ai Demandé à La Lune’ 2020 Mix (‘I Asked The Moon’) 3:32,

(2) ‘Mao Boy’ 2020 Mix 4:25,

(3) ‘Le Grand Secret’ 2020 Mix (‘The Big Secret’) 4:14,

(4) ‘Marilyn’ 2020 Mix 4:10,

(5) ‘Popstitute’ 2020 Mix 3:53,

(6) ‘Electrastar’ 2020 Mix 5:52,

(7) ‘Un Singe En Hiver’ 2020 Mix (‘A Monkey In Winter’) 4:35,

(8) ‘Alice And June’ 2020 Mix 3:30,

(9) ‘Ladyboy’ 2020 Mix 3:45,

(10) ‘Adora’ 2020 Mix 3:38,

(11) ‘Pink Water’ 2020 Mix 4:09,

(12) ‘Crash Me’ 2020 Mix 4:20,

(13) ‘Little Dolls’ 2020 Mix 4:38,

(14) ‘Play Boy’ 2020 Mix 2:51,

(15) ‘Le Lac’ 2020 Mix (‘The Lake’) 3:30,

(16) ‘Un Ange à Ma Table’ 2020 Mix (‘An Angel At My Table’) 4:12,

(17) ‘Le Dernier Jour’ 2020 Mix (‘The Last Day’) 4:08,

(18) ‘Memoria’ 2020 Mix 5:41, swathed in synths, building momentum and intensity, shrill synth hook into hard guitar fade

(19) ‘College Boy’ 2020 Mix 4:52,

(20) ‘Black City Parade’ 2020 Mix 5:38,

(21) ‘Belfast’ 2020 Mix 4:36, ‘you write in a black notebook, and I flee away’

(22) ‘Traffic Girl’ 2020 Mix 4:32,

(23) ‘La Vie Est Belle’ ‘Life Is Beautiful’) 5:28,

(24) ‘Un été Français’ (’A French Summer’) 5:28,

(25) ‘Station 13’ 6:20,

(26) ‘Song For A Dream’ 5:35,

(27) ‘Karma Girls’ 6:34,

(28) ‘Nos Celebrations’ (‘Our Celebration’) 5:05,

(29) ‘Black Sky’ The Small Voiceless Pianos 5:05,

(30) ‘Ladyboy’ The Little Voiceless Pianos 3:25,

(31) ‘Un Ange à Ma Table’ The Little Pianos Without A Voice (‘An Angel At My Table’) 4:38,

(32) ‘Memoria’ The Small Voiceless Pianos 3:23, piano instrumental revealing the song’s melodic strength

(33) ‘Wuppertal’ The Small Voiceless Pianos 4:25, piano instrumental

(34) ‘Un été Francais’ The Small Voiceless Pianos (‘A French Summer’) 4:44, piano instrumental

(35) ‘La Vie Est Belle’ The Little Pianos Without A Voice (‘Life Is Beautiful’) 5:17, near-classical piano instrumental

(36) ‘College Boy’ The Voice Pianos 5:27, strong dramatic vocals

(37) ‘Le Grand Secret’ The Voice Pianos (‘The Big Secret’) 4:55, slow stately piano, boy-girl harmonies

 

 

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‘Amyl Nitrate’ performs “Rule Britannia”

From Derek Jarman’s  – Jubilee

Sung By Pamela Rooke aka Amyl Nitrate

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Hillsborough


                                           Four days had gone by since,
                                           Four days of listening appalled
                                           To children who talk like bomb
                                           Happy veterans I was there with
                                           me mate and don’t laugh but
                                           when it started we held hands
                                           and he says we’ll get down the
                                           front and be over that fence and
                                           there was men lifting kids passing
                                           them along like at gigs and there’s
                                           one girl freakin’ cos yer can see
                                           her knicks and then next thing
                                           a know am over the top and am
                                           shoutin’ me mate but when a
                                           looked back he was gone four days
                                           Of nightmares and grief you can taste,
                                           Four days of lies, puked me ring sir
                                           and some fella says all right girl
                                           gives me his snot rag gets me up
                                           on me feet and a see this one busy
                                           workin’ on some lad and he’s got
                                           his jacket off and he’s screamin’
                                          oh fer fuck’s sake please breathe
                                          Tear ducts run dry, four days of
                                          Waiting for one kind word from
                                          On high until finally I went to
                                          The Head who said yes, she’d
                                          Seen a child psychologist and yes
                                          There was a right way to deal with
                                          All this and yes one wrong word
                                          Could inflict…but no she hadn’t
                                          Offered to share with the staff
                                          Because she wasn’t obliged
                                          And besides, no-one had asked.

 

 

 

                        Kevin Patrick McCann

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Life in the Cess Pit!


Porn, God, Green Living and a spice of Anarchy in Hebden Bridge and the Upper Calderdale Valley.   

A quick glimpse from Alan Dearling

Just as a touch of ‘normal’ life returned to the shops, towns and villages of Upper Calderdale in the Yorkshire Pennines, a veritable Storm in the (free) Book Cabinet erupted into the local and then national media. Along the Burnley Road from the market town of Todmorden lies Cornholme, population about 1,500. Rather delightful book cabinets offering free book exchanges are organised by volunteers throughout this area, often along with community gardens offering herbs, veg and fruits – free for the picking.

However, we can sense the angst and ire of at least one deeply offended Cornholme resident, who posted a notice none-too-politely suggesting that purveyors of porn can take their literature and piss off to nearby Hebden Bridge – apparently Cess Pit of the local Universe!

Gradually easing out of the full-scale Covid lock-down, both locals and tourists have just begun to enjoy alfresco dining and drinking in the pedestrian centre of Hebden, and in and around Todmorden. Everyone has been relishing the re-opened ‘non-essential’ shops and the market selling a myriad of vegan food, local cheeses and meats, crystals, trendy thingummies for the house, books, slightly hippy clothes, candles, vintage goods and much more – all with the Rochdale Canal and the Pennine hills as a backdrop. These days, Hebden Bridge is much more gentrified than it used to be, but still has an ‘alternative’ vibe about it, that it is alive and well. As does its more working-class neighbour, Todmorden.

And so, perhaps with more than a single tongue-in-cheek, the Porn Book War has smouldered on. Amongst the community adverts in the local Hebden Co-op, this notice was posted, rebutting Mister or Missus Offended from Cornholme.

As the old adage suggests, all publicity is good publicity, and Councillor Josh Fenton-Glynn went on to Twitter to thank the people of Cornholme for helping with the Hebden tourist publicity.

 “As a Hebden Bridge councillor I’d like to thank the people of Cornholme for help with our marketing campaign. Please check out our local independent shops. If the Cess gets too much we have a soap shop! Cornholme’s also lovely, what it lacks in Cess it makes up for in nice pubs.”

One wonders what Nico, original Gothic ice-maiden singer with Andy Warhol’s Velvet Underground, would have made of this furore? Her work is being celebrated at the Trades Club in Hebden Bridge this July 2021. Maybe there will be at least one Venus in Furs’ outfit at the show and the crowd can sing:

“Taste the whip, in love not given lightly
Taste the whip, now bleed for me”

https://www.seetickets.com/event/nico-at-the-trades-club/trades-club/1818160

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Most Likely You’ll Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine

 

You Lose Yourself, You Reappear: The Many Voices of Bob Dylan, Paul Morley (400pp, £20, hbck, Simon & Schuster)

More than anything this book has reminded me that I don’t like Bob Dylan’s music very much. I seem to have a lot of CDs by him, but often when I take one down to play it gets swiftly taken out of the stereo and put back on the shelves. Take this morning, for instance: I sat in the sunshine outside with a cup of coffee and read Paul Morley’s take on ‘Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands’. He made it sound so intriguing that I came inside and listened to it. What do I get? 11 minutes of nasal whine, with a few moments of nice organ.

Don’t get me wrong, I will listen to Desire and Blood on the Tracks anytime. And when I am in the mood the Bootleg Series of his gospel music is a knockout, making far more sense of this period of Dylan’s music than the original albums do. (I have had some awesome live bootlegs of the gospel shows for a long time.) But the ‘comeback’ stuff with Daniel Lanois producing? Nah. The original folk protest stuff? Nah. The recent surprise lockdown album released without warning? Nah, not really. Not today, anyway. Truth be told, not often.

Dylan is clearly an important part of musical history, there’s no question about that. And he’s on my shelves because I’m inclined to think of my music collection as a kind of library, which needs to cover the basics as much as the obscure and personal. But If I want singersongwriters I’d rather have Joni Mitchell or Laura Nyro, if I want protest I might go back to Woody Guthrie or root around in the Alan  Lomax archive recordings. Some country songs? John Prine is the man, or maybe John Stewart. Dylan may have influenced some of these, may have borrowed from others, but somehow what he takes all becomes submerged into sounding like Dylan, and to these ears that is not good.

Morley’s book is, like all his books, as much about Paul Morley as his supposed subject. Here, he spends a lot of time wondering how to start the book, because his original plan was disrupted by Covid. It reminds me of Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller, every chapter opening up new directions from another possible start. Morley sees Dylan as a collection of voices, assumed for good reason: to suit the moment, the times, the songs, what is required, what his audience do or don’t want…

It’s a good way to think of Dylan’s work, and a good way to hang biography, stories and criticism on. It’s also a great way to generate lists, and Morley is an expert listmaker! Songs, names, influences and alternative ideas, sources and resources: you name it and Morley has a list for the reader. It’s Morley’s way of keeping his and our options open, of legitimising digression and tangent, of recognising that how we listen is dependent on what we know and when we listen, what we bring to the experience as much as what is present in the recording.

So Morley isn’t afraid to throw in ideas that on one level make no sense. There is no link between Borges and Dylan, yet once Morley has mentioned it it makes perfect sense. Much of the book is like this, outlandish and provocative ideas which, once you are over the shock and your instant response (‘Don’t be ridiculous’), make you think. And now there is a link between Borges and Dylan, because Morley has made it. It’s theoretical, unproven and conjectural, but why not?

I’m drawn to Morley’s writing because he isn’t definitive. I was brought up to see both sides of an argument as a way of understanding a topic, to debate as a critical tool; Morley obviously was too. He clearly loves Dylan’s music far more than I do, but is still prepared to argue with it, critique and question it, and to grapple with the burden of fame and literature it now carries. Then he moves on and starts another line of questioning or offers another set of answers. Each chapter here feels like an authorial riff, or series of riffs, that runs on for pages then stops, only for the author to change instrument and angle of attack and start up all over again in the next chapter. The writing, the words on the page, are as interesting as the content, evidencing Morley’s fluid, erratic, erudite and original mind.

More than anything this book has reminded me how much I like Paul Morley’s writing. Whatever he is writing about, even Bob Dylan.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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THE ATOM SMASHER OF DREAMS

 

To find the ultimate element of desire a team using Attention Theory and a temperature high enough to mimic conditions when the universe was just microseconds old have found our most recent dreams follow a mathematical vortex pattern.
              Quarks loop through these vortices, even though shot pacing isn’t everything – good narrative, strong acting and a fireball about four trillion kelvin at its core, are probably more important. This is just the way you dream about far-away places, old girlfriends and alien cities built by insects. Later this year researchers will separate lower energies, helping to describe the human attention-span when dreaming about the future.
                 Is life a mathematical trick? That is exactly what the more negatively charged entities would like us to think. They expect the separation to disappear but we have seen signs of such vortices and fields created by gluons that can twist, forming dreamlike structures in the all-pervasive vacuum of space. This is what gives mass and substance to lurid, inhuman fantasies.
                 Perhaps the key lies in measuring desire with greater precision, although we now think that psychic films are more gripping because they resonate with other movies, not your memories. You may try to copy the style, but the galaxies will collide anyway. Explosions can create a series of waves, transforming the magnitude of ‘pink noise’ at random intersections in the brain – a property that has never been seen before. Others have observed the vortex in music, street fashion and air turbulence. This type of dream field should cause two particles to collide off-centre, smashing gold and copper ions head-on like a slow motion car crash in the Valley of Despair, tracking the eye-movements of dreamers like jets of matter expelled from backward spinning black holes.
                   Mutations are locked in and several different kinds of fantasy arise, helping
to explain all kinds of non-material phenomena.
                    Always leave space for magnetic fields to build up in your dream life.
                    Never look back.

 

 

 

© A C Evans

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SAUSAGE LIFE 179

 
 
 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano

The column that teaches it’s grammar to suck eggs

READER:  Nobody will get that joke.

MYSELF:  I think that fact alone confirms my point

READER:  Whatever. Anyway I’m excited. It’s spring and the handkerchief-waving season has started, the Morrismen are practising their dance moves and soon everyone will be blacking up and celebrating the Jack in the Green festival.

MYSELF: You country folk are fascinating, which I suppose accounts for the baffling longevity of the Archers.

READER: Not to mention the enduring popularity of the accordion.

MYSELF:  There are mysteries which dwell beyond our comprehension. However, as an aficionado of Olde England’s ancient fertility rites, you may be interested in the following snippet from our arts section:

POETRY REVIEW
Poet, performance artist, steel girder erector and Wild West enthusiast Alistair Milqueflote gave a rare reading last Thursday at Hastings’ new performing arts venue The Cat’s Pyjama. After delighting his fans with a tour de force of his best loved poems, (including No No Nanook! and Waiter – There’s Some Soup on my Fly), the slightly unsteady Mr. Twee grabbed his trademark metal tea-tray, gave himself a righteous blow to the head and launched into a performance of arguably his most famous work, the epic Morrismen, to a thunderstorm of expectant applause:

MORRISMEN 

by Alistair Milqueflote

Bells on their fingers and

bells on their toes

the Clackity Morrismen

get up my nose

Its not just the trousers
with 
ludicrous braces,

the vacant expressions

that litter their faces

or the fatuous music that
plinks plonks
 and jangles
as cadence and meter
are put through the mangle

or the……..

At this point, Alistair was seen to hit himself over the head a little too hard with the metal tea-tray which has become such an indispensible part of his performances. The resultant loss of equilibriumvcaused him to fall into the orchestra pit where he landed on top of a sleeping trombonist. A spokesman for the St John’s Ambulance service informed disappointed fans that owing to concussion, Alistair was unable to continue with the poem. As the stampede for refunds began, I made my excuses and left.

International news:
MILK STOLEN – POLICE BAFFLED
Public urged to keep vigilant
Six armed response units attending to a gazelle with its antlers jammed in the metal gates of a glue factory near Jersey’s Douglas airport were diverted to the reported robbery late on Friday, but by the time they arrived the thieves had fled. Police believe over 35 bottles of Full Cream Channel Islands Gold-Top Supreme and several cartons of plain yoghurt were taken. British residents were advised by the foreign office to declare their income tax to the best of their recollection and make arrangements to leave immediately. The ambassador has been recalled.

ITEMS FOR SALE
Arab Spring. Keeps springing back and nearly putting your eye out hence £5 Unitricycle, with stabilizer wheels, suit beginner. No saddle hence £35 ono. No time wasters.

 

ASK THE VET
Confidential pet advice from Dr. Sven Vondervondervonder
Dear Sven,
Every time I open a can of Whiskas I nearly throw up, but Mortimer, my cat, will not entertain any other type of cat food. Is there any truth in the rumour that it is heavily laced with cat heroin?  Could my little Morty (God forbid) be hopelessly hooked? On another point, my drains have been badly blocked ever since I dissolved my late husband’s body in the bath with hydrochloric acid. Can you recommend anything?
Worried of Beyondenden (Mrs)

Dear Mrs Worried,
Shining a torch into Mortimer’s eyes and observing pupil dilation will soon determine whether or not you have a feline junky on your hands. Should your test prove positive you must nip things in the bud asap before Morty starts dipping into your bank account or using your car for drive-by shootings. Pet rehab and detox centres can be a costly expense, but luckily most cats prefer Cold Turkey.
On your other point, it very much depends on which type of drain is blocked. For kitchens, something like Aaaaargh! by Monsanto will be more than adequate, but when it comes to bathrooms you should be looking at something stronger, like Pearson’s Corpsegon!, or the more astringent Dr Crippen’s Final Solution.

 

MUSIC
Hastings International Triangle Competition
Now in its fourth year, the 3 day competition, hosted at the Hastings Kipperdrome is sponsored by Pearson’s & Co, manufacturers of fine triangles since 1888. At first considered a niche attraction, it now attracts triangle enthusiasts from all corners of the globe. The early heats were a thrilling example of what this competition means to its devotees, as two collosi of the genre clashed in what people are calling the battle of the ping. Hastings’ own Mimsie Borogrove wowed the audience with a controversial arrangement of Eric Saté’s Fanfare for a hat run over by a steamroller the climax of which involved 3 cannons, a dairy cow and a 40 gallon drum contaning industrial bleach. Not to be outdone, North Korea’s child triangle prodigy Wan Ting, countered with a complex and dense rendering of Calamari’s three-triangle opus tre lati sono meglio di uno, in which she demonstrated the difficult technique known as forte ma non penetrante The audience, temporarily stunned into silence, suddenly burst into wild applause as 500 members of the Korean secret police motorcycle formation team, all playing tiny soprano triangles, roared on to the Kipperdrome stage to reprise the earlier, deceptively plaintive D minor largo with a triumphant demonstration of dramatically percussive intensity.

SCIENCE BREAKTHROUGH
Hastings’ resident boffin Gordon Thinktank has come up with an economical new method of cheating at crazy golf, using a simple motorized putter with a concealed laser-guided shaft made from tungsten barbecue forks. The Crazy Golf Association (CGA) declined to comment.

LINE OF DUTY-STYLE PLOT SWERVE
Speaking of economy, I am reminded of the famous telegram sent by Michael Caine’s agent Lou Mogulstein in 1963, in reply to a request by Donald Bumsfeld the northern theatrical impresario. Bumsfeld was putting on a stage version of the film Alfie at Morcambe Empire and to achieve any kind of success, he was rather depending on booking the bespectacled actor for the lead role. After cabling Mogulstein he was excited to hear the doorbell ring an hour later. Disappointingly, the telegram said simply:-
CAINE UNABLE – MORCAMBE UNWISE.

 

 

Sausage Life!

 

 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer
From the album Domestic Bliss
click image for video

 
 

CAUTION

DO NOT BUY THIS PRODUCT

 

GREENSHILL BLUES
EX-PRIME MINISTERS MAY NOT BE SURPRISED AT THIS UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

POLITIKAL POKES

By Lobbytroll

BACKSTAGE PASS

BY COLIN GIBSON

 
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la vie en gris

 

 

meandering into dusk
shadows of the seine
followed – haunted me

empty quays
compasslessly
labyrinth of narrow rue

waning moon found me tiring
so I folded the map
& sipped the last cognac

 

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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How He Wrote Us into Existence – A Fiction Ch 8

Throughout Poet’s story, I have been listening to the wind, to my wife on her cell-phone, to the wind, and to my own black and white flashbacks. I have been listening to the sound Poet’s words form as well and have been thinking if anyone can narrate an account worth listening to. We grow up to be different, but not very varied from how we fared as youngsters. I feel guilty for paying an unfair amount of attention to the chronicler.

He has been saying something about the woman (“In red?” I interjected.) he met as a teen, and again as a man in a protest rally.

Oh yeah? I stare at the garden that I have not begun to foster. Elora plays with someone we cannot see. In red? I ask. Poet nods, as if it matters, as if this story has not been chronicled for the nth times, as if Poet had a chance to shift the paradigm.

They met in a rally, at the Five-roads Crossing, cracked their voices screaming out slogans, rested their flags, and went to the cafe that served allegedly the best schnitzel cordon bleu; the entire series of happenstances cheered Poet, and yet his mind played two voices – one asserting that each forkful defeated the purpose of that political rally against consumerism, and the other made his knees jelly, whispered ‘bravo’ and ‘she is out of your league, and so well done’; his fingers held the glass too tautly, and when he saw his political guru passing the café window he lowered his head.

She asked if he would let her pay for the treat. He let her because it was too expensive. That night they exchanged a lot of texts, and Poet shared two of his instant poems. His bed sheet was wrinkled in the morning, and his amble to the toilet was the walk of shame. The other thing Poet would recall and retell about his bedroom was how it blended his mother and summer in his mind, and there could not exist anything else in that room, not even Poet, or any erotic dream about a woman who promised to meet him soon.

The period of time zigzagged into Poet’s life as he lost his job as a copywriter, met his school friends in a reunion he did not want to go to, but the woman goaded him into joining the party, and of course meeting other writers in the city.

The arguments were livid. Poet found that your fame depended on the number of titles you know. He could misquote any author. His fake quotes sounded authentic.

I tell Poet that this seems to be a story written by hormones. He chuckles. Long in our basement, his titter sounds like rainwater and leaves in a gutter; his breath smells of petrichor.

The time touched the fire and the frost; Poet’s hands bore the scald; the unbearable pride for his battle wounds rushed through his veins, so to speak. The state government spread handbills of freedom. There were intellectuals for and against the rulers and the strangers coming into the state, their hands distributing money, weapons, racist messages, and promises of a stable economy.

Poet desired to show his battle wounds to someone who would be emotional about them. Poet showed his hands. More hands than he had. More he showed the woman in red hid her own. The way with the hands, sometimes the shadows they cast on pale painted walls fly like a bird, in folks even, or bark at the other walls, and its growls are silent. The hand shadows enchant us. Enamoured, we hold their source flesh. You can grasp for the fleshy sliver of a myth, but hardly for the stability.

See, dadda. My daughter shows a pair of spotted cameo pink eggs. My wife takes those from her hands. Poet says that they may be swallow eggs, and are less than four-five days old, because after that period swallow eggs turn pasty. Or of warblers, my wife adds. I suggest, because I want to say something against the opinion, or because I want to be hardboiled, that those may belong to adders. Elora whispers, they could be the last dodo eggs; she has been reading about the dodos and passenger pigeons. There reigns finality inside her contention. Evening hatches all around our house; we wait for another half an hour before I turn on the lights; the time space in-between coils around silence, thoughts about bills and savings, and in Poet’s case – past.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Painting by Jacqueline Cole

 
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 Future

Robert Montgomery

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Remix, Revisit and Reassess

Rupt & Flex (1994 – 96), Seefeel (4CD, Warp)

There is little in Rupt & Flex to suggest Seefeel’s blissed-out beginnings making music that sparkled, echoed and droned in multi-voiced delay. This is the later incarnation, whose music is stripped back to focus on beats, clicks, rhythms and pulse, overlaid with minimal textures and sonic intervention, with only a hint of melody and song.

I have to confess I loved early Seefeel, despite a disinterest then and now in what was called shoegaze or dream pop. Seefeel seemed to exist outside those terms, their music was weightless and innovative, taking guitars and voice into new sonic territory. 1994’s Starethrough EP was a bit of a shock and heralded not only a move from the Too Pure label to Warp (where they were the only band with guitars on the roster) but a stripping down and minimalist refocussing.

Some called it ambient techno, others electronica, others simply didn’t know what to make of it. Succour, Seefeel’s first album for Warp was similarly dark and abstracted, although listening to it now I can’t see why I found it at all difficult. ‘Fracture’ is an oblique and relentlessly addictive take on Kraftwerk’s propulsive music, other tracks sound like Aphex Twin, who had remixed a track and become a friend of the band.

Aphex Twin would also release an EP-cum-album, (Ch-Vox), on his own label, which continued the band’s exploration into ambient texture and abstraction. Here, following the very wonderful ‘Net’, which closed the original album, CD3 extends the album with another six tracks. Similarly, CD2 is called Succour+ and  offers 12 new pieces of music, whilst the final CD gathers up three EPs along with a rare remix and a couple of live extended versions.

I’m not sure why I found any of this hard to listen to at the time. Presumably my head was elsewhere, following other musical avenues and I simply didn’t pay attention and make the leap as Seefeel did. Now, I can only immerse myself in this wonderful music with its careful arrangements and juxtapositions of instruments, effects and sound. If you like intelligent, exploratory music you will love this anthology with it’s varied and innovative use of instruments and studio.

I’m glad I have finally caught up and urge you not to get left behind either. If you like vinyl the music is also available as Succour (Redux) on 3LP, (Ch-Vox) Redux on 2LP and St / Fr / SP, which turns the final CD into a double vinyl album.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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HOT WATER/ ROMAN BATHS

 

In the reign of Augustus Caesar
Roman Public Baths
Numbered one hundred and fifty

But by the year three hundred
Public Baths succeeded
To be almost a thousand

Given that the Roman population
Was not metropolitan millions

That such Aqua-Leisure Centres
Were frequented every day

Has there ever lived a cleaner race?
Hot water piped the opium of its people

If thermal springs could not be found
Roman Ingenuity was invented

Petronius gave this sound advice   –
‘Beware of those who smell too sweet’

Or some might say behind that bather’s back
‘I smell a rat’

 

 

ROMAN BATHS

Stranger you insist
On washing undressed sores
Here in the public bath?

Contemptuous of custom
No doubt you think them
Jewels we all might share?

You have earned your portion
They stem from passing pleasures
Keep them for yourself   –

Death has sucked blood oranges
In you it spits the pips

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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Between four walls

 

He`d been meaning to get down to it for a while. Desire gnawing away at his brain. Although, life had a habit of getting in the way. There seemed little time to be, with so much expectation to live. Being though was not doing and doing must be done if there was ever to be any sense of completion. ‘Getting things done’, it sounded so English. Like the definite ‘rights’ we throw in the air when we are about to do.

I often feel that one of the great over sights in human history is the importance of rooves. These placid heroes of engineering have been sheltering humanity from the elements for time immemorial. Combined with the blessing of walls, required to support them, rooves have been helping to contain the mess of humanity’s day to day, thus saving the rest of society from the bother of having to witness anybody else’s strife. Enter through a gap in the wall though and shut the wood, (or more contemporary polyurethane substitute), behind you, and realities begin to merge. Here is a room of conflicting realities all attempting to coexist.

Between the walls that make up the room he sits quietly until, as if posssed by a higher power, he exclaims, ‘right then` and accompanied by a single clap of his hands, stands up, ‘ here we go’, he says.

A complaint came from the room. A young woman from Norfolk who, up until this point had been in deep discussion with two others at the table raised a voice, ‘I can’t speak for the others’,  she said, ‘but speaking for myself, I don’t want to go. If he’s going to get it done then I say he should get on with it without involving us’.

‘ Actually, I don’t mind at all’, a tall, bored looking chap who stood with his back to the sink said, without looking up from his phone. ‘I’ve not a lot on at the moment and I’d welcome the opportunity for something to do’.

The woman from Norfolk turned in her chair to face him. ‘If you’ d like to be included, that’s fine’, she said, ‘ I’m not saying you shouldn’t, but there should be some discussion before he decides we’ re all to go with him’. At which point she turned back to the table and with a sweep of her arm brought her friends, who both sat, mouths open, in to the fold of her belief.

They looked around in awkward silence. The man who was going to do, stood motionless. His hands held together in statis, unable to release them from the clap that had followed his declaration. It was as if he was hoping to pull away but his clutch sat just below biting point. The room filling with imaginary fumes as the friction wore at the plates.

The woman sitting opposite the woman from Norfolk spoke up. She was rather plummy and spoke like people probably don’t speak anymore. ‘I do wonder if perhaps the ‘ we’ in ‘here we go’ wasn’t actually metaphorical’.

‘Well, that is exactly my point’, came the curt reply. ‘If the ‘ we’ wasn’t metaphorical then he’ s included us all whether we like it or not’.

‘You misunderstand me’, her friend continued. Reaching out and placing a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘I feel I’ve confused the situation with a double negative. I simply meant that, well, oh what was it?….. Now I’ve quite lost my thread’. She turned to the man on her left, raising her eyebrows as if prompting him.

‘What?’ he shrugged. Feeling like he’ d been brought in to something without his consent. For his part, he hadn’t been paying any attention to anything being said in the room for some time. He’d left the present and had instead wondered back to the past and was engaged in a memory of a conversation he’d had with a friend that afternoon.

This friend, someone he knew from way back when, had explained to him, that something had happened to her that morning that had, in her own words, ‘tickled her pink’. It transpired that she had had an idea once and needed some clarity around it. She felt though, that should she go searching for clarity she would most likely end up muddled and it would probably be best if she just hung about until the clarity found her. It had worked and the delight in the requested clarity arriving just a few short years later was what she was sharing, to create the memory in the mind of the man who now sat at the table and was enjoying the mental image of his friend’s idea as a boat on the sea that had sent up a flare for the life boat of clarity to find, whilst in the room, being prompted to remind another friend what she was talking about.

‘I remember’ the man exhaled and his shoulders dropped in relief as his friend found the answer to her own riddle. ‘I was saying that it was most likely that the ‘ we’ in ‘here we go’ was metaphorical’.

‘The Royal ‘ we”, the man at the sink piped up. Still looking down.

‘Exactly. He wasn’ t expecting us to go along at all’. She released her grip on her friends arm and giving it a little pat, sat back in her chair, satisfied that she had brought some understanding to the situation.

The woman from Norfolk was not so easily passified. ‘Why did he say it if he didn’ t mean it?

‘It’ s metaphorical’ the room replied in chorus. Except for the man who thought he might be about to do something, who continued to be silent and motionless.

‘And what does the word even mean?’ The question hung in the air waiting for someone to catch it.

‘It’ s Greek isn’t? Doesn’t meta mean beyond, sometimes between?’ The man at the sink had batted the question back to the room.

‘ And what about phorical? ‘ the words bounced themselves to death on the floor.

As the tall man, finger on chin, begun a quiet chant.’ Phorical, phorical, phorical, phorical’ the others could sense him willing an answer toward him. The words surrounded him like satellites. ‘Phorical, phorical, phorical, phorical’.

Unwittingly the man’s incantation summound lively debate at the table. The man who was about to do, still standing with his hands clasped could hear the voices. He could even see the mouths moving but he couldn’t tell which mouth was making which noise.

‘I’ m not interested in whether or not the ‘we’ was metaphorical, royal or what. If he didn’t mean it then he shouldn’t have said it. As you can tell I take great exception with being involved in something without being asked’.

‘We’ re hardly involved are we. I’d go as far as to say we’re barely even complicit.’

‘That rather depends on what he was going to do.’

‘Surely you mean, what he is going to do. He hasn’t done anything yet’.

‘He must have done something, we’ve all done something’.

‘Breathing, blinking’.

‘For goodness sake, you know exactly what I mean’.

‘Who does? ‘

‘You all do’

‘We all do what?’

‘Lots of things’

‘When?’

‘All the time’

‘Even him?’

‘Even him.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘I don’t know but if we’re all going along I want to know where we are going and what we are about to do’.

‘We don’t know that he is about to do anything’.

‘But he clapped his hands. Said ‘ right’ in a masterly way’.

‘Like he was in charge’

‘In charge of what?’

‘Himself I suppose.’

‘Not all of us then?’

‘I certainly didn’t put him in charge’.

‘In charge of what?

‘ Us’.

‘In charge of us doing what?’

‘We don’t necessarily have to be doing anything for him to claim authority over us.’

‘ Why would he do that?’

‘Ego. A desire for superiority?’

He felt the eyes in the room searching him for any signs that might prove their point.

‘That would be typical of a man that would’. Offered the woman from Norfolk.

Her friend leapt to the defence, ‘I’m not sure body shape has anything to do with wishing to claim superiority over others. I know plenty of woman who desire the same. It’s little throw away comments like that that hold us all back’.

‘I’m not being held back by anyone’, sald the man to her left, now fully engaged. ‘Just because she said something doesn’ t mean I have to believe it. I might just think she’s stupid’.

‘Well that is nice’. The woman from Norfolk’s  sarcasm rang like a bell to signal the end of the round.

As if to reflect the atmosphere in the room, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Rain now battered the glass door behind the stationary doer, and the wind, finding a crack in the old window frame, sent a low, pitiful whistle to spin in the silence.

Then, without warning, the doing man uncoupled his hands, took a deep breath and with a heavy sigh, bent his knees, re-finding his chair. The defeatest streak in his family ran all the way back to the Anglo-Saxon. It didn’t hurt to be beaten. Not any more.

The time would come.

 

 

 

Ben Greenland

 

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How to Be a Flawed Person

Reflect the world in its fucked-up state.
Colour-code your eyes for each disaster.
Protect your so-male privilege. Don’t
let voices differ. Insist
only you are ever right.

Pretend you have money, or own it,
never actually living if you’re not
three thou in the red. Pick up an expensive
opioid habit. Smoke. Do cocaine. Do heroin.
Do cocaine AND heroin.
Drink champagne from Harrod’s.

Throw your rubbish in the sea. Point out
you’re doing it. Throw your dirty laundry
into your neighbours’ gardens, or
into offshore tax havens.
Blame everything on millennials.

Touch lots of women.
Reinforce honour killings.
Support rapists.
Make that borderline your highway.

Support military spending.
Send pacifists to the front line.
Own many guns. Own many people
to shoot them for you.
Believe #alllivesmatter.

I must say, you’re doing awfully well.

Jennifer A McGowan
Illustration: Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

.

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TWO FINGERS OF WHISKEY

Like a young Tom Waits, he leant against the bar
and knocked back two fingers of whiskey
losing himself in the barmaid’s kohl-rimmed eyes
and the melancholic music of her humming.

She huffed on the glassware and shone it
with nonchalant swipes of her dishcloth,
polishing his loneliness. How he ached
to switch stools with the pianist on stage,

looking for her sadness and finding it
in the silences between the songs…
those pauses held him mesmerised until
the world came flooding back in glugs of rye:

was that the ice cubes cracking in his glass,
or just her fingers closing round his heart?

 

Andy Brown

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PONDERING while WANDERING

 
On my morning rambles to the shops
I like to contemplate
Today it was on the ad hoc nature
And the randomness of fate
 
None of us know the time or means
By which we will leave this Earth
Just as in the way we had no control

Over the events around our birth

So I could meet my maker
Sound asleep in my bed
Or
Like Aeschyclus
When an Eagle
Dropped a Tortoise
On his head…
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Harry Lupino
Photo Nick Victor

 

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Street Writer – Philosophical fables part four

 

Prayer

 

If it is rubbish
Forget about it

Take glory in what did work

Work on it consistently
If it needs work

Send it off constantly
Through the right channels

Create abundantly
While staying straight with your god in your process

And when there is nothing going on
Then do fucking NOTHING

 

In this last section of the Philosophical Fables for the Street Writer column I am going elaborate on a few ideas I had for potential articles.

So, let’s just spit out some ideas on some subjects about art and life ha ha!

 

(Potential article ideas)

 

.We don’t understand life but it doesn’t stop us from living it –

I love this idea because it is so true! I came up with this saying after having a chat with my father in his car. He was talking down to me about the content of my poetry! He said to me ‘why do you always have to talk about sex in your work son?’ I replied ‘do you like Eminem dad?’ ‘Yeah I do, why?’ ‘He talks a lot about sex and he can be even more obscene than me, so what is the difference with me?’ he didn’t speak for a minute and I broke the silence with this ‘dad, do you enjoy life?’ ‘Yes, of course I do.’ ‘Well, we don’t understand life but we still live it anyways.’ He didn’t speak back to me and he dropped me off!

 

.No theory is wrong and no theory is right. Theories can always be broken for a new one. A theory is just an individual idea. They are all acceptable. (Life, death, love, art)…

This idea is just a personal one for me. Basically I think everyone has a theory about life, love, art and death and I don’t think any of it is right or wrong because theories are being made and broken every day. So, you just have to figure out your own theory behind all of this… but all I can say is this: just be sure it is done and executed with a soft and good heart!

 

.Learn a trade – I was avant-garde – waiter – shop assistant – school education – art of conversation – writer – painter – drummer – actor – martial artist – skater.

I think all we are here for is to learn a trade and contribute that trade (or your gift if you like) and give that back to the people in your life so it will make this life a bit easier on you and society! We all have a role to play!

 

.Contribution – no matter what way you go about it – on benefits or working a real job – as long as you are contributing something to the world – I like to entertain others with humour and depth… others are committed to sharing love – make sure you are doing it.

This idea kinda combines with the ‘learn a trade idea’… but all that matters is that you are constantly and consistently doing it no matter how you start it – a job or no job – or on your own or with a partner etc etc etc. Just make sure you START!

 

.A steady ride – after a long journey and you get back home – you don’t want to go too fast and you don’t want to go too slow – and like life – go steady and smooth.

This idea is mainly about balance! This life is harsh enough as it is and you just want to make it a steady and smooth ride. Never go too fast or too slow! Just go with the flow, because we are all heading in the same direction. So, make it a beautiful one for everyone and everything around you, because we all know there are enough arseholes out there that are going to fuck it all up for us if we let them!

 

.Not one of us on this planet understands what life really is, but it does not stop us from living within it. Sometimes things have no meaning and can’t be understood.

This kinda steps on the toes on the first idea I wrote about it… but sometimes things have no meaning and can’t be understood. So, make your peace with that. Maybe when we’re not here it might make sense… but that’s not a guarantee! But again, that theory could be broken in the future and we will have new divine eyes and new ideas! Who knows?

 

.The GREAT end!!!! –

When it comes to your life and your art as a writer I believe the only thing that matters is how you end it – it has to be profoundly great! I always get complimented on the last lines of my poems and other stories! Critics always say ‘I love the way you started it and the way you ended it.’ I always like a good start, I don’t necessarily care what I talk about in the middle, but I always have to leave them with a great line at the end so they can take that home with them!

 

End prayer

 

A dream well lived

 

You placed it upon yourself

To be the gentleman and the poet

The greatness may never come to fruition

All that matters to the poet

Is sitting in front of the page

All that matters to the gentleman

Is to force out the love when he has no love

Even if the work is not published

Even if the love is not received back

He will still live it

Like the rest of them before him

Who were not celebrated globally

And went unnoticed to many hearts and minds

And he will end it

As empty as his coffee cup

And finished cigarette

With no breath left to live

Only the memories of a dream well lived

 

Last note:

I started this article with a poem/prayer and I have ended it with it another. I thought I would change it up a little. Hopefully you enjoyed this section of the Street Writer column and it will continue with another section – maybe… all about LOVE!

 

PBJ

 

<3

 

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SAUSAGE LIFE 178

 

 

 
 
 
 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano

The column that comes with its own cockroach flap.

 

READER: Ahoy there Grumpy! I hope the election result has put you in a better mood…

MYSELF: Indeed it has. Its the kind of result that makes you want to roll in dung, lie face down on a tea towel and flog it on Ebay as the Turin Shroud. How about you?

READER:  Well actually Mrs Reader and I are off to Spain for a fortnight just as soon as we’ve got our vaccination passports, visas and internationally recognised leisure permits, so I was wondering if you could recommend a good holiday read? I’m a devil for my books I am.

MYSELF:  What sort of thing do you like?

READER:  Anything about zombies, vampires or bent coppers. I’ve always had a broad taste in literature.  

MYSELF:  What about something historical, or a good biography?

READER: I’ll give anything a go, as long as it’s got vampires or zombies or corrupt policemen in it.  Oh, and I’m quite fond of books about musicals.

MYSELF: I was going to suggest a book about none of those.
READER: I’m intrigued, go on then.
MYSELF:  Have you read Hitler’s Cats, by Jurgen Von Strumph? Here’s what the reviewers said:

 

“If you love cats and are fascinated

by The Fuhrer, this is the book for

you……”  
Cecil Wright-Kant

Mail on Sunday

 

“An in depth look at Hitler’s many

cats, including Wi-Wong the

Siamese with a penchant for caviar,

morphine and cocaine, and

Dusseldorf, the legendary killer

Manx”……………………

Tony Cohonie

GQ Magazine

 

“A riot! One of the funniest books

about Hitler’s cats I have ever read.

…this romping roller coaster of

emetic hilarity positively crackles with titters, like a thousand giggling japanese

tourists.…………………….”

Maureen Peccadillo,

Cat World

 

 
 
 

On the other hand if its musicals you’re fond of, the book to be seen frying on the beach with this summer is going to be Slumdog Milliner,  the song-infested tale of a poor child from Mumbai who decides to go into the hat business. It comes with a CD and a lottery ticket.

READER: I think I’ll give the cat one a miss thanks, but a CD and a lottery ticket? And hats? What’s not to like? Slumdog sounds right up my street! By the way, what are your holiday plans this year?

MYSELF: I’m thinking of not taking a walking holiday in either the Lake District or Scotland and staying at home with a sun-lamp.

 

POETRY CORNER

This week’s offering comes from Alistair Milqueflote’s debut collection, Guilt-Edged Securities. Alistair, who is senior chorister at The Beyondenden Chapel of The Fallen Angel, lives in Upper Dicker with 27 rescue owls and a flock of Tibetan llamas. In his spare time he plays Dixieland jazz and collects rare trousers.


MASTURBATION
Masturbation is a sin
Along with cunnilingus.
And so are all the other things
Done with mouths
And fingus


BOY’S HEAD FOUND IN SANDWICH

Carlton Mangrove, headmaster of St. Bodolph’s academy for boys, who has been missing for several weeks, has been found by police in Kent, where he was discovered hiding in a concealed tunnel under the pelican enclosure at Sandwich’s famous zoological attraction, World of Beaks.

“Once it got out that I had faked all my qualifications, my headmastering world caved in”, the principal confessed to our reporter Imogen Sandcastle, “and when the job I was offered as a tosser at the Deal branch of Pancakes R Us failed to materialize and the two Nigerian gentlemen to whom I had handed over my passport and £2,000 in cash simply disappeared, I panicked.” Mr. Mangrove, 56,  who still lives with his mother Doris, a former cocktail waitress from Piddinghoe and has to wear surgically corrective sandals which chafe when he runs, was remanded for psychological reports.

 

CHEESE & WHINE

Hastings’ resident boffin Gordon Thinktank has perfected his latest invention, a revolutionary machine which turns full cream milk into cheese, using only a recording of the voice of Liz Truss, from which all frequencies below 20khz have been removed.

 

READER: How would that work? Surely no one would be able to hear it.

 

MYSELF: That’s the whole point. Only dogs can hear it. And milk.

 

Thinktank’s other recent inventions have included a heated waterproof bodystocking for taking cold showers in the winter, a revolving gas-powered toothpaste dispenser, a clamp for holding down frisky parrots, a hand knitted ashtray for smoker’s cardigans, and earrings which glow in the dark during air raids.

 

 

SOCCER TRAGEDY

Cockmarlin Thunderbolts 8  Hastings & St Leonards Warriors 0 

Frustrated Warriors fans could be seen moping around town like sulky adolescents this weekend, and with good reason. The 2020/21 campaign is effectively over for the club, who are now mathematically unable to avoid relegation and will have to compete next season in the Hobson’s Denture Fixative League (south), following yet another humiliating 8-0 defeat.  

As one angry supporter told us: “Recently appointed manager Giovani Fuctivano (The Goalfather) has got to go. As if insulting the fans by renaming historic Warrior Park Stadia Cosa Nostra and changing the colour of the team shirts from imperial purple to mauve with peppermint polka dots were not bad enough, he has sold Reg Pompadour, our best player, to a male escort agency.”

This is what the bottom of the Nuclear Waste Disposal Solutions League (South) looked like after the final whistle blew on Saturday:

 

                                                                   P      W      D        L         F       A         Pts

Upper Dicker Macaroons   (R)       32     2       5        21       16     39        11

Cockmarlin Thunderbolts  (R)        31     2      4        8         16     42        10

Hastings & St Leonards W (R)       32     0       0       32         0      256       0

 

After the game, Hastings’ owner, Spanish sausage millionaire José Pypebahn, spoke to our reporter.

“Giovani’s tactics were faultless. The lads were magnificent. Mathematically we should have won. If it hadn’t been for dyslexic Tourette’s sufferer Craig Cattermole’s sending off in the first minute for calling the referee a wakner and a cucksrocker, and Deiter Klansmann’s recurring groin, we would have been in with a chance.”

“The Thunderbolt’s pitch was a disgrace. It sloped from left to right in the first half, and then from right to left in the second, so we were kicking uphill for the entire match. The ball was too round, and kept rolling away from our players. The referee just happens to be their manager’s brother-in-law and owes their Colombian striker £300 for cocaine. Cockmarlin’s goalie had a spider in a matchbox which he waved about to frighten Nobby Balaclava our centre forward every time he got the ball, and Signor Chorizio our club mascot had to put up with an unacceptable tirade of abuse whenever he tried to entertain the crowd by waving his inflatable wienerschnitzel.”

“Obviously we are disappointed, and our main task next season will be to strengthen the squad, gain immediate promotion from the Hobson’s Denture Fixative League (south), and put this club right back up in the top flight where it belongs.”

 

READER: Do you actually get paid for this rubbish?

MYSELF:  An absolute fortune, but every penny goes to my favourite charity.

READER: Oh I’m so sorry! Me and my big mouth! Which charity is that, if I may ask?

MYSELF: Guard Dogs for The Rich.

READER: Fair play. I stand corrected, as the satisfied customer said to the orthopedic shoe salesman. You’re a saint and no mistake.

 

Sausage Life!

 

 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 
 

CAUTION

DO NOT BUY THIS PRODUCT

 
 

GREENSHILL BLUES
EX-PRIME MINISTERS MAY NOT BE SURPRISED AT THIS UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

POLITIKAL POKES

By Lobbytroll

BACKSTAGE PASS

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 
 

BY COLIN GIBSON

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The Lion, the Witch and the Breadshed

 

(A Cumbrian diary, part 1 perhaps)

The Deadbeats versus Cartmel cakes, Christmas Eve 2020

 

Fairly early last Christmas Eve, the two deadbeats and I, slowly but not too slowly, decided to take advantage of a bright sunny morning, to walk Over the Fell to the breadshed. I mean we’d half decided this the day before . . . if the weather was good, if we felt like it, if the deadbeats got up early enough, if all the astral bodies were aligned and I could get the kettle to work and the marmalade didn’t run out. It’s unfair to call the deadbeats that. For a start, my daughter objects to the name – though not very much. ‘I’m not a deadbeat – I look posh compared to you two.’ This is true. I in fact, am the most deadbeat looking of us. Being considerably older, this is probably inavoidable – but since I applied the name and rarely appear in the photos, I am fortunately invisible. Also fortunately, my son Kit appears to relish the sobriquet, and so, sought out his most deadbeat attire for the journey . . . well, it just happened to be lying in wait in the porch, since at that time of year, washing must be kept to a minimum. Good drying weather is scarce and I’ve never been one to stoop to the use of new-fangled drying devices. Washing has to be in the SUN and AIR. Nothing is really clean without that.

Ascending Hampsfell, Morecambe Bay in the distance, December the 24th, 2020

 

As it turned out, the wind from the east, especially strong on the top of Hampsfell was icy and Kit was as glad of his hoodie as I was of The Monstrosity. The Monstrosity is so ARRESTINGLY ORANGE that it ought to be voted leader of the Deadbeats. Unfortunately, high visibilty orange coats lack any degree of consciousness – as far as we know . . . but is consciousness a vital requirement to be a leader these days? Consciousness or not, I always take The Monstrosity with us (or me) on walks or cycles except in times of heatwave – those increasingly unpredictable events which now seem liable at any time of year, sometimes followed by snow an hour later, meaning that perhaps, before long, The Monstrosity will never be left behind. In any case, it is always useful for sitting on.

Deadbeat plant, November 2020

As with the title of this ramble, the moniker ‘deadbeats’ may be more about style than content. On the other hand, given enough rambling, I might stumble on a reason or meaning for both?

Impressive water tank support, nr Silverdale, November 2020

 

Personally, I was never a devotee of C S Lewis, and despite reading some of the Narnia books to at least one of my children, back in the early 90s[i], barely remember them. But in a mainstream mood, I did enjoy the 1993 film Shadowlands[ii] – at least before it became too tragic. I can’t bear to see the luminous Debra Winger (as Joy Gresham) with her wonderful gravelly voice, become ill. Instead, I fixate on the atmospheric house that Anthony Hopkins (as C S) shares with brother “Warnie”. It feels both suburban and yet in the middle of nowhere . . . and it’s no surprise that rather than at Headington on the edge of Oxford, the house used in the film is in Surrey[iii].  Edward Hardwicke (as “Warnie” Lewis), I shall always see as Doctor Watson to Jeremy Brett’s Holmes . . . hence that superb underlying calm and reassuring handling of pipes.

Phoenix tapestry by Kirsten, Frizington, November 2020

 

Though it may be obvious that the Lion represents Christ[iv] I’ve never bothered to pursue the idea, subsequently preferring to imagine some strange fundemental overlap with the lion in Van Morrison’s Listen to the Lion[v]; perferring to think of what I remember of the books as harmless, nostalgic, fairy tale rather than Christian allegory with very dubious elements[vi]. As a child (and since) I always preferred Alan Garner – and as the deadbeats and I crossed Hampsfell with its dazzling views over Morecambe Bay to our left and the whole panorama of the Lakeland mountains to our right, it was easy to imagine the landscape becoming one of Garner’s transitional worlds.

Longlands Manor Folly,  Dec 24th 2020

 

Deflecting around the Hampsfell Hospice tower[vii] we descended towards Aynsome (“aint they Aynsome”, would not be the way bystanders would describe the deadbeats) via Longlands Manor Folly, a place which remains shrounded in mystery – at least to us. I can obtain no information about it at all. Here, where all traces of frost had disappeared despite snow and ice patching the summit of Hempsfell, in the typical manner of youth today, I was abused by the grinning deadbeats. By the way, Longlands is only Longlands, I just added the Manor bit because I like the sound of it. The folly has no name that I’m aware of and may have no connection with Longlands whatsoever.

Winter driveway, Dec 24th 2020

 

The footpaths from the base of Hempsfell are very varied and appealling. Past walled gardens, through the grounds and along the driveways of mansions, the deadbeats threaded between low sunbeams in the crisp air. Stone clapper bridges crossed glittering streams and passed on into winter woods, open and strewn with rocks. Wardrobes lurked, witches whispered and lions mumbled. Fields and lanes led on to the edge of Cartmel.

Other paths which traverse the famous local racecourse the deadbeats spurned – since by now they were hungry and harbouring hopes of a pub . . .

Sadly, both pubs in Cartmel’s central square looked to have closed for good – probably bankrupted by covid. Never mind, anything other than a drink would have cost more than a mane and a broomstick anyway. Other than for the owners of the pubs, not too much was lost. The deadbeats had a back up plan: some cheese, bread and olives (the usual), rocket, watercress and cans of beer. Ensconsed on the perfect bench in the grounds of the priory – in the sun and (almost) out of the wind – all they lacked was warm coffee. The flask was cold, though laced with rum. As always, though they scare away the usual villagers and customers, the deadbeats leave places as they find them. Have no fear, they scorn all litter.

 

 Cartmel Peninsula, food share shed, Christmas Eve 2020

 

So what of The Breadshed? It’s not really called that. That’s just our name for the Cartmel Peninsula, food share hut – independent, outlying node of a network formed by local people to redistribute food discarded by the big supermarket chains. In Lancashire and Cumbria alone, this network supplies food to 10,000 people every week[viii]. In that sense I could say that The Breadshed forms a gateway to a better world – but the wood it’s made from looks pretty ordinary. No trees grown from apple pips[ix] nor wood of the True Cross ever went into its making. Although bread is one of its primary ingredients, it often fills with all manner of other goods: fruit and vegetables, medicines and teabags, books and films. Even bananas from Banarnia. Since well before the first lockdown (during which its value increased enourmously) the Breadshed has worked in tandem with a pretty effective foodshare scheme operating regionally[x]. I ought to know, as I’ve often become one of its unwitting minor minions. But this is a good thing. Despite the strange gluts I have personally had to consume – unwanted after even our redistribution: whole rounds of Stilton, 12 cartons of natural yoghurt, an entire tray of pomegrantes, which everyone else got tired of peeling and dissecting despite their supposed aphrodsiac qualities . . . this is obviously a good thing.

Cue the Deadbeats – short cut across the golf course, 24th Dec 2020

 

Ascending towards the fell again, we somehow lost the proper footpath and were obliged to take a short cut across the golf course. This very useful stile (pictured above and below) is for golfers to find lost balls on the lower slopes of the fell, not for the convenience of the deadbeats.

Deadbeats against private property!  Christmas Eve 2020

Hempsfell twilight, December 24th 2020

 

Up on the crest of Hempsfell the wind is strong and freezing again, the light and mood becoming primeval.

 

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben

Cumbria, April 2021

 

[email protected]

 

 

 

NOTES

[i]  Email from my eldest son, from April 10th 2020 during a period in which my granddaughters were obsessed with the Narnia books and later the 80s/90s BBC adaptations:   “The idea (obvious in a way) that both hope and nostalgia aspire to timelessness has also been much on my mind recently because of Narnia.” . . . “so, I’ve re-read most of the books in the last few months and last week came across a whole chapter in The Silver Chair which is a riff on Plato, which I unsurprisingly didn’t notice as a child.” 

[ii] www.imdb.com/title/tt0108101/ 

[iii] movie-locations.com/movies/s/Shadowlands.php 

[iv] www.litcharts.com/lit/the-lion-the-witch-and-the-wardrobe/themes/christian-allegory

[v] en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Listen_to_the_Lion   

See:  www.youtube.com/watch?v=xgPJtIpQtjo&ab_channel=HansvanderLinden

[vi] www.theguardian.com/uk/2002/jun/03/gender.hayfestival2002  Unlike the “right-wing columnist” who attacked Philip Pullman as “the most dangerous author in Britain” and “semi-satanic”, Pullman was known in our house as Poptarts (after the sickly-sweet breakfast things) for the sugar-coating of his early works perhaps, and also, unfairly, for the irritating children’s voices which shrilled from various audiobooks at varying times of the day. 

[vii] www.visitcumbria.com/sl/hampsfell-hospice/

[viii] www.recyclinglives.com/social-value/food-redistribution

[ix] narnia.fandom.com/wiki/Wardrobe 

[x] Ibid  www.recyclinglives.com/social-value/food-redistribution

 

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How London’s Original Underground Paper ‘International Times’ Fought the Straight Press

The International Times of London wielded its irreverent, satirical, often juvenile sense of humor as a weapon against real censorship and state repression

 

“We had the launch party at the Roundhouse in Camden. It had been used for storing gin, and had been abandoned for seventeen years. It was just a big space with a balcony that was apparently unsafe. But it was ideal for IT. Soft Machine and The Pink Floyd played. I remember paying them – Pink Floyd got £15 because they had a light show, and Soft Machine got £12. Although they had a motorcycle on stage, so maybe that was a bit unfair.”
– Barry Miles

 

International Times

 

“Holy cow! It’s another dirty commie smut rag!” exclaims Captain America from the cover of a March 1971 issue of International Times. Unlike many of its later imitators, the now-infamous International Times of London, or IT (as it was compelled to call itself after a lawsuit by the Times), wielded its irreverent, satirical, often juvenile sense of humor as a weapon against real censorship and state repression. Five years after its 1966 founding, the pioneering underground paper had weathered more than its share of police raids and lawsuits. It had also published what must be the most sympathetic interview with Charles Manson ever recorded, ending with the send-off, “You’re a more charitable man than I, Mr. Manson.”

In 1973, the first, radically original iteration of IT was forced to shut down after a conviction for running ads for gay men to contact each other. It reappeared later at various times under various other publishers over the next several decades and briefly tried to compete with glossier magazines. But never again after the early seventies did the underground “dirty commie rag” so scandalize conservative British society while also publishing some of the most prominent voices of the counterculture and launching a sustained critique against the monarchy and the staid literary establishment ( in particular, the poetry world).

 

International Times

 

 

 

As co-founding editor Barry Miles tells it, according to journalist Alex Watson, “It’s very, very difficult now to imagine how straight England was, even in the mid 60s. It was a very black and white world then… The idea of anyone from our community writing for the Guardian or the Times was inconceivable. None of the papers had any popular music coverage in those days. Our group of people needed somewhere to express themselves, so in early 1966, Hoppy (John Hopkins) and I started to put it together.”

 

International Times

 

They did so with backing from Miles’ friend Paul McCartney, whom Miles had first introduced to hash brownies with a recipe from The Alice P. Toklas Cookbook. The paper was launched in 1966 with a benefit promoted as an “All Night Rave” and featuring Soft Machine and Pink Floyd. Another 1967 benefit at London’s Alexandra Palace featured Pink Floyd, Yoko Ono, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, and more. The “straight” world fought back, as Dugald Baird writes at The Guardian:

Like fellow underground title Oz, whose editors (including Richard Neville, Jim Anderson and future magazine mogul Felix Dennis) faced notorious obscenity trials, IT experienced continual harassment from the authorities. The paper’s offices were raided for the first time in March 1967, when 8,000 copies were seized on grounds of obscenity. The charges were later dropped. In 1970 it charged with conspiracy to corrupt public morals by printing gay contact ads in its back pages. It was convicted in 1972 and temporarily closed down.

Although multiple police raids failed to put IT out of business for years, it continued to need funds. The paper’s many “heavyweight supporters” helped keep it afloat, says Miles:

The first few issues had a lot of serious articles by William Burroughs about the overthrow of the state. He used it as his platform to work out his ideas. And there was Ginsberg too. All the usual suspects. When we were running out of money, I was talking to Paul McCartney about it, and he said, ‘Well, you should interview me, then you’ll get ads from the record companies.’ And I thought, ‘hey, he might be on to something.’ So I interviewed him, and then George Harrison, and then the next week Mick Jagger called up, demanding to be interviewed too. And Paul was right, we got ads from the record companies.

While McCartney participated in supporting the magazine (and Miles later worked for Apple records, producing LPs of poetry by Richard Brautigan and Allen Ginsberg), the paper retained an aggressively egalitarian, contrarian editorial independence bordering on the anarchic. “IT wasn’t properly edited,” says Miles. “It depended a lot on people bringing stuff in.”

 

International Times

 

 

 

In a February 1968 issue, Allen Ginsberg wrote a critical review of the Maharishi’s appearance at the Plaza hotel the previous month. Despite his special status for countercultural celebrities like the Beatles, Ginsberg found him none too impressive and didn’t decline to say so — both to the assembled devotees at the time and later in print. He described many of the guru’s statements as “inexperienced or ignorant and unfamiliarly authoritarian,” as well as “dim-witted.” Nothing was sacred to the many editors of the International Times during its first, seven-year run, but its thoroughgoing irreverence was as much a deliberate offense against what its publishers saw as the phony decorum of Fleet Street as it was a natural byproduct of the contributors’ heterodox attitudes.

 

International Times

 

While the underground paper’s format influenced the genesis and growth of periodicals like Time Out, the oppositional attitudes and underground knowledge contained within the pages of IT may have existed in few other places in print outside the U.S. and France at the time. All of that is on display in an online archive of all the original issues. “It seems fitting,” writes Baird, “given the ethos of the paper, that it lives on as an internet resource; in a sense, the ‘community’ that it once served has now moved online.” In a sense, so has everything else, including the latest version of IT, “the magazine of resistance.” Several of the magazine’s former writers — such as Germaine Greer and John Peel — have shown up often over the past several years in mainstream publications like The Guardian. But they first appeared in the page of IT.

 

International Times

 

International Times

 

International TimesInternational TimesInternational TimesInternational Times

 

 

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Steam’s Groove NO. 9

Tracklist:
The Ramsey Lewis Trio – Do What You Wanna
Cold Blood – Baby I Love You
Lee Austin – Screwdriver
Eddie Harris – It’s All Right Now
Bobby Hutcherson – Ummh
The Mad Lads – I Forgot to be Your Lover
James Mason – Sweet Power Your Embrace
David Axelrod – Mucho Chupar
The Pointer Sisters – Don’t it Drive You Crazy
Weldon Irvine – Love Jones
Nina Simone – Funkier Than a Mosquito’s Tweeter
Chér – For What it’s Worth
Hal Singer – Malcom X

Steam Stock

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Torquay Drift

  

It was the wrong Riviera
and the sunshine went wasted.
An enormous toilet posed as a pub,
with the drift-life on two pound a pint
from breakfast till night.
Carloads of boys raced up the seafront,
driving badly to war music.
When dark space unfolded from the water
lines of merry fire danced on yacht masts
Moths went bipolar, wondering which way to die.
In the harbor, the sea chewed steadily
until everything turned dull in its mouth.

How did we even find that place?
Nothing left of the sign but
a hissing slice of red down wet stairs.
The owner was leaning on the bar,
sparkling fishnet vest,
mid-period Brando as Captain Neptune
kitbag full of soft ropes and butter.
His barman mate was all bone, ponytail,
borrowed teeth and a nail through the nose
They were both pleased to see us.

The drinks went down, the action rose.
A storm of gnarly girls blew in
all madly in love with each other.
Shot glasses of vodka were pimped
in the palette of Disney insects.
A DJ began to fill the universe with broken noise
The tables, all awash, were jumping
on their scarred legs
the walls ran with psychotic rainbows
or disowned tattoos.
The right Riviera, after all.

 

 

 

Jay Jeff Jones 

Illustration by

Martin Sudden

 

 

 

 

Jay Jeff Jones – 02/05/02

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FREE POETRY BOOKS

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Herself

 

            In the whistling dawn
            She is a dew reflected tracery
            Of gold and green: her passing
            Stirs the lees.

            Only half-aware at first,
            He sifts through phrases,
            Stones sized and chosen
            For their shape,
            Their polished lustre.

            She was a murmur on his page,
            Elusive,
            A rising breeze,
            Became his eyes and ears,
            Let him assume the transparent ease
            Of a blind man playing knucklebones.
                                    *
            My eyes were fledged
            In the monochrome of Winter,
            A blitzkrieg wheeled and ricocheted
           About my head.

            Dawn shifts across the trees
            And fronds are hooded
            With an aftertaste of night.
            In this silence we will sow
            Our seeds, sink down
            Through brimming light.

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

 

 

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Fallowed Flowers

Planting foreign alphabets
into the fallowed soil
praying to the saints
and sinners that prophecies 
shall arise as the sun peers
from the ragged stormy sky
that cloaks the very gods above

 

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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50 Things About Us

 

What We Really Need to Know About Britain

…its money, history, songs, gongs, wigs, unicorns, guns, bungs, sods of soil and rich fuckers

Mark Thomas


www.septemberpublishing.org

https://markthomasinfo.co.uk/

Alan Dearling conjures some words about this book

One senses that comedian-activist Mark Thomas and September Publishing realised that the Covid Time was The Right Time for this book. It’s a rant. A polemic. A Rage Against the Machine. It’s informative, challenging, frequently misleading and inaccurate (HMS Victory is in Plymouth, anyone?), thought-provoking, naughty, sometimes funny and humorous, and more than mildly irritating. I guess or suspect that many might say this about Mark Thomas. As is suggested in the blurb about him on the back-inside cover:

“Mark Thomas has been performing comedy for 35 years…He was a Guinness World Record holder for holding 20 protests in 24 hours…He has performed across the world including a squatted MP’s second home, on the roof of a multi-storey carpark, in the ring of a cattle market and outside a military base.”

Certainly, ‘agent provocateur’ seems an apt description. And such is this book. It is designed to annoy.

The Royals, The Windsors, come in for shit-loads of flak, as does anyone who is rich. This ‘History’ is about peasants (Us – the good guys) and Them (what he calls the ‘Rich Fuckers’ – mostly Slavers, apparently, with oodles of inherited wealth!). There’s an awful lot of info about the British Empire, its crimes, ‘stolen artefacts’, in some cases, stolen countries such as Gibraltar, the Falkland Islands and Chagos. Mark is not a fan of the British Museum and suggested to them that he should become one of its Trustees. His aim would be to hand back much of its nicked horde. And replace it with Rough music (a sort of permanent DiY Clap for Carers); Punk Rock and drill music; Marches – from the 1920s’ Hunger Marches, CND Ban the Bomb, the Miners’ Strike, the Iraq War demos; Fish and Chips“Immigrant food…the first fish and chip shop was opened by a Jewish immigrant in 1860 in London”; Kindertransport: “…was the project that saw nearly 10,000 Jewish children evacuated from Nazi Germany come to live in the UK.” And Two Rooms for Ian Dury: “You can never have too many.”

It’s a book of short sections, ‘Mark Thomas-Bytes’, you could say, interspersed with quotes from the infamous and famous. For example:

“Who knows what hellish future lies ahead? Actually I do, I’ve seen the rehearsals.” Terry Wogan

This is a book that makes you smile, think, and get a bit hot and bothered. Both about the contents, the wrongs that we need to learn about, and also concerning the Thoughts of Mark Thomas. There is nothing about which Mark doesn’t have a view. He is always Right. He is Maddening in extremis.

As he suggests right at the outset:

“Never ever stop being shocked that Boris Johnson became Prime Minister. Do not be tempted to settle for acceptance. Acceptance is political methadone…We elected a man-child who has been sacked twice for lying. He can not even say publicly how many children he has spawned…He is a narcissist with a sideline in homophobia and racism, describing Muslim women as ‘letter-boxes’ and black people as having ‘watermelon smiles’…he has the moral principles of a hippo and the scruples of syphilis.”

There’s lot more Mark Thomas available on-line.

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Critical Lives

Henri Matisse, Kathryn Brown (223pp, Reaktion Books)
The Final Revival of Opal & Nev, Dawnie Walton (360pp, Quercus)

I just finished wading through the recent biography of the painter Francis Bacon, and boy was it dull. Mostly, I decided after I’d gratefully put the massive tome aside, because it was literally just a biography, with very little of relevance to its subject as an artist, which I am assuming is why most people would read the book in the first place!

It’s a relief, therefore, to turn to Kathryn Brown’s book about Matisse, the latest in Reaktion Books’ Critical Lives series which looks at the artist’s life in relation to his work. What informed and underpinned Matisse’s experiments in colour, shape and form is central for Brown here, with thematic chapters on his interest in fashion and textiles, moving at the end – as Matisse ages and becomes infirm – to focus on his cut-out shapes and stained glass. It’s effortlessly and engagingly told, a sprightly and readable critical biography. Brown clearly understands that the reason to find out about Matisse is primarily his painting and sculpture, that family, fame, history and culture are the support for this discussion, not the focus.

Even better is Dawnie Walton’s novel The Final Revival of Opal and Nev, a fictional oral history of one of rock’s (imaginary) great duos. Walton has invented and assembled a whole cast of supporting characters who reveal and comment on Opal’s and Nev’s lives, relationship, music and history. Apart from a few minor slippages in relation to Nev’s UK background (the novel is mostly set in the USA; Nev is from Birmingham in the Midlands) it’s an amazingly written and constructed book, a ‘biography’ that manages to offer critique and comment on race, gender, politics and the music business without ever interrupting or digressing from the story.

At times it’s also very funny. Opal’s sister Pearl can be pious and religious, but also devious and manipulative, whilst record company executives can be greedy, selfish and inept but occasionally have the best intentions. In the end this is a book about us, about the society we have made, a society built on sexism, racism and money, which tries to monetarise everything and everyone. It is also about resisting that and finding one’s own way: Opal is self-assured and rebellious from the word go, and is not afraid to scupper her chance(s) of fame and fortune if the need to confront, challenge or resist is required.

In an age when it is more important than ever to ask ourselves what kind of society we want, this book about Black experience, cultural suppression and appropriation, music and self-expression is well-timed and should be required reading. Using a chorus of differing voices to tell the story allows a wide spectrum of issues and ideas to be raised without the reader feeling preached at: more than anything else this is an engaging and fun read, a case of fiction being truer and more revealing than fact.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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Enlightenment at 3 a.m.

 

the economy only, monopoly money now,
the value of assets,
relative,
decided with a wink and a nod,
health, long ago down the rabbit hole,
the Mad Hatter,
a gray haired creature,
Fauci,
incoherent and incompetent,
babbling on endlessly, while no one listens anymore,
science now,
decided and discovered,
by the number of votes a concept receives,
global warming, a bogeyman,
it exists, but is it all bad,
white coated scientists,
still living with mom and dad,
throwing tantrums like the children they are,
the truth,
we are already fucked,
stopping global warming,
only a big fucking ‘wet’ dream,
it always has been,
except for the fringe nerdy types,
choking on their own superiority,
and intellect,
government and science,
behind the curtain,
not the “Great Oz”,
just sad, sad little men,
full of themselves, their own importance,
and the confused shit of the times,
they mistook for knowledge.

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Stonehege Festival 2012/2021

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Our Friend Julian

 
 
 
If you missed it, catch it here. Eleven writers’ voices for Julian Assange. The range of pieces is tremendous. No rants;  but subtle, impassioned and informed – as writers should be.   I’m one of them. Actually,  my ‘Month of Mondays’ isn’t so subtle, and I subdue the passion; but it is informed as I’ve been committed to this campaign ever since Julian Assange was denied his freedom for revealing the truth about war crimes.  You should know that the sounds of the US gunship and voices of the murderous soldiers halfway through my piece are not real, but impersonations by actor Matt Deveraux.  Also, that Robert Ilson is reading his poem from the stage of Pentameters theatre.  The last reading – of the late Adrian Mitchell’s fine poem ‘To Whom it May Concern’ by Zoe Aronson and Gilles Madan brings in Adrian too.    Adding Matt and Adrian brings us to thirteen voices as we’ve already counted Brian Eno’s introduction.  But as the number’s calling for his release grow – who’s counting.  
 
 
 
 
 
Jan Woolf
 
 
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Resistance

Shower soft grass 
ceases to be blades at present, 
and yet dark falls on them 
to be slashed and sliced. 
Summer that touched some summit, 
cools a tad. Election result is still 
being played in some news, this late. 
I hear a hiss beneath my window, 
not a greeting from a serpent, 
more like air gushing out 
of a flattened tire. Fatigued, I sleep 
well, whisper in my dream 
to the fascists, “S**t stops here.” 
Oh, the burden of levity. I float 
inside my consciousness.

 

 

 

 

In Indian reincarnation fascism wears the colour of nirvana and camouflage of the yogis. They weaponized social media handles and religious bias. They makes the West believe that they shall be a power to balance China and ISIS.

The election for the ministry of West Bengal, a State in India, posed a last frontier for the above-mentioned power in the centre of India. They came with all their might; they choked the state’s share of funds; they bought state ministers of the liberal parties; spread money across the poor section of the state, promises of new jobs and fake news and real incidents of communal fights. They tickled the male ego by saying they should take the patriarchal lead. On 2nd May, 2021, people of Bengal proved difficult to be understood by a fascist. People chose beyond the lure of religion and money, and chose a woman to be their Chief Minister, the head of their state, newcomers to be ministers. This also sends a tremor throughout the country and to the other states to rise against the right-wing power.

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration Rupert Loydell

 
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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Neverending Greed

Elena Caldera

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Village Poets – Ireland Poetry Day 2021

Contemporary Poets from Derry City and the North West perform in the Craft Village, Derry for Poetry Ireland Day 29th April 2021

Cahir Lynch, Francis David Rafferty, Mark Burns, Mel Bradley, Darach MacDonald, Robert Arbuckle, Paul Butterfield Jnr

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Something Beginning with C

 
(David) Cameron’s cheeks cocoon care,
Cure and chaos. Not on a grand scale,
I grant you, but as another example of that
 
Which should wake us all up, and return
The cityscape to the feudal, and the counties
Beyond to the country that early legends
 
And lines first begat.  King Arthur’s sword
In his stone is a world away from the rock Dave
Crawled under.  And blow as he might through
 
Those white cheeks, a heated torrent of air
Gushes forth. It is as if Political office were not
Even a place where the half hearted performing
 
Of duties were practised, but is instead
A rehearsal room (or shed) for bad actors
To blithely record false applause.
 
Besides, everyone knows what he is.
Something beginning with C: craven? Coward?
Or any other word you can think of. Some say Crook,
 
Christian. But why would anyone of faith act this way,
As the rest of us are pushed to Golgothas,
Where crucified in our houses, this type of human
 
Act’s alien- certainly to the creeds of said Faith,
With either his hand on the tests, or, on the costs
Of that sent to test us, as his hobbling morals lobby
 
In the hallways of power’s pale Labyrinth,
To extricate money from pain, and profit no doubt
From false prophets, who have catergorised
 
Where we’re heading as possibly Nostradamic,
Or, perhaps a place where contrition, as opposed
To a gallows pole needs a plinth. And yet, he’s not even
 
The problem, is he? He’s no more than the cough
That congests us. In clearing the throat, this cheeky
Blair copy is just filing the phlegm we’ve all spat.
 
And yet his flailing powers nevertheless define permanence
As we currently understand it, as having no integrity to it,
And in his raising the price hope falls flat. He’s just another
 
Contagion, that’s all, in a currency of contagion.
The viral sui generis is virus and there is something abroad
We all catch; something gnomic within our genome,
 
Which mars Man and unmakes him. And woman, too,
A la Priti; that such monsters still preen lights the match
That can still dare the dark even as it grows all the greater.
 
Cameron, Covid, chaos. Now, con and country, too.
 
Each attacks. 
 
 
 
 
                                    David Erdos April 28th 2021
 
 
 
 
.
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EVIL’S INGREDIENTS

 
Society is a cake left out in the rain. The song says it.
But Jimmy Webb’s Macarthur Park has been muddied
As life’s lost loving gift becomes sift. And also swill,
As the cream that rose to the top quickly curdles,
 
And the sour taste of one cumming is washed down
By a spurt of Maxwell House, as it crumbles. 
As the ensuing shit stains saliva the full force
And flavour is akin to Eden’s snake’s hiss and lick.
   
Ghislaine, that former girl of false gold, scion
Of her failed, false God father has been revealed
As more gruesome than Epstein, perhaps, as his pimp
And parent to ghosts that will continue to haunt
 
Their joint victims, who endured his penetration,
While her domination tongued, teased and tickled
In her near fevered need to find gimps. Now, she is
Kept awake in her cell, Guantanomo like, close
 
To torture. We could call this deserved. Harsh to say it.
But then, inhuman acts make strange plays, in which
Wretched behaviour is wrought, as well as reared
Within Justice. But then, we have to ask, what is justice
 
When the corrupt can continue to restage or chart
Fouled forays? How do we quantify crimes, when former
Prime Ministers ghost write books to squat on high
And squeeze Memoirs; extracting from the crap
 
They cast on us, the kind of filth and lies that corrupt –
Not only language itself, but life as we are all led to live it –
Until, that is, we take action on what we condemn
And disrupt, chiefly the unnatural order soon set. And so,
 
We seek revolution: one in the mind, not on pavements,
As true collective will starts to bake not only Jimmy Webb’s
Metaphorical cake, but the form of heat that can’t
Harm us. Call me naieve, but re-writing in either poem
 
Or, play may construct not the Utopias we once sought
As we can’t have them any longer, but, rather, the kind
Of Shangri-La we’ve all searched for, which is where
The mountainside meets the cloud in complete parity
 
And we can seek what we can achieve pushed together.
Even if sadly, today, competition, sourced through every
Separate shout remains loud. Pete Townshend said this, too,
Recently: soon each repopulated stage will be crowded,
 
Each voice fighting to be heard, with each drum break,
A desperate battering down of the door. Under the illusion
Of joy, and of restrained release hope’s remastered,
And perhaps, taste gets taken and discernment, too,
 
As ice thaws and forms a river that runs and drowns
The land, lease and garden, in an attempt to dilute,
Or, douse poison, mightier than the rose, thorn,
Or, sword. To sever the wound where its won,
 
Even if this means amputation, so that the new blood’s
Flow will be fluid and able in time to cleanse floors.
Then we’ll be free of the sickness that stems from those
Who pose at high tables, dispensing scraps none can savour
 
From a menu that few could either concoct, or defend.
Evil’s ingredients spill and stain the plate passed
Amongst us. With Maxwell and Chauvin on simmer,
And Cummings and Johnson boiled over, how much more
 
Can we swallow until – screw pandemic – a starvation
Of souls stirs our end? 
 
 
 
 
                                                                  David Erdos 28/4/21
 
 
 
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Poems and Plagues

 
 
 
Just over a year ago, (now a second jabster, and free-ish) I started a weekly IT column called the Isolona  (plague) Diary.  It charted coping and change and was an important part of my weekly routine.  Soon the emphasis changed.  Some new short stories, a ransacking of old material, an obituary – and some political projects.  One of them has been my support for Riversmeet Productions and their brilliant writers’ blogs.  Here’s the last one, by Alan Franks who presents something as interesting and important as Samuel Pepys did in his London diary.  Blog on, dear reader –  
 
 
 
Jan Woolf
 
 
 
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The Limits of Gnomes

It is
supply and demand, and
the chain,

all the way
to the Suez Canal
and back again,

or not,
depending on hope ever being
green again.

There is a
shortage in raw materials
but not puns

or irony: all those
rosy-cheeked lockdown smiles
lost in their

fairy-tale diminishing,
or not. A nation that needs to
deal with things

also needs the
alchemy of familiars,
that fishing or

pissing in gardens
like the sound of normalcy
of a night outside.

Seating is depleted
too – nowhere new to sit as we
watch and wait

for the blockages and
virus to subside, turn diminution
into the magical.

 

 

Mike Ferguson

(‘Garden gnomes and other outdoor furniture are running out due to supply chain issues and the popularity of garden centres in the UK during lockdown.’ Guardian 16.4.21)

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Rewiring Our Map


When did you last listen to the birds? All this
dashing about looks like wasted effort yet we
have no idea what creatures are living in our
rivers. “This is the point at which the current

changes,” she said. Are we analysing these animals
to death? We may have to spend the rest of our
lives on the move but we’ve been put under great
pressure to muddy the waters. “Beneath the surface

an army is being mobilised,” she said. Once upon
a time we all worked for a living but it’s mainly a
question of scavenging these days. “Our waters
are thick with herring and easy pickings are on the

way,” she said. All knowledge is partly invention
but are the magic mushrooms to blame? “We’re
looking at a psychedelic landscape that can hardly
have preceded The Wizard of Oz,” she said.

 

 



Steve Spence
Picture Rupert Loydell

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Watering hole

Sylvia claims to have seen antelope, and on one occasion a couple of warthogs, as well as birds. ‘You just have to be patient,’ she says. ‘This is real, not like the edited highlights you get in wildlife films.’ Larry has watched the fuzzy black and white images from the live webcam stream on several previous occasions, but only briefly. Apart from the trails of insects crossing the screen, and the occasional glancing swerve of something larger, a bat maybe, he’s seen nothing. This evening his wife has persuaded him to watch with her. She wants him to imagine they’re sitting in a hide at the watering hole. She’s turned up the heating so the flat feels more ‘tropical’, and rubbed insect repellent onto her arms and legs. ‘Connecting with nature will help you feel less stressed,’ she says. The camera pans left, zooms in on some vegetation, then out again. It takes a while for Larry to make out what he’s looking at, some bushes at the edge of what might be water, trees outlined against the night sky. Occasionally they hear the sound of something grunting nearby. Another moth zigzags across the screen. Larry shifts his position on the sofa, picks up his beer and starts to pick at a piece of calloused skin on the ball of his right foot. ‘Shush,’ Sylvia says, her eyes fixed on the screen. ‘You need to keep still, or you’ll frighten the animals.’

 

 

 

Simon Collings
Illustration Nick  Victor

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SAUSAGE LIFE 177

 
 
 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano

The column which reminds you that when you look in the mirror you’re the wrong way round

 

READER: I hear you won the lottery, how much?
MYSELF: I’d rather not say. I ticked the “no publicity” box, so only The Mail, The Sun, The Daily Sport, and Hello Magazine know about it. And El Mondo Saucio, Spain’s version of The Spectator.
READER: Congratulations, I’m assuming Hello will be doing a photo feature?
MYSELF: Of course. They wanted to fly me out to Las Vegas and take nude pics of me and some aspiring film actress getting hitched at the Elvis Presley Memorial Chapel. They offered me a lot of money and a free 12 month subscription.
READER: Wow. What did you say?
MYSELF: I refused of course.
READER: What? Too demeaning? Not enough cash?
MYSELF: I was holding out for a longer subscription

 

ART BLOW

Professor Thinktank has objected to a recent exhibition by the installation artist Bandy Sponk, featuring his controversial piece A Hand’s Best Friend, which consists of a stuffed dog sitting with its tongue out. The Hastings inventor claims that Sponk wilfully contravened the copyright on his patent no. 83376799a, The Panting Dog Hand Dryer, which won the 2014 Green Ecology Peace Prize for innovative nonsense, and furthermore is suing the artist for gross sarcasm and defamation of character.

“Sponk is a philistine.” the professor told us,”The Panting Dog Hand Dryer was environmentally sound, having no energy source apart from dog food, which, compared to fossil fuels, is both cheap and plentiful. It’s not rocket science. Take the dog for a walk. Wash your hands. Dry them in front of the panting dog. Its symbiotic, like nature itself.”

Asked about the invention’s total failure to attract funds, he replied,  “As many people have pointed out, the one minor disadvantage of using The Panting Dog Hand Dryer, was the time factor. A pair of wet hands could take up to three hours to dry, provided the dog could be persuaded to stand still long enough. Unfortunately, in this time-dependent era people have come to expect things like hand drying to be easy, convenient and quick, an attitude which I have consistently warned will result in the decline of all life on earth as we know it, and the eventual domination of its ecosystem by deadly microscopic tadpoles by the year 2537. Mark my words”.

 
 

Wendy, our regular agony aunt awaits your queries on matters of the heart, gardening, equestrian golf, fancy goldfish and all things spiritual.

Mrs Caroline Spatchcock of Mildew-on-the-Hoof writes,
Dear Wendy,
could you please settle an argument? My husband says that the longest English word is floccinaucinihilipilification, whereas I maintain it is antidisestablishmentarianism, who is right?

Dear Mrs Spatchcock,
a simple character count would have quickly determined that your husband’s example contains 29 letters, whereas yours contains only 28. However, you are both wrong viz a viz the English language’s most protracted word. That honour belongs, at a stunning 45 letters, to (takes deep breath): Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, a respiratory disease affectionately dubbed black lung which afflicted miners exposed to the inhalation of coal dust. Tragically, in many cases, by the time the doctor had finished telling them what they had, they were dead.

 

Dear Wendy,

Having observed the extreme clothing shortages caused by this pandemic, I decided to drag my sewing machine out of the loft and have a crack at garment manufacture. I started off making gloves for key NHS workers, but because I am mathematically challenged I couldn’t seem to get the number of fingers right and began to lose orders. I soon observed that most joggers have two legs, a number which requires only minimal mathematical knowledge, and after a lot of research I decided to re-tool and switch to made-to-measure lower-body leisure wear. I would appreciate any advice you could give me about manufacturing this type of garment at home, particularly regarding the type of leisure pants suitable for going shopping or drinking.

Arnold Fluggenspeiler, name & address supplied

 

Dear Arnold,

I made some enquiries on your behalf. According to the latest government advice, should the oil-based man-made fibres essential for the manufacture of this type of lower-body leisurewear become difficult to source, it is perfectly acceptable to sew PPL face masks together. I can heartily recommend my cousin Loulou de Lyons who, as well as PPL, also supplies lawn mower spares and pizza delivery solutions. You will need between 50 and 100 masks for each pair of leisure pants, depending on the width of your customer’s arse.

 

DIXONARY CORNAH

Illegal (n) predatory bird of prey which is not feeling very well

 

FÜHRERGATOR
Shnapps, an octogenarian alligator from Mississippi which once belonged to Adolf Hitler, has died in a Moscow zoo. The totalitarian despot was known to be a devoted animal lover and as well as Shnapps, kept a variety of pets including giant squid, poisonous spiders and Beryl, his beloved Australian cockatoo who could recite Shakespeare and play accomplished soprano saxophone.
The 3 metre-long reptile, much like his former owner, was a picky eater, according to Moscow Zoo spokesman Ivan Gorky, “Shnapps would happily munch his way through 200 Big Macs at one sitting, but woe betide the keeper who forgot to take out the gherkin!”
Rumor had it that Hitler would often conceal peas or broccoli in his napkin, and with no regard for the feelings of his host would pour gravy into a potted plant when it failed to come up to his exacting standards.
 
This was confirmed after his 1945 suicide in a Berlin bunker, when allied investigators discovered a secret cache which the fussy führer had amassed and hidden under his mattress during mealtimes, items which included artichoke hearts, brussels sprouts and oddly, moisturising lotion.
 
Hitler’s favourite reptile also loved a Turkish massage according to Moscow zoo records. Vladimir Rasputin, his one-armed, one-legged former keeper told us: “Even though he never wore a watch, Shnapps was a stickler for punctuality and liked to have a vigorous Turkish massage at precisely 2:30 every afternoon. If something was not to his liking he would bite it in half, much like he did to Ahmet, his Turkish masseur.” A tiny tear trickled down Vlad’s scarred cheek as he reminisced: “Shnapps was like a son to me, only with leathery skin and enormous flesh-tearing teeth. Many visitors to the zoo were terrified of his evil gaze, but apart from the arm and leg incident, he and I got along famously.”

 

Sausage Life!

 

 

 

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 
 

CAUTION

DO NOT BUY THIS PRODUCT

 
 

GREENSHILL BLUES
EX-PRIME MINISTERS MAY NOT BE SURPRISED AT THIS UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

POLITIKAL POKES

By Lobbytroll

BACKSTAGE PASS

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

click image

 
 
 
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On some faraway beach Part 1


A new exhibition of work by Rupert Hartley opens today, 1st May.

On some faraway beach Part 1 brings together a collection of painted collage works all made during 2020. These works span the initial lockdown period and were made from an improvised home studio. These works continue to draw on and respond to the local environments in Hove where I live and have my studio.”

The exhibition and work can be previewed from his website: https://www.ruperthartley.com/

and there will also be walkthroughs posted on his Instagram story on Saturday : https://www.instagram.com/ruperthartley/

Enjoy your visit


Landscape for a dream, 30 x 40 cm
Acrylic and cardboard on canvas.

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The Lunatics Have Taken Over the Asylum

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It’s Like This, It’s Like That

The Death of H.L. Hix, H.L. Hix (138pp, Serving House Books)

H.L. Hix is a poet, translator, and literary scholar who has written or edited more than 30 books.

H.L. Hix makes me cry. His new short fiction is a brief documentation of H.L. Hix’s death resulting from an accident with a lawn mower. H.L. Hix endures a slow, gradual decline into pain and delusion, drugged bed-rest and nightmarish contemplation.

H.L. Hix has truly created a new language and a new structure to put it in, and as my expectations about the text were undermined I reacted in a hostile manner.

H.L. Hix makes me laugh. The Death of H.L. Hix contains some of the funniest fiction I have read for a long time. It is morbidly witty in its straightforward presentation of awkward moments, stilted dialogue and the biographical inanities of H.L. Hix’s life, not to mention his self-conscious reflection upon them.

H.L. Hix is showing information to help you better understand the purpose of a page.

H.L. Hix makes me think. Is life really this mundane? Does death creep up on us when least expected or is it always there? Is there life before death? Do we leave any sense or trace of self after death? And is the death of self anything to do with the confusion between H.L. Hix the author and H.L. Hix the fictional subject of this book?

H.L. Hix did not make up anything here. H.L. Hix is no stranger to writing.

H.L. Hix makes me read. He is subversively experimental. Some books belabour their form or writing process, making the architecture or support structure visible, but not H.L. Hix.  Yes, the book has been shaped, and each section is prefaced by a definition of a word, and a slow accumulation of asides, quotations and false logic, but it is easy to grasp the shape and nothing is difficult to read; the bulk of the book is straightforward storytelling.

H.L. Hix hears the humming of the ultimate and universal fate that unites writer, reader, and written-of into the one protagonist of the one story.

H.L. Hix makes me nostalgic. I wonder about my past and what I miss now, what I have invented, conjured and forgotten from my childhood. How do my children perceive our shared past? Can a family share memories? Are we all singular and alone? Did it really happen? How much of H.L. Hix the character is informed by H.L. Hix the author?

H.L. Hix makes me think there are ways we are continually retrieving, renewing; or maybe it is truer to say, some force moves through the writing.

H.L. Hix makes me worry. About his state of mind, about my state of mind. Why does he write what he does? Why do I read what he writes? Did it really happen? Does anything really happen? And does it matter?

H.L. Hix makes me my own best guess at chaos, catches me rattling.

H.L. Hix will be the death of me.

 

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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Magic

Robert Montgomery

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LEFT BEHIND

Who is that man who can’t remember
how to work the computer, who cried
when he lost his wife? Who forgets
to send the work he has promised
and struggles to speak on the phone.
Not the poet I knew but endless words
which jabber and twist, excitable phrases
collapsed into awkward conversation.

Endless digression brings me back
to the hospital where my father died,
the big house where great aunts and uncles
lived. There used to be an airfield, a mansion
on the corner; you could turn right across
the main road or cycle up the hill to work
with its racing car stored in the warehouse.
The past will not stay away, it returns

in old films, in the notes to the books
you read. It is online, in photo albums
abandoned in my study; it turns up
in letters or phone calls, or you see it
out of the corner of your eye. How long
since we lived there? The past I mean.
It always moves away, leaving us behind.
Things are so unclear when you look aside.

 

 

 

© Rupert M Loydell
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

 

 

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Now is the ‘Summer of Our Discontent’

….. made even more inglorious by the Covid pandemic (and politicians!)

 

More musings from Alan Dearling

London, dateline 24th April 2021:

Possibly up to 800,000 demonstrators took to the streets, Trafalgar Square and the parks in a major protest against masks, vaccinations, Covid passports and travel bans. I’m sure there were many more grievances than that! It didn’t seem to register in much of the media, but in London it made quite an impact, (not that I was there). In fact, I don’t agree with the protestors, but I certainly agree with their right to protest.

After the event, here’s what Joanne, one of my Facebook friends wrote: “Truly had my faith in my fellow human replenished.
They won’t show how huge and mellow this was on msm… Believe me it totally blew me away. 
 One love.”

Here’s the link to the London ‘Evening Standard’ report, which reported that: “Their aim is to fight against all pandemic rules and use the slogan ‘no new normal’ to reject moves to help fight the pandemic which puts restrictions on everyday life.” : https://www.standard.co.uk/news/uk/london-protest-covid-vaccine-passports-lockdown-b931542.html?fbclid=IwAR0BfcFSmf62SprcP_dDj6cFyj1Q-ZGI82HxnUY7k8sqzgLRhM05nNNN3L8

Meanwhile, various claims and counter-claims about cronyism and sleaze during the Covid pandemic are beginning to surface. For example, Dominic Cummings has claimed that, “It is sad to see the PM and his office fall so far below the standards of competence and integrity the country deserves.”

Labour deputy leader Angela Rayner said the Government was, “lurching between cover-ups and cock-ups”.

In the UK, the disunited nation is continuing to confuse and bemuse the public with varying responses from the devolved administrations to travel, public events, the Covid test and trace systems and some sort of Covid passport or certification. I’ve personally been working on house renovations and some tricky repairs in both the Pennines of Yorkshire in England and the east-coast borderlands on Scotland. At a personal level it appears that many more people in Yorkshire are suspicious of, or actively in opposition to, the infringements on personal ‘freedoms’ imposed during the Covid responses. This is now beginning to be heard (quite loudly) in beer gardens, restaurant patios and even in graffiti on the canal network. And, of course in on-line forums. Information, disinformation, fabrications and lies. For instance, this Facebook post: “Astrazenica …is in the spot light again…a perfectly healthy Italian woman died of Thrombosis after receiving the jab …how can the EMA still consider this vaccine safe?”

 

In Scotland, the local area where I am at present is braced for an enormous influx of tourists – the ‘staycation’ message is being met by quite challenging street hoardings. And closed-up toilet facilities.

My second Covid jab – the Pfizer one – is now in my personal medical history records – I hope. But, in Scotland they are not issuing any sort of ‘proof’ to those who’ve had the jags, as they call them in Scotland. Unlike in England, where Covid vaccination cards are issued and recipients are encouraged to carry them at all times.  Also, in this strange-new, brave-new world, the self-administered rapid antigen test kits (aka lateral flow test) are being issued on a large scale. I got two from a pharmacy in Todmorden and was really rather surprised that they only asked my age, and did not want any name or address – there is obviously not any ‘track or trace’ attached to the ‘test’ bit of the system!

Further afield in Copenhagen, events, testing and their app were reported in the UK on BBC radio.

I have spent quite a lot of time in Denmark in past times, and especially at the ex-squat, Christiania. It is a huge tourist magnet – ‘Hippy Central’. ‘The Local. Dk’ is the English language newspaper and they reported:

“A ban preventing public use of parts of the Christiania area in Copenhagen has been lifted after more than 100 days and repeated extensions.

Copenhagen Police have now ended the ban on using the ‘Pusher Street’ and ‘Green Light District’ areas of Christiania, after it expired at midnight on Tuesday.

The ban, a so-called opholdsforbud, allowed the public only to pass through, but not stop in the area. It was originally introduced in January as a measure to limit the spread of Covid-19 infections. At the time, a tendency for crowds to gather in the area was cited as the basis for the measure.

It was then extended at regular intervals.

Police said on Tuesday that the ban was no longer necessary given change in national restrictions, effective as of Wednesday, which raised the outdoor assembly limit to 50 people.”

This is what the Danish Government’s site for tourists says:

“As of 21 April 2021, restaurants, cafés etc. are open for serving both indoors and outdoors with requirements to prevent the spread of COVID-19. Corona “passport” and table reservation 30 minutes before is required for indoor serving.

Museums, art venues, libraries, etc. are open as of 21 April 2021. Corona passport must be presented.

Indoors organized sports activities are open for children and youth beneath the age of 18 years as well as for adults above 70 years.

Liberal professions are open with the requirement to implement measures to prevent the spread of COVID-19. Corona passport must be presented.  

Outdoor cultural institutions such as zoos are open with the precondition that visitors can present a corona passport.”

Perhaps the most famous visitor attraction in Copenhagen is Tivoli Gardens – the unique amusement and music events park. Their website has posted this online:

“We are looking forward to seeing you for Summer in Tivoli every week from 9 April – 22 April. From 23 April Tivoli Gardens will be open every day. 

We recommend that you buy your admission ticket, Unlimited Ride Ticket and/or Tivoli Pass at home. You will still be able to buy tickets and a Tivoli Pass on the day at the entrance and from the Tivoli Box Office.

As we reopen, we are also complying with a health authority requirement for visitors aged 15 and over to produce proof that they have tested negative for COVID-19. The test must be no more than 72 hours old when you arrive at Tivoli. This means that you must bring:

  • Proof of either a negative antigen test (also known as a rapid test) or a negative PCR test (throat swab) which is no more than 72 hours old at the time of your arrival at Tivoli.
  • The proof must contain the name, test time and test result for the person who was tested.
  • ID in the form of a passport, driving licence, yellow health card or other official identity card.
  • Guests that have received the full COVID-19 vaccine at least 14 days prior to the visit in the Tivoli Gardens, do not need to show proof of a negative test.”

**********************************************************************************

So, we seem to be lurching, in an un-co-ordinated, unplanned way into a World Covid Test of Herd Immunity. I suspect that politicians will see this relaxation of the restrictions – the allowing of people to take ‘personal responsibility’, to do ‘the Right Thing’ – as a way of passing the buck and absolving themselves of responsibility if (or when) a Third and Fourth Wave of Covid cases and deaths spread around the desperately, unevenly, vaccinated world.

Perhaps we need to call on many gods to help and care for us. Especially, as people are increasingly fragmented and divided in their own feelings about the pandemic and local, government and international responses to it. It does indeed look like a long summer of discontent!

 

 

 

 

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Grey Owl        


In 1938, Grey Owl, a Native American environmental activist and popular public speaker died suddenly. Within weeks of his death, it was revealed that he was really Archie Belaney, a white man born in Hastings in 1888…

                                                          

I remember boots.
Theirs. High buttoned. Dull.
His. Heeled.Tooled leather with shiny toe caps and I grabbed one of them just as he was leaving and they prised my fingers away and scolded me. He turned away then turned back and threw down his hat and said “Wear that when your head’s big enough and remember me.”
Then he was gone.
I never saw him again.
My name is Wa-Sha-Quon-Asin, Grey Owl and I come in peace.
They’d say I had his eyes and even when I won the Composition Prize at school, I was still my worthless father’s son.
And there was this woman used to watch me sometimes from a distance. I’d be alone, tracking buffalo through the park or hunting bears in our back garden and see her spying through the gaps between the trees. A small dark skinned woman. My mother.
Apparently.
But the two Aunts, my father’s sisters, kept her separate. She was The Other and not to be spoken of. So I’d stain my paleface skin with cold tea, stick seagull feathers in my hair, sit on the hillside above the old town dreaming buckskin, beadwork, braided hair and tragedy.
I left first chance I got. Nineteen-o-six. Travelled west. Landed up in Canada. I was supposed to be farming. Ended up at Bear Island, met and married Angele, moved in on what was left of the Anishinabe.
Old Lady Cat, my new Grandmother, told me their stories. White Bear, my new Father, taught me how to hunt and track. Go for days on chokecherries and pemmican.
I grew my hair; peppered my speech with phrases from their language. Walked toe-heel and leaning forward slightly as if the trump line was pressed against my head and I was pulling the weight of a laden sled.
Summers, I guided hunters (white men) and Wintered with the Indians.
They gave me my real name.
Nineteen-fourteen, I volunteered.      
In France I was stone, dark light, a shattered tree, silent, hours unmoving, waiting for first light and the carelessness it brings. A yawning stretch above the dig-out’s lip…a head shot…one less Fritz.
I remember every face.
I was Belaney. A., Honourably Discharged Wounded Great War Veteran, Sniper First Class, bigamist who married a nurse from the Army Hospital then skipped off first chance he got.
Bear Island was more or less deserted. Trees hacked down. Rivers trapped out. Streams choked and dying so one night, drunk on home-made wine that had been brewed a full three weeks, burned my discharge papers, smeared the ashes on my white skin and headed back out again.
I killed beaver wherever I could find them: spent a lot of time alone in my cabin.
And then she came along.
Anahero.
A diner waitress sneered at, groped by drunken white men.
Together we left and every day, she watched me silently. Watched me track and trap and every time I killed, she would turn her face away as my axe fell on some half dead animal, leg  gnawed through by my trap and its own desperation until one day…
…until one day I was about to finish off two beaver kits, deep in the Winter, way out of season and she murmured one word “No!”
I never killed again.   
Now, from back to backs, from under skies where yellow smoke curls in on itself, they fill every Lecture Hall from Southport to Hastings.
I stand on platform after platform, raise my right hand (I am Grey Owl, Shadow-Who-Flies-By-Night, Wa-Sha-Quon-Asin) and: One fine morning (I begin) crow noticed a shadow hooked to his foot so he tried to circle it.
Stalking.
(actions here, arms bent behind my back, elbows hooked out, palms touching)
But it stalked him.
(switch roles and in the spotlight, my feet lifting high and slowly like Chaplin)
So to shake it he’d take off suddenly and row halfway across the sky
(flapping my arms frantically and them laughing, some applause)
but wherever he landed, it was waiting for him.
Finally, at sunset, enraged, he pecked and clawed and caw-caw-cawed at the thing.
(more laughter, more applause, now they’re convinced)
But then the shadow came to life and simply swallowed him.
(laughter dies, the faint applause is scattered, echoing)  
am your shadow
(they’re silent now, listening)
and when you come to me for sustenance, all I have to offer you is one green leaf.
I fill every Lecture Hall from Southport to Hastings and they come needing the buckskin, the beadwork that’s exquisite, my braided hair, my people’s inspiring tragedy.
I stand on platform after platform, white skin (the mark of Cain) stained with walnut juice, raise my right hand to repeat
My name is Wa-Sha-Quon-Asin, Grey Owl, and I come in peace…

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

 
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How He Wrote Us into Existence – A Fiction Ch.7

The virus spread from the East. Sun still rises that way. It seems nothing o’clock, Sunday, all days, all weeks.

When Prisha breaks the fifth egg, I ask her why she should add any more. We must count our blessings. And curses.

The cat enters into the household through some cleft. We are haunted now. We know the cat wants to tell us all and fail to give it all the attention. I try to listen to it. Then, if one listens to the cat, the heed spooks the creature. To learn its language one must be its invisible student.

The cat has other things in its mind and belly swelled up like the reflection of the plunging sun in a body of water.

Are we ready to pave the way for a new generation? Elora leaves the breakfast table. Her feet tiptoe on silence. Our discussion seems to have offended her.

These subjects often solve themselves or a cat does.

Poet calls from the basement, asks why there is a cat in the tiny compartment. I come downstairs and observe the blur of a cat in the faint room as it scurries under an ex-table.
This household is writing a Murakami novel. The Poet States and adds that he has not read any Murakami fearing that the style will influence his own. Not that he has anything against Murakami. He says. I nod. Once I and Prisha vacationed in a sea town, and I never even tried lobsters. I don’t think I am allergic to those. They do not revolt me. I do not give lobsters a shot, not that I save a few from being killed by boiling alive.

If anything, our brick house and its menage are an autobiography of a senile man meant to be published by his son as a birthday surprise or a fitting goodbye.

I lower my head to ask the cat if it needs anything. A stifled moaning reduces my enthusiasm. I turn to Poet and ask him to join us upstairs. Perhaps it would be a fine notion to give the cat some amplitude. You can address your chronicle of the woman in that poetry meet. I give him a jog.

The heatwave curve parallels the graph representing the virus spread. They thought this virus would die with the sweltering season. Well, here we are.

My wife offers Poet breakfast. Eggs.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar words and picture.

 
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 Dummies Guide to Cultural Studies

What Artists Wear, Charlie Porter (Penguin, £14.99)

Well, what do you know? Apparently, you can tell a lot about a person by what they wear, work clothes are called that because they used to be clothes to work in, and casual wear is called that because it appears casual in opposition to formal wear. Formal wear is patriarchal and reeks of power, blacks and queers often wear different clothes as a sign of resistance to racism and homophobia. Oh, and sometimes artists wear the paint-splattered or dirty clothes they work in outside their studios. Some artists even slob around in clothes they are comfortable in.

Sadly, this is pretty much the contents of Charlie Porter’s new book. He clearly loves fashion and art, and likes showing the reader pictures of artists dressed-up or dressed-down alongside his textual profundities, the likes of which I have summarised above. There is little critique here, so it is left to cynics like me to wonder why anyone would wear a self-imposed uniform (the same brands of clothing and sneakers every day), question spending vast sums of money on clothes that look like everybody else’s, or engage with ideas of consumerism and commodification.

Surely, part of growing up is realising you can wear what you want when you want, and that what you wear sometimes has repercussions? Most people have found the kind of clothes they are comfortable in for everyday wear and choose whether or not to engage with the dress codes and expectations of funerals, weddings, exhibition openings, dances, clubs, the workplace etc. Most people also have to deal with budgetary restrictions, availability, their body shape, and all the other things most of us navigate daily.

But it’s pretty obvious these are first world problems and there might be better things to do than prioritise fashion? Actually, most of us get up, pull some clothes on and get on with our lives. Deconstructing Andy Warhol’s denims, Agnes Martin’s quilted work clothes or Jean-Michel Basquiat’s layered-up jumpers doesn’t really get us anywhere. It especially doesn’t tell us anything about the art they made, or tell us anything new about how or why we live. What do artists wear? Actually, pretty much what everyone else wears. Which I think we could have worked out for ourselves.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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The Sunday Sermon

 

Ennio Morricone – The Strong
Weldon Irvine – Music is the Key
Barbara and Ernie – Somebody to Love
The Rolling Stones – Let it Loose
Bohannon – Save Our Souls
Lou Rawls – You’ve Made Me So Very Happy
Burt Bacharach – Something Big
David Bowie – Right
Lorrie Collins – Blues in the Night
Super Furry Animals – Y Gwyneb lau (John Peel Session)
Fun Boy Three – Our Lips Are Sealed
Sampa the Great – Don’t Give Up (edit)
Spiritualized – Stay with Me
Lorraine Ellison – Stay with Me

 

 

Steam Stock

 

 

 

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Our Friend Julian – Writers defend Julian Assange

 

On May 3rd, World Press Day, eleven distinguished writers will be heard in defence of Julian Assange. Assange is still being held in Belmarsh prison, as he awaits an appeal from the US government against Westminster Magistrates Court’s earlier refusal to extradition him. His only  ‘crime’ is to have revealed the truth of US and UK war crimes in Afghanistan and Iraq.

These eleven voices represent the eleven years since Wikileaks released filmed footage of the killing of Iraqi civilians on a pavement in Baghdad by a US gunship.  One of the participants, Marina Warner says:

The main principle of uncovering truth needs to be defended and the rights of prisoners who have not been charged or tried are in urgent need of defence.  Marina Warner DBE

The event will be introduced by world famous musician Brian Eno and he and Marina Warner will be joined by A.L.  Kennedy,  Charles Harris, Jan Woolf,  Matt Devereaux, Richard Bradbury, Robert Ilson, George Szirtes, Michael Rosen, and actors Zoe Aaronson and Gilles Madan reading Adrian Mitchell’s great poem ‘To Whom it May Concern’.

Organiser Jan Woolf says, ‘Writers aren’t moralists, but their work carries moral weight.  These writers are representing so many others who would have taken part.  All realise that the case of Julian Assange represents the freedom of investigative journalism and a refusal to cover up war crimes. One day Julian Assange will be hailed as a hero.

Joseph Farrell from WikiLeaks said: ‘this is an important statement from some of the UK’s leading writers on World Press Day. This country prides itself on a free press, but it cannot avoid the charge of hypocrisy while it holds Julian Assange in jail.’

Our Friend Julian is live-streamed on Zoom on Monday May 3, 6pm BST on Don’t Extradite Assange campaign Twitter, Facebook and YouTube channels. – https://linktr.ee/DEAcampaign

 
 
Jan Woolf/Press Release/27-4-21
 
 
 
 
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THE CUMM-BACK

 
 
And so Cummings condemns and throws even their
Former secret codes into chaos. As with any supposed
Divorce, the embittered try to deny what once was.
 
It is as if the tin man had spilt the rotten beans kept
Inside him, to poison the cowardly Lion, with his fart-like
Exhalations as he waddles towards his warped Oz.
 
The issue is: do we care? This is just like ‘bored of Brexit.’
As fucked by farragoes, the cargoes of lies oil-slick out.
Corrupting the shore, the seas’surrond and all swimmers,
 
Whilst staining language, as so little remains without doubt.
We can oppose and decry but will suffer still, doing nothing.
As the point of contagion is always concerned with the germ.
 
How do we keep our hands clean, alongside the society built
To wash them? If we do conceive fresh solutions,  by shifting
Soil, sense and surface to actively turn that lost worm?
 
I consider the great ones who led, from Luther King, to John
Lennon. Severely wronged, cruelly taken for what they tried
To do, share, or say: messages beyond time and taste, yet still
 
Rife with substance, while today, those we’re left with, wish
Only to forge their own way. And so, Cummings returns.
In lifting the rock, his crawl stains us. He wishes to burn,
 
And tear shadow, like a policy made to induce direct,
Or, indirect forms of hate. He’s what they used to call,
A shit stirrer, but his wrath like broth mixes rancour
 
With the forces that boil and reduce each and all nourishment.
He resembles one of those strange parts in Shakespeare:
Escalus, the sad servant, plotting in twain with the Duke,
 
Or,perhaps, the First Murderer in Macbeth, charged with
The dismissal of Fleance. To Old Dominick, we’re all children
For whom the oppressions of fate forsake fluke.
 
He could possibly be Richard Three; a Domidick, scarce configured.
Unmade for the standards from which decency was designed.
On the prowl for a Prince to terminate in the Tower, eyeing Anne –
 
Or, his Mary, as he sneers and squints at road signs. We know
That every word is a lie and every line, misdirection. He wants
To see the world crumble but naturally, is no Anachist.
 
For unlike those who seek change, he isn’t even after reversal.
Instead, he’s the killer, who, with all victims gone can’t resist
Sticking the knife in his  chest, just to see what it feels like.
 
We are in his dream. That’s the madness – when monsters
Like this still exist. And perhaps, that’s the hope: that when
He wakes, we’ll be better; but then, that’s  the thing about
 
Stabbing: once the knife is in, it just twists. And thus,
It deepens. The wound will be one we’re all feeling.
As the bald fucked the blonde bastard with something
 
As chilling as his passionless, spiteful and carefully placed
 
Judas kiss.
 
 
 
 
                                David Erdos April 24th 2021
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SING BACK THE SYMBOLS

A Twilight Zone Chiller

I: DAZED AND DISTRACTED

I recall my former life as an assassin blood orange sands smoke trails of djinn shapes of infinity darker side of iconography origin of sexual differentiation – this is very much a personal statement. I stood resplendent in polyester in a series of Fellini-esque entertainments life into film solarising old filigree footage seemingly straight portrait of New York underlying action knowing genre piece spectacular effects. Kick ass lotsa love Jake…now you begin to look like an eerily atmospheric cult movie from the 60s a twilight zone chiller highly polished strong shimmering paint processing beautiful colour negative images – these

II: ETHEREAL VISIONS

Of strange telekinetic powers pulverising visceral energy truly terrifying emotionally charged engrossing fin de siecle fantasy gothic elements dramatic Technicolor inserts bathed in excruciating jokes nudge nudge humour central premise revitalises well-worn amnesia device expressionist lighting reflecting degeneration of the soul my soul your soul. Unable to cope with accidental death but retaining the rock n roll style of the original I fell into the arms of a vengeful Hispanic street gang while a tribe of down-at-heel Puerto Rican hookers ruthless specialists in military flesh piercing took refuge in the sewers captive zombies rebelled. Army brat Curt used experimental methods bring them back into night delighted to welcome acclaimed singer-songwriter looking for inspirational source of new album called The Long Kiss paranoid outsider.

III: SING BACK THE SYMBOLS

Enter through a mirror trick me into drawing cross and curve with bandaged hands intriguing striking mysterious haunting themed soundtrack set on location impressively photographed fanatical guerrillas huge gold disc doorway leading to finale modern day troubles a showing of Maciste All’Inferno detailed black and white sets all words from twenty-four books stunning use of graphics intelligent ambitious key example of avant garde poetic metaphors traditional training rituals courtship marriage greed life-power-money more life-power-money original tinting and toning. In the throes of new lusts a dying American multi-billionaire explores opposing cultural worlds – teenagers who like Salsa and Carmelita’s monologues women’s prison films subvert stereotypes of mature ladies and post-modern men – complex subject of cultural identity what?

IV: EXHILARATING NERVE

What dazzling displays of sheer zest comic romantic (what?) melancholic drawn from space-age pop the dawn of hi-fidelity original talent darker companion showcase for pan-galactic audio reproduction

indispensable veers from surreal hilarity to political upheaval and back again and again and again a zillion trends in hi tech jinks gangs of twatted clubbers lurching about like idjuts to unfashionable springy rhythms in a neon-lit underworld a sea of love a glossy comeback vehicle no more editing with razorblades no quirky signals etched on wall no fags no lonely soul-searchers long fingered aristocratic fun hugs and cuddles Celtic daydreamers potential suspects celluloid visions of Ian Fleming’s secret agent involving themes of sexuality and violence just watch our jet-set gaucho zoom into overdrive where’s the supernova? Sombre skies links between sadomasochistic monologues drag performances production numbers drugs booze and drive-by shootings peek inside the Vogue editor’s war room complete with quantum beam splitter a cornucopia of mid-sixties rarities. Try impersonations with improvised dialogue sharp cruel witty no more pimply street-boy types just examples of red-hot

V: LIVE MERCHANDISE

So remember Yma Sumac? A solo performance until the cops show up. Follow a group of women who set sail in a Chinese junk seeking adventure new life far from this gory shrieking abrasively satirical horror movie another godless foray into wanton abandonment crazed family abducting stray refugees incorporating them into the Golden Age of Hollywood shock echoes of mad interviews filmed in Philippines packed with astonishing revealing moments ah the spirit ah the uplift spaced out like a toothpaste commercial projected over dark intimidating housing complex we immerse ourselves in the amazing world of ‘neuro-vid’ exhibiting flare to spare and aural clichés. Holding this thing together is Leon Theremin’s Ether Wave an all-too-regular feature rising to the forefront of memory unusual poise pazazz playful provocative like the Inn of Sins on a Saturday evening as I pursue your sister’s killer into a liquid dream. Flitting through Boulevard Haussmann skirting the middle of the night hip British stars like Gary Oldman and Tricky neatly tongue-in-cheek outlandish costumes neither sympathetic or understated script dense awash with arty French movie motifs revealing the killer a young violin player

VI: BACK FROM THE LAND OF THE DEAD

Arrives on Bitch Island grim cyberpunk world desolate wasteland worse than Bognor Regis populated by an amplified soundtrack roll call of the great and gorgeous: Alice B52s Bauhaus Blondie Bowie Cassandra Doors Dusty Elvis Eno Eurythmics Iggy Jerry Lee Jimi John C Joy Division Kate B Lou Marianne Massive Mazzy Miles Neneh Parliament Patti Pharoah Phil S Portishead Prince Ra Roxy Siouxsie Spacemen 3 Specials Stereolab Stones Suicide Teardrops Tom W Transglobal Transvision VU no plonkers no chaser standard situations indefinite TV self-portraits lots of silent black and white photography a few anguished young men looking like Pasolini threatened by environmental disaster and loops of Barbara Streisand songs. Our heroes have been working in video since the mid 70s first feature about a young woman bored with her boyfriend smashes violin sucked into universe of downmarket noir features with the all the hallmarks of knee-jerk gore this means we reassess our future

VII: VISIONS

Of irrational netherworlds suppurating ecstasy pleasure-pain downtrodden masses thousands of extras unforgettable hunger trendy interiors classic seductions Antipodean disco-dancers showcased in epic productions becomes spiritual journey through Hell on Earth watch the crowd go craazzzeey – depth emotional insight vast international nuclear conspiracies mixing politics with myth and fantasy – these were both our strengths and weaknesses fascination for the interplay between inanimate objects sinister metamorphoses split screen contrasts situation dark malevolent tone of post-war Absurdist tradition meanwhile on the far-out fringes of ‘the permissive society’ lurks an irreverent humour explicit material which may

VIII: OFFEND MANY VIEWERS

With luck and a fair wind hey ho precipitating usual yuppie nightmare young Manhattan literary agent pushed over ‘edge’ whip-cracking world of absolutely wicked dominatrix plastic clients prowl through labyrinth of rooms act out grotesque parody of Ariadne’s Thread uncover secret society pain humiliation so-called Captains of Industry their aunt’s brother’s gallery owner’s elaborately montaged astute media manipulators can you have the rock without the roll the swing without the bin? In Europe nothing has changed: the steam still splutters from the pool leitmotivs rain from the sky in gay abandon old dirty magnificent stylish dramatically allegorical erupting into frenzied bloodshed over two hundred locations two thousand costumes elements of giant fresco running time three hundred minutes plus intermission to allow moves towards understanding aerodromes visually lavish hero a local boy scene a remote country house where Gladstone spent many a weekend researching Black Holes and the Estranged Attractor background modelled on Things To Come And Go bump In The Night vague

IX: VISTA-VISION COSMOPOLITANISM

Celebrated climax in Royal Albert Hall as a bunch of hard-nosed space-marines are pitched headlong into a network of international kidnapping web of extracts from Rimbaud’s poems one of the best loved British thrillers mechanisms naked as tortured emotion singing symbols back to front round and round all places the poet used to visit on the run in London one of most terrifying moments in 50s TV drama not so much a search for the East more a deflation or deconstruction of big time aspirations as he festered underground in Mrs Scarlett’s Lodgings rooming house dosser’s paradise brilliant new wave language of verbal colour criminal love The New Eve paraphrase of maybe/maybe not rewrites off-cuts personal memories found objects old bus tickets possibly the work of fashion conscious humanoids excavating rich vein of neo-Dadaist humour cheeky enterprise harsh times something for everyone

X: SKIPPING THROUGH CHANCE ENCOUNTERS

Semi-abstract associations Punk New Wave link-ups cold cold jazz we can never know the answer. Was it ‘Old Dirty’ ? We can never express the dynamic like Edgard Varese on acid oddly life-affirming oddly oddball familiar faces well worn amnesia device another nice one from Botchit & Scarper series takes off with uncompromising production design externalising desire warped limits orthodox syntax in equal measure makes James Last sound like Led Zeppelin farthest reaches final frontier unearthly terrain mapped out by intrepid explorers alienated outsiders yes we are at the outer limits of representation folks from the sublime to the ridiculous forget those art-house classics rediscover the night with its needlepoint of stars just die for this one brooding visuals phat beats obscenity charges baton charges Goth Girls with attitude sinking Chinese junks trippy paraphenalia grief murder dark electro feel months of planning we can kick ass lotsa love heavy head-nodding deep breaks

XI: WE TELL THE STORY

Morning glory wailing gnashing teeth true variety style virtues of trash stunts cinematic night moves luminaries popular culture dirty plates juiced up vibes deranged hobos mad grrrls tender dark suicides muggers lounge lizards killer docs nasty nerdy neo-Nazi head-cases make you sound like The Chipmunks radio personalities lie detectors literate dramas wheels within wheels-wheels-wheels unspeakable obsessions at boundaries of known pathology ignore the hype try not get too excited even holiday snaps home movies can send strange signals to initiated global laundro-mat shabby stalker types unshaven smelling of dog’s piss mouldering polemics levitating in back alley sublime gloriously textured hands in air recall my former life orange sands visceral energy mirror trick melancholic dawn over cityscape fear reflecting degeneration of the soul – now we tell the story…

 

 

AC  Evans

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SAUSAGE LIFE 176

 
 

Bird Guano

The column which thinks Dominic Cummings should be the new Dr.Who

 

READER:  Did you phone me yesterday?

MYSELF:  Me? Er…I don’t think I….

READER:  It’s just that I got a strange call, very late. The caller didn’t say anything. All I could hear was a scrabbling, grunting sound, as though a tiny mammal was trying to escape from a matchbox. 

MYSELF:  Who on earth could that have been?
READER: It was your number.
MYSELF: (Blushing), OK I’ll come clean, it’s a fair cop. When I got home after my important meeting last night, I must have fallen over due to exhaustion. In the course of the tumble, my phone appears to have have slipped out of my pocket and dropped to the floor next to my face, where my nose accidentally poked your speed-dial number. The random grunting probably came from the badger which had followed me home, attracted by the scent of the dead pheasant in my inside pocket.
READER: I’m glad we’ve cleared the air.

 

Our regular agony aunt is here to answer your queries on matters of the heart, gardening, equestrian golf, fancy goldfish and all things spiritual.

 

Dear Wendy,
Although this is not strictly a medical enquiry, I wonder if you could settle an argument? Exactly how many golden daffodils are there in a host? My husband claims it is half a dozen, but I feel that the talented Mr. Wordsworth would hardly have interrupted his solitary cloud-like stroll for a mere six blooms. My estimate would be more in the region of 125-130, more than enough Narcissus Pseudonarcissus to stop any starry-eyed poet in his tracks, regardless of how lonely his wondering was.

Mimsy Borogrove, Beyondenden, Kent 

Dear Ms Borogrove (May I call you Mimsy?),
I am more than happy to deal with your non-medical enquiry, as I am not a real doctor. The official number of daffodils in a host has fluctuated constantly over the years, subject to the random whims of fashion. In 1877, it stood at a mere 7, yet less than a decade later (following the Great Daffodil Glut of 1885), that figure had reached an astonishing 800!  Since 1919, the it has been strictly regulated by the Royal Horticultural Society (Daffodils) and in 1949 and after some inter war fluctuations the number was officially linked to the number of proposals in a raft.

I hope this has resolved your marital disagreement.
Wendy

SPORT

Hastings & St Leonards Warriors’ new signing Angus Doppleganger from AC Maasdammer, made an instant impression after coming on in Friday’s Lillette’s Cup 3rd round tie against Upper Dicker Macaroons FC in the 87th minute, when the team were 7-0 down and staring at a humiliating cup exit. Just before the final whistle Doppleganger was escorted from the pitch after head butting the referee and biting one of the linesmen, following a red card for felling Warriors’ Spanish centre back José Boccerones with a cynical elbow in the penalty area. Dave Babcock’s unstoppable spot kick took the score to 8-0, confirming Upper Dicker’s passage to the 4th round. A spokesman for Warrior’s new US owners, Poogon Chemical Toilets Solutions Inc had this to say: “Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill here. These people are highly strung professional soccerisers. Angus is sensitive, like a Stradivarious, or a high performance Italian sports car and needs constant careful maintenance but because of British regulations he wasn’t allowed to wear his trademark Ray-Bans; consequently the sun got in his eyes and he just snapped. The ref should have kept his mouth shut instead of winding him up. This wouldn’t happen back home. Last season, Emilio Grabowsky the quarterback for The Boston Stranglers, murdered his coach Louis Van der Schmo, for putting itching powder in his jockstrap before a game and no one made a fuss. You British are a bunch of girls”

TWO LOCKDOWNS OR A SUBMISSION
Grapple fans delighted as  WWF returns to screens
Minister for Fake Sports Nigel Huddleston has announced the return of socially distanced Professional Wrestling to our screens. “Pro wrestling, although completely bogus, must nevertheless conform to strict Covid regulations and masks will be compulsory during bouts,” said Mr Huddleston, “which is why we have scheduled Kendo Nagasaki vs The Masked Avenger as our first TV encounter. Mr. Nagasaki and Mr. Avenger, both of them masked legends, have agreed to show bare-faced wrestlers the ‘ropes’, (no pun intended hahaha! Or rather lol). The idea is that the public will get their entertainment but more importantly, a valuable lesson in the efficacy of masking up.”
Asked whether Nagasaki (75) was still in good shape after several years of running a Suchi bar in Aya Napa, his Turkish  manager Bob ‘Bobo’ Calamari told us: “Make no mistake, my boy is like a one-man tag team. An intensive four-day yoga and pilates regime combined with massive doses of anabolic steroids has ensured that Kendo will be super-fit and tougher than vegetarian bacon. He’s like a bolt of forked lightning trapped in a cutlery drawer. Mentally, he’s a combination of Albert Einstein and Sigmund Freud with a little bit of Russell Brand thrown in. We have been assured by Sketchley’s the dry cleaners that his cape, mask and close-fitting golden speedos will be ready Thursday, in time for Team Nagasaki to embark on a nationwide run of promotional appearances.”
We spoke to the 69-year-old Masked Avenger (real name Harry Smoot), at The Money Laundry a small accountancy firm in Huddersfield which he runs with his wife Maureen, a former Miss Grimsby. “Kendo Nagasaki? He’s not the Big Bad Wolf, he’s Little Red Riding Hood and I’m his grandma.” He fumed, “In his frilly pink mask, sequinned cape and satin trunks he looks more like Liberace, the mincing piano thumper. In contrast, my studded leather face covering is based on Edgar Allen Poe’s apocalyptic pandemic scenario Masque of the Red Death, and is scary enough to turn milk sour. As for fitness, thanks to Maureen’s nutritious steak & kidney pies and an intensive course of  Nestlé’s Bulk Up The Volume Pec‘n Buttock Powders, I’m more or less back to my fighting weight of 200 kilos. When I get into the ring with Nagasaki I’m going to rip off his girly mask and reveal his true identity to the world before somersaulting off the ropes and pretending to crush him with my speciality pulverising piledriver move.”
“Do I look bothered?” Mr. Nagasaki snorted when asked for a reaction, “Everyone knows I was wearing a mask years before the Avenger.” Lowering his voice by an octave, he boomed this firm pledge to all Kendo fans through a megaphone: “If the so-called Masked Imposter tries to rip off my mask during the bout – which he is contractually obliged to do – I will unscrew his fat head and kick it around the ring like a football.”
“In a responsible, socially distanced way of course.” added his manager diplomatically.

Sausage Life!

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 
 

CAUTION

DO NOT BUY THIS PRODUCT

 

GREENSHILL BLUES
EX-PRIME MINISTERS MAY NOT BE SURPRISED AT THIS UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

POLITIKAL POKES

By Lobbytroll

BACKSTAGE PASS

 
 
 
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DEVIL MAY CARE

 
.
If God writes great plays then the Devil no doubt, is a poet,
Rhyming with fate through sly verses, or reducing all of life
To short lines.  That force, or whatever it may be carefully
Selects what to keep and what to expose in fine detail.
 
For just as dust itself contains people so does writing reveal
Covert signs. As God adapts into film, He-She-It clearly conveys
The big picture. Though, these days of course, it is pixels
From which each portrait of life is comprised. And so, the saga,
 
Or, epic described in the chaos between Bible clashes, is the kind
Of war raged in heaven which makes Angels Soldiers, divided
And torn on each side. I’ve always thought thunder and lightning
Strikes were that war, as above all skies there is skirmish.
 
And the very sounds of those battles are the rumble and roar
Around rain. There is our foreground life, superimposed
On their context. Or, perhaps our fast written pages scored
With their subtext, concerned as it is with our pain.
 
Who do we fight with now, or against, when the enemy
Remains undefeated? From terrifying flus to consumption,
From cancer and back, to TB; there is now this themed
Strain resounding through cough, gaining echo, and so
 
They say, still evolving as manunkind apes the free. 
Is it possible that God in disgust has sent a blight set to stall us,
Or brought on board others, who through selfish means
Sought our end? Should this prove the case than that first
 
Governing glow is long settled and the mess we’re in sees us
Mired in a place where only the most arcane becomes friend.
Man is often God’s joke, parodying Creation, and thus, seduced
Into pity, and through amusement, no doubt, the blames shared.
 
As a white and red light both shine, marking both entrance
Ad exit, and long lost to loving the Devil at last may well care.
For we are now more his, or its, than we belong to that first
Said to shape us. And this is why they fight. Clouds are metal.
 
They only look like steam. They’re white shadows, cast across
Darkness and by a different form of light. True sight dares.
As all writing must, if it is to mean more than that made before it.
The Devil has all the best lines. Its been quoted. And pale Angels,
 
Of course can’t compare. We’re all showing our true colours now,
Even if for most of us, they’re transparent.  The pigments bleed,
Or blur blandly as a climate of tears weights each face. And so,
We turn to the dark, preparing in time for the struggles, in which
 
A prize shared by both sides could change the outer
From the forces around innerspace. Only God or the Devil
Now knows how we will fare or fail in the future. I wonder
Which of them’s more invested? Or, perhaps both Gods
 
Gamble and frequently Hell is heaven, and Heaven, Hell.
Hail, disgrace. Unnaturally, all’s revealed. Just not now.
So, we journey. At times of peace, wars continue,
For as the elite try to steal us, we fight to remain
 
Commonplace.  This aim is something to share, then,
At least. For while the Devil may care, the idea of God
Still knows better. And so these poems become Pen pal
Letters. The first to reply holds the human and will certainly
 
Win that strange race.
 
 
 
 
 
David Erdos, April 23rd 2021
Illustration: Claire Palmer
 
 
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Almost Forever (A Metaphor)


I want my sticky frog
I was promised a sticky frog
it’s my right to have a sticky frog
it’s not fair that I’m denied one,
when I was a child all my
schoolfriends had sticky frogs,
I was told when I was older
I’d understand and appreciate
the truth about sticky frogs
yet I’d lie awake at night and
dream of what we’d do together,
watch the glossy onscreen ads,
the luring TV digital animations
the colour-spread magazine features,
but the price stayed forever out of reach,
I once found a broken frog in the skip,
tried to breathe life back into it,
the LED-lights dim, the chip crippled,
I pretended it was mine, holding it tight,
squinting my eyes to watch it this way
and that, set it on my bedside table so
it was the first thing I’d see when I woke,
but it’s not the same, it was not the same,
how wonderful it would be to own
the sticky frog I yearn for,
the fun we’d enjoy together,
the rich satisfaction I’d derive
from having my very own
personal sticky frog,
it’s not fair I’m denied one,
I want my sticky frog
I was promised a sticky frog
it’s my right to have a sticky frog




Andrew Darlington

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Beware the Unintended

I have opened the windows to let the rain and air in
(although water was dripping anyway) and am listening
to a radio programme about how children’s playground games
travel across Europe and beyond; no-one understands how.

American war songs become cartoon songs, sea shanties
become nonsense rhymes, sometimes only tunes remain.
Children’s minds are beyond our reach, but there are other
flowers and birds despite the storm, though Christmas

has been cancelled or postponed. It was not what we meant
to happen but that is how it is. This is another letter to you,
whoever you are; I needed to tell you how it feels, how it is,
before the future arrives and we all move on or turn away.

 

 

 

 Rupert M Loydell

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Seventh Circle  

 

September 2000, just after my final interview for a prestigious and much coveted job as a film examiner for the British Board of Film Classification, I’m told that there would be a week to wait for news. Frustrating. So I took myself off to the Royal Academy of Art to visit an exhibition of Botticelli’s drawings of Dante’s Divine Comedy – and the attendant circles of hell.  I learned that the 7th circle was reserved for those who waste their talent.  What talent was I wasting? Earlier that year, I had read my short story Jordan Meadows at the Hay Festival. OK, so I arranged the reading myself at the Hay fringe raising money for the charity I worked for. But it was well received.  I decided to go home and revisit the story – honing and toning it,  and starting work on another story – again based on fictionalised versions of children I’d known as a teacher in a children’s home 2 years previously.  A week later, I am offered the job of film examiner: great, 5 years sitting in front of film scripts, with good story telling seeping into my psyche, and working on my own stuff at weekends.  

It wasn’t like that.   I hated the job, which left my mind too full of rubbish to write anything of my own. The mental energy I had left was reserved for my young son.   Film censors are in their own circle of hell – at least this one was – and I resigned 6 months later. By 2010 I had published my first collection Fugues on a Funny Bone.   One of the stories, Soho Square, was based on the BBFC, as was a play, Porn Crackers performed at the Hackney Empire in 2008.  Circles of hell ‘indeed.’   But a job is a job, I don’t want to diss it, and it does important work – child protection work.  It just wasn’t for me.   If anyone wants a copy of  Fugues on a Funny Bone order it at janwoolf.com

 

Jan Woolf

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