Something Went Wrong

The fenced off estate:
     deer and land as property
wealth as a tourist destination
     and a view from the train

Who owns the mudflats
     and abandoned boats?
The seaside and
     the harbour walls?

Stop the sky going dark

Stop the world exploding

     Make the summer come

Who would holiday
     in a caravan park
or collect animal carcasses
     from the side of the road?

Stop the world starving

Stop the world going dark

     Let tomorrow come

 

   Rupert M Loydell

 

 

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Notes from a Makeshift Utopia

 

Rents being astronomical and ownership out of the question, we’re living on borrowed time, where third-rate architects and fantasists live out their impractical utopias, where picket-fence suburban idylls squat cheek-by-jowl with impractical futurist pods and other failed machines for living. We dress accordingly: there’s a lot of gingham and a lot of nylon, though some of us like to improvise, and I like to rock a Dan Dare/News From Nowhere hybrid, with tinfoil robes in a cut straight from Chaucer or Dante. I’ve a matching costume for the cat but he’s not keen. We’re living on borrowed food that we’ll somehow have to give back later, and on borrowed air that we can’t keep in our lungs. I used to have a borrowed wife, but a coach and horses came to repossess her one storm-bruised night that was borrowed from Wuthering Heights. It broke my borrowed heart, but I haven’t told the owner. You see, the thing about borrowed time is that you can never erase all traces of all those who have lived in it before. I wander gleaming skywalks above chalets and bright caravans, and I wonder who it all belongs to, who’s keeping the tally? I suspect it might be the cat.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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Rupert M Loydell – The Age of Destruction and Lies

 
 
£12.95
In stock

Published 2023. Paperback, 104pp, 9 x 6ins, £12.95 / $18
ISBN 9781848618893 [Download a sample PDF from this book here.]

In this new book of poems Rupert Loydell writes about the world he now finds himself living in, questioning the damage caused by time, memory, lockdown, aging, politics, lies, neglect and disinformation. Whether grappling with social history, corrupt data, roadbuilding, Grenfell Tower, urban graffiti, faith and fine art, or ‘the fickleness of language’, these damaged prayers and disbelieving explorations are ‘configured for maximum twitch’. And despite the resigned conclusion that ‘we are only ever likely to have a clear backwards view’, and even though ‘it is totally absurd to expect answers that might help explain our world’, Loydell clings to the way that ‘memory is all about being able to change the past’, and notes that ‘the future is here right now’.

Rupert Loydell is the editor of Stride, a contributing editor to International Times and a Senior Lecturer at Falmouth University. He has many books of poetry in print, including Dear Mary, The Return of the Man Who Has Everything, Wildlife and Ballads of the Alone, all published by Shearsman, who also produced Encouraging Signs, a book of essays, articles and interviews. He has co-authored many collaborative works, and edited anthologies for Knives Forks & Spoons Press, Shearsman, and Salt. He also writes about post-punk music, pedagogy, poetry and film for academic journals and books.

‘At times hard-hitting, at times biting, Loydell’s poems pull beauty from the broken contexts of a rudderless society. It is poetry of rebellion and of urgency that underscores the need for poetry, art, conversation, and friendship in what is rapidly becoming an alienating, contextless world.’ —Andrea Moorhead

‘Rupert Loydell’s world is strangely beautiful, or beautifully strange, but it’s also strangely familiar. What I like about Loydell’s work is his commitment to a kind of truth, not to experience so much as to language.’ —Magma

‘Loydell explored how we navigate the world around us, seen and unseen; how we might wonder, explain, and start to understand.’ —Between

‘[…] brilliantly surreal, acutely observed and funny.’ —Ambit

https://www.shearsman.com/store/Rupert-M-Loydell-The-Age-of-Destruction-and-Lies-p542423549

Also available from:

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BROWN, THEN BLUE

(i.m Peter Ronald Brown, 25/12/1940 – 19/5/2023)

 

His words will resound for as long as there are films
And Rock music, for just as Scorsese savours
Sunshine Of Your Love in his films, so do the fans

Of Clapton, Baker, Bruce, Procol Harum, and his own
Unique oeuvre rejoice in the voicings that spumed
Words of fire from within Pete’s poem kiln.

Pete Brown was the original English Beatnik, and more,
A North London Bluesman. Psychedelicist, Progster,
And one part West Coast by the sea. He was like all

Of those bright jewish boys, who spilled out of London,
From Pinter and Wesker, to Berkoff and Kops,
Each dreamt free, and each of them shaped their own

Special corner.  Pete with his jew-fro in 1969
Could dare rooms. He told me that he learnt to sing
Later on, and crooned, after his Broken Ornaments

Shattered, before raising Piblokto! to a cultish peak
Where songs loom over all other art through what
They engender in others, and Pete’s energy and invention

Sustained and remained despite cancer’s pain.
It was only a few weeks ago he talked of the plans
He had on a phonecall, our friendship having flowered

After meeting on a Hastings bound train. Born in Surrey,
Soho was his stamping ground in the 60s. And before
That, in the 50s, in polo-neck and waistcoat,

He was part of the new poetry and with Michael
Horovitz, New Departures, defining British voices
To capture and let each line float. He sent me plays

Of his from that time; free associations on Alice,
With each moment more playful and in some ways
More charged than even Lewis Caroll’s chorale

Of disguised desire; Pete’s work was more carnal
And more open, always to art’s cards. But imagine
A man who elevated the poem and who then did

The same for the lyric practically the next year.
Starting and stirring for Cream the linguistic mix
In their menu, moving from bright blues to near metal

The White Room becoming a place to defeat each dark fear
With majestic music and words bound to both the heart
And the bedpost, and to the streets beyond, as evolution

In verses and lines became aim, and Pete always scored.
Those Thousands On a Raft sailed beside him as each word
Released oceans from which even those on dry land

Could still gain. But unlike Reid, or Sinfield, Pete became
A performer; a vanguardian using the avant-garde,
Rock and blues to conjure fresh colours from Brown,

Whether with Graham Bond, or Phil Ryan, whose death
Left Pete decimated and yet in counting the ways,
He stayed true. For as each partner passed, from Jack Bruce

To Ginger, this brightly bound Beatnik knocked on the door
Of intent; whether that was in Hollywood, or in an A&R
Office. Pete gave his time sweetly; short and adorable,

Shuffling, he was song’s soldier patrolling the poem
Parade to invent new ways to be, and fresh ground
To conquer. He was always on tour; Europe had him,

At nearly 80 years old on the stage. I saw him in ‘18
At the Cream 50th Anniversary concert, as Malcom Bruce,
Kofi Baker and Will Johns played their Uncle and Dads,

While Pete in his prime sang, singed and blazed beside them,
Restoring at once that explosion. To quote the Cream song:
‘I’m so Glad,’ Pete was the designated mourner also,

For that whole generation. A BBC Four commentator
On all manner of albums and styles. A documentarian, too
And Scrosese subject, a Go-to for the info on the high

Beyond those eight miles. He found lasting love
With his wife Sheridan and seemed to have the largest
Garden in England. His home in Hastings was both

Country seat and Sea view. Where we once talked
All night about films and politics, music, Leonora
Carrington and Viv Stanshall who he also knew

And helped: Noble Jew. Who while being born on
Christmas day was as in Jonathan Miller’s old joke,
‘Not really a jew, just jewish.’ Pete was for Palestine,

Peace and freedom, and for each life and line
His thoughts flew. So, read his books, hear the songs
And listen well to those lyrics. ‘Íts getting near dawn,’

Pete. We miss you. The colours are running. 
Its stunning, this sudden loss. Friends, fans, kids
And family kiss you, and we will always keep asking,

Where are you, Brownyboots?

Look:

                       we’re blue. 

 

  

   

                                                                   David Erdos 24/5/23

 

 

 

 

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The Dry Spell

It hasn’t been raining since it had.
I sound vague? You haven’t stared at
the spearhead of a midday road.
You haven’t tried to track rain and heard
the summer roar.

Everything set for the rain – that cup of tea,
those books and music, social media posts,
bad mood, sudden sex, uprooted sadness
that breathes on and perishes at the same time –
all hold a bowl.

No noise, tune, ting – the bowl remains
an arch of aching. It waits.
Nothing is nothingness; even a dry spell
gets wet with our sweating.
….

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration 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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SINCLAIR’S SECRET SWAN

 

On Iain Sinclair’s Agents of Oblivion  (Swan River Press, 2023)

 

Iain Sinclair’s secret store can be found at source
In his stories; a semi-selective trove; buried treasure
Subject to chocolate-rich autopsies, peeled slow.

For as you prise past the taste of the slabs
Of the sweet meat he always serves, you see
Such succulence sat: prose dripped stanzas,

Sigils and signs, vision flows, as he stops to detail
These oblivion set secret agents; Algernon Blackwood,
JG Ballard, Arthur Machen, and HP Lovecraft

In his unique, sinewed style. For no-one can write
Like Iain Sinclair on this planet, and indeed,
While reading one detects an empirically alien view

And wry smile as he pinpoints light-shafts
Directed at the particular ghosts who surround him,
As these chosen heroes perform divine missions,

Cavorting for him and complicit in every dream dare
As diary, as if hallucination itself were work task.
Having set off for Peru to chase his Grandad’s expeditions,

Sinclair now swims back to London, snorkelling down
Paper rivers, where the among the supporting cast
Playing for him are Graham Greene, Moorcock, Driffield,

And even old Bill Blake through death’s mask. The return trip
Through these tales has a watery feel which seems fitting.
Dublin’s Swan River Press’s slim but strong hardback is a gift

To the eye and the hand, as it holds the delights
Of some of Sinclair’s founding forces, from his reverence
Of Roeg and Cammell’s Performance, to his own city-set

Celebrations for a time and a place where each writer
Could with the flick of the wrist create lands
Beyond all common ken, be that in Kensal Green,

Or some other stone palace; locations guarded now
By these agents whom Sinclair revives with his pen.
Blackwood begins, Sinclair follows the lure of his creation

John Silence to rip through star-fabric as he roams around
Shooters Hill, ‘unearthing’ Steve Moore, mentor and magus
To Alan, who if Blake had started in comics,

Would have had him easily equalled, if not bested still.
Sinclair is now in league and business with ghosts.
His bookseller past has been traded for love of the essence

And not just the substance therein. He is fixing his rhythm
Around the pulse and stamp of strange angels,
Such as Steve’s Artemis-Selene, his moon goddess,

Who appeared to both Moores on a sofa, straddling
Steve’s lap, child-like, naked and in line with such visions,
Clad from tip to toe in blue skin. When read again,

Sinclair’s lost London books are intrepid trawls
Through what’s living, and of what lingers, as all his reports
From Rodinsky’s room on Brick Lane, to John Clare’s Orison

And on, are now undercored by these ectoplasmic
Transfusions of people and place, duly written over
As each page sparks stark word-flame.

All of his phrases astound. Pick any page and you’ll
See them. Sinclair’s words burst like flowers,
Or have the exact same sting as a thorn,

With images stacked up like tomes in a mysterious
Westway book cellar, acting as cinema of invention,
Where Sinclair’s poetic prose is projecting on and into

The corners where both madness and myth can be born.
Books are births for Sinclair, and he has had many children.
As mid-wife and parent his potency is profound.

He can consider a point and conjure up a black-hole density
Volume. He can traipse through Beckettian bogs,
As well as Bosche-like forests, and compose

Sparked Sonatas from even the M25’s common ground.
And so Machen, his mystical antecedent breaks through
In this book’s second story.  House of Flies talks of boxes,

Pandora primed by Nick Lane, unleashing Crowley,
Jimmy Page, Stewart Lee (acknowledged Laureate
of the tin foil tray and Premier Inn), among others,

Including Stoke Newington’s Simon Toate, poet
Of the podcast, who becomes the day’s Virgil,
Leading Lee and Iain, and by inference Arthur,

From Abney Park back to Hackney in this Dante-esque
Ghost-fed game. It would seem that the Balls Pond
Road subsumes hope but at the very least grants adventure.

Sinclair as both guide and apostle is a Prospero-in-transit
Here, content to summon up sprites as he reviews
The magical island in motion upon which his work has settled.

The people he meets are wave-motion, but Sinclair is the sea.
This seems clear. ‘The scent of violets drowned in milk bottles’
Surrounds, another one of his phrases. Each tale transfigures.

At a gender fluid time, streets are Bi, changing both aspect
And shape as Sinclair treks along them. After over fifty years
Writing, he walks every word and line as thoughts fly.

For make no mistake, his books are birds.
They soar strangely, as if each carrying craft were creating
The skies and horizons to cross. Sinclair can both follow

And fly, as once more here, he is Norton. As seen
In Alan Moore and Kevin O Neill’s The Black Dossier volume,
The still on the throne London Magus, ruling by report

On time’s textures, while checking that each spell
Has it’s order as he pulls both forest and flare from kerb moss.
In London Spirit, Ballard returns, as Chief Cartographer

Charting chaos. Sinclair and Chris Petit, his comrade
In motorised charm fall instep, with all dead Jim knew
And with all he predicted; ‘beneath the elfin gardens  

of Tolkein Colonists,’ and under John Latham’s
Book towers, Sinclair’s regal visit to his past terrain
Can’t forget the pure poetics of place,

Be they in his own writing room, or the ghosted
Restaurant table, where Roeg and Ballard try to blend in,
And where on reflection it is as if Archimedes and Odin

Had stopped for sweet and sour pork, and escape.
It occurs as one reads that Angels of Oblivion is a memoir
Of things thought, done and essayed across this

And no doubt other worlds. Popular poets of the time
And of what is possible for the crowd, fall in line
With ordinary expectation. These are the performance poets

And slammers and the resistors to a book’s special sheets.
But Sinclair and co, his siblings in writing and film,
Breach such spaces to evoke centuries, even aeons

In under two hundred pages, on streets. And with every
Step and heartbeat an entire civilisation is captured,
Beyond how we are living now. And for me, this completes

And extends Iain Sinclair’s special mission. Surpassing
Shatner and akin to Kirk, his log entries have been sent
To the stars, a chased fleece. For these stories

Become odysseys, as in the last Lovecraft infused tale, 
At the Mountains of Madness. In taking Howard Phillips’
Title, Sinclair spots the point at which we all slip
Past the illusion of freedom, and recognise on re-entry
That cities are cages bound by the sigils and signs
Mentioned first. It took the eventual use

Of his freedom pass to expose that fact for us.
And so, Iain in his anec-dotage can fully unfurl flag
And curse. The writers and artists he admires,

And those with whom he walks are true poets,
Especially those unbound by verses, for poetry is prophecy.
And Sinclair and Catling and co., Kotting, Moore, Machen,

Ballard are the poets and prophets who give reason
And rhyme tenancy. They are travelling well known roads
To reveal the unknown underneath them. Oblivion’s ink

Is Time’s Tippex. We can thank the Monkee Michael
Nesmith’s Mum for all that. And yet here in this book,
A handsome, limited and thereby elusive edition,

We have a grail for the gaining; housed perhaps
In a tower hidden behind London flats. For in holding
This time-whipped tome, the book becomes

It’s own Babel, containing a High-Rise of heroes
Awaiting within, breathlessly. Dave McKean’s drawings invite,
As seen by the front cover’s branch entranched ladder,

Another of Sinclair’s bookish brothers, McKean in pen
And Ink transmutes form. As does this book, and the work
Of those featured in it; from angels and agents

To Alan, oblivion is enchanting. As with Harold Budd’s
Pavilion of Dreams, strange air shapes us. We feel
And peel for it. And in doing just that, stars are worn.

        

 

                                                                     David Erdos 22/5/23

 

http://www.swanriverpress.ie
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https://twitter.com/SwanRiverPress
https://www.instagram.com/swanriverpress

 

 

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Different soundz!!!

 

3 live bands. “Lively and diverse” suggests Alan Dearling who took the pics

Dead Raze

An impressive duo. They look good and sound even better! Formed in 2022 in Liverpool, they have been kicking up sandstorms – dark, rumbustious clouds of garage punk noise across the North-West of England. 

They describe themselves as , “…a two-piece punk/blues outfit.” Fronted by Irishman, Matthew Cawe with Ollie Fontaine on drums. Adding that, “The band takes influence from swamp blues and old school punk rock, playing slide guitar through a mudslide of distortion.”

I believe that Dead Raze have already recorded an album in Iceland, and are now gigging across the UK, and in the Czech Republic and Germany.

There are quite a few singer-guitarist/drummer duos on the go around the music circuit at the moment including the Pretenders’ James Walbourne’s ‘other’ band,  His Lordship, and from Halifax, the Hazy Janes. Dead Raze are great proponents of this genre. The Dead Raze sound, and particularly their attitude, reminded me of Dr Feelgood – rock ‘n’ roll melded onto punk. As I’ve already said, ‘Impressive’, and I gather they are very swiftly learning their stagecraft, added to which they have some powerful, edgy songs. A stonking set despite Matthew having to put one of his guitars aside with power problems. I look forward to seeing them again. Check them out…

Their latest video for ‘In the House’ is online: https://www.facebook.com/Deadraze/videos/5684734028298594

And here’s their track ‘Horrors’: https://youtu.be/HSbh2GKLRlQ

Freya Beer

Here’s some of what I read about Freya in advance of the gig.

“Upcoming Gothic-Disco Queen”

“Freya Beer is the newest leader of the dark goth pack” – Manchester’s Finest

“Freya Beer is the future pop diva, the 21st-century post-punk torch singer you will all fall in love with” – John Robb, Louder Than War

“…a voice as haunting and stunning as Lana Del Rey’s is, she is an incredible package stood before you” – RGM Magazine

Headlining the three-band night at the Golden Lion, Freya is certainly living an ‘image’. One of the ‘Queen Goth’, who is a mix of fashion icon and a member of the Literati. Live, the band offered a fairly poppy mix of material with plenty of opportunities to work as a polished unit. But, ultimately it is Freya who captures the spotlight. The audience was perhaps smaller than she is getting used to, partly perhaps, because it came immediately after a couple of days of rail strikes. But, the band played on, and there were glimpses of the ‘raw and thrilling new talent’ that has earned her on-going support from BBC6 Music.

‘Beast’ was her debut album in 2021 and ‘The Siren’ represents more than a slice of glam rock. She quickly followed ‘Siren’ with ‘The Calm Before The Storm’, a massed wall of grunge guitars and Owain Hanford’s thrashing drums.

From the online PR info, I believe that the album produced five singles including what they describe as, “the mesmerising crowd favourite, ‘To The Heavens and all its Work’ and the very different ‘Pure’.”

The band listing tells us that the Freya Beer Band features  Pete Hobbs (the Boy Least Likely To ) on guitar, Owain Hanford on drums and Arnoldas Daunys on bass. Freya also plays guitar in addition to front of house vocal duties.

Here’s the video for the darkly chilling, ‘Love Child’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DuGF6aErYso

Freya has recently released two new singles: ‘Fantasy’ and ‘Galore’ to coincide with her short-ish UK tour.

Here’s the video for ‘Fantasy’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBIuZkocoTs

 

 

Wax-Tree-Cast

 

Wax-Tree-Cast hail from Halifax. They were formed in mid-2020, and consist of lead vocalist and bassist, Oolagh Hodgson, James Newsome on drums, and songwriter Blair Murray on lead guitar. Strong on glam image and matching stage clothes.  They’ve recently been out on tour with Steve Mason and are scheduled to be on the bill at the prestigious Piece Hall in Halifax in August supporting  The Charlatans and Johnny Marr.

Live – their sound is quite grungy. Much more so than on their videos and record. Theirs is a lively brand of jangling, noisesome guitar pop with an undertow of Germanic-styled vocals. ‘She’ which was a central feature of their live show is the latest single: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZGtZ_30yvg

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Impossible Worlds

The Shell Game, David Toop & Lawrence English (Room 40)
Impossible Worlds, Kevin Daniel Cahill (False Walls)
Halcyon Days, Michael Byron (Cold Blue Music)
Tiny Thunder, Nicholas Chase (Cold Blue Music)
The Basketweave Elegies, Peter Garland (Cold Blue Music)

David Toop & Lawrence English’s album starts with ethereal atmospherics, a whistling noise hovering over keyboards and drones, in an almost Tangerine Dream like manner, before slowly shifting into a denser, darker place. The rest of the album inhabits similar territory: this is a resonant, echoing place, full of disjointed textures, distant voices, field recordings and unfathomable details. Call it soundscapes, call it improvisation, call it noise (quiet and careful noise) or perhaps resurrect the abandoned term Isolationism which has now fallen out of current usage. Whatever you call it, this is a intriguing collection of careful and engaging, abstract, visceral music.

I must offer a shout out to artist Brian McHenry, whose surreal and disjunctive drawings adorn the fold out digipack, inner sleeve and booklet of Impossible Worlds. I’ve also just noticed the False Walls website says that this album is ‘initially ambient and isolationist’, so maybe the term is already back in use. The website details are also how I realised this is a guitar album, although once informed it’s easier to hear the guitar and perhaps place Kevin Daniel Cahill in a loose grouping of other guitarists such as Robert Hampson (recording as Main), even perhaps Richard Pinhas and Robert Fripp,  who mostly use guitar as a sound source. (Of course, I could have read the sleeve notes properly…)

Cahill’s album consists a long piece divided into 3 parts, and a briefer second piece. The long first piece is astonishing, a mostly timeless drift with an almost non-existent pulse underpinning it, an ebb and flow of echo and sustain. At times it almost collapses into stasis, just about stands still, before – like the tide turning – the lull ends and new waves of sound gently shimmer and combine together again. ‘Lamentation’ which occupies a larger slab of the long track is, as you might expect, langorous and sad, but it is never completely dark or hopeless. Trails of notes spiral and fade across an emptiness that is full of overtones and expiring sound. I’m less enamoured by the second track which has a kind of choral presence behind itself, diverging, accompanying, and offering sonic variations. I find similar voicings too present in much of today’s ambient work, but you might like it; and the album’s first track is simply stunning.

Michael Byron is a mainstay of Cold Blue Music’s wonderful output, and Halcyon Days is a wonderfully slow and meditative collection of music written back in the 1970s but only now recorded and released. ‘Drifting Music’ is a piece for tubular bells, which focusses on the sustain and decay of the bells’ ringing tones for six minutes, whilst the following ‘Music of Every Night’ sees percussionist William Winant move to maracas and marimbas for a piece which starts with the gentle swish and rustle of the former until a couple of minutes in, the marimba’s deep wooden tones arrive, gently meandering and sustaining the piece until it again fades out to reveal the soft shaking percussion beneath.

‘Music of Steady Light’ is a longer piece, with Winant playing an array of percussion. The first part is reminiscent of Philip Glass’ Uakti in tone and minimalist rhythmic interplay (that’s not a complaint), whilst part two goes all metallic and twinkling. The final part seems to reinvent the first but with clearer separation and a sonic clarity that builds in slow tension then slurs and slows to a close. The final two tracks are a four-handed piano piece which sets crashing chords beneath a lighter, higher pitched, faster and slowly evolving part; and a limpid, laconic piano solo, ‘Tender, Infinitely Tender’ which strays into Harold Budd territory. It is a beautiful piece to end this wonderful album.

Winant is also the percussionist on Peter Garland’s The Basketweave Elegies, but here he is confined to vibraphone. I have to admit I found the nine short tracks or parts here dynamically and sonically similar, and the album the least interesting of the three new Cold Blue releases. It is too self-absorbed and ‘pure’ for my taste, and mostly reminded me of the sounds of bell ringing, the variation and organization in evidence when a peal is played.

Bryan Pezzone is the pianist on Nicholas Chase’s Tiny Thunder album, which is almost an EP: its two tracks just clock in at over 30 minutes total. ‘Zubwang’ is even sparser than Byron’s ‘Tender, Infinitely Tender’ and perhaps a little warmer in tone, with tiny flurries of activity within its contemplative meander. ‘Tiny Thunder’, the longer piece, is no faster or busier but uses the lower end of the instrument to offer the odd rumble and musical shading. It’s an exquisite release.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

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The Ascension

 

Winter gives way to spring
The bullets in your chest will be replaced with love and hope
From Tehran to the Persian Gulf
Kurdistan to the dusty streets of Baluchistan,
The bloodshed, will be replaced with the blown tulips 

 O fellow tribe of valorous 
 O co-believer
 The echo of freedom
 Whisper, fellow traveller

The day of the ascension of the Phoenix, from the ashes of this dream
The day of the end of this nightmare, our arrival at the sea.
   
  You and I will not be captured by the night
   
  You and I cannot be separated from each other
    
You and I will build our home,
..together again…together again…

 

 

 

Milan Tajmiri

 

 

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DREAM IT NOW I: THIS PERFECT STORM

But look! Displacement of spectral lines Awww! How about that! Apart from the difficulties discussed, this is the maximum so you proceed to the Centre. Whoa! It’s been rubbish hasn’t it?

Characterised by the fact that a spherical surface – now what? Hiya kid! Yeah, really… so-so… waiting very anxiously certain considerations suggest this is not over yet, we need a bit of a drum-roll – don’t go anywhere! The continuum is everything – so let’s ride! Hello everyone what a nail-biter that was! We’re having a frank conversation – interested? Wacky moments, hell’s bells and whistles (serious stuff) fast-forward to now and the journey of a lifetime. So let’s get to it and keep it fun! First I looked into those pale blue pools: beyond the winged eyeliner I saw high altitude vapour trails and scattered fair-weather clouds. Now take us off-grid and to the very edge. Oh! Wow! This is gorgeous! I mean it’s been amazing! Totally bonkers! A five-star experience! Well, that’s about it from me. Ok, interesting. The name is found nowhere else dense tangled thicket evolving in various directions, but out on the high street nothing unusual was going on girls dancing men throwing things diverted traffic They can’t be wrong can they?

Meanwhile the world is watching for some full-on fun a frantic operation new research suggests.

There’s a bit of a buzz here now. We reflect on a day like no other, the emotional roller coaster we’ve been on elegant chic and affordable not so off-the-grid, but some quite treacherous conditions. Exactly what? Find out why find out how. The list is not exhaustive but strangely this frontier district is sometimes haunted by a mysterious stranger, a rookie agent.

From where?  

The other side?

Urgent calls for more action, new challenges, a new and better life: crises shockwaves dramas transit custom plug-in hybrids with street value and kerb appeal; we couldn’t rule out the odd rumble! That’s one to watch – actually we’re really very excited.

Pressure? Well, plenty. (Ouch!). Grab your popcorn! The action starts here!

And we can bring you the latest! Oh right – how are things? It’s been called a perfect storm it’s been called a dream story or whatever it’s so shocking as to impress at first glance; a very alarming incident with flashing images an absolute howler with distressing details, and there’s a big buzz around a day filled with confusion and horror. So, we’ll be going on a journey to find out why chasing down answers, hearing about the challenges: and we’ll be asking why a lot more needs to be done. Yeah that is amazing! Stay with it? Heck, yes. And you know what? They did. The question now arises: what does this all mean for us? Even if the mood music is more positive many scenes will shock some and dismay others. We’ll examine the impact on low-budget whodunits on poetry-in-motion, on fancy-free dough-balls and on choosing the right path in life – or whatever. But, look – for the crème de la crème – for the speed freaks and for gym managers it’s a game of who blinks first. How does that make you feel? It’s just so exciting I’m nervous already! Impossible to tell from the body language, yet it’s striking to see weird concrete forms emerge as spooky icebound spirits – all mist and murk and ill fog – it’s a jaw-dropping entrance – or whatever. Hello! Hellooo! How’s that for a cheeky little bonus? When life gets messy press firmly to activate, yeah, absolutely!

Crack open the fizz! Take it forward and slowly get a wriggle on hit the groove and what else? Game on! Weeee! And you know what? You didn’t cry, so well done. Yep, next question – or whatever: will lessons be learned? Absolutely! Yes absolutely! One hundred percent! Well let’s try – this is where it’s at – or whatever no worries! One! Two! Three! Be seeing you! What are you talking about? How serious do you think this is? All together now! One! Two! Three! Sorry we have to leave it there but do join us next time. Stay cool. Ding! She was zesty – gorgeous – original One of the must-haves of the season bo-ho chic smart-dolly crochet hat foot-stomping go-go power razor laugh free range legs in-yer-face gags and gaiety.

What’s the mood there? Powerful conflicting emotions far out and way up: talk us through that really that performance was the edge of freedom hit the dance floor, take stock, test the limits Intercept our suspect – kiss and run an out-of-this-world experience. Tell us a little more Ding! I don’t think so how much more do we know? Well… let’s be clear yhe indicators at this time show it’s still a challenge no doubt about it we’ll be giving it our best shot Look! See! Nice! (canned laughter). So profoundly moving, our darkest secret well let’s face it; what happens next? Ziiip! Twang! Whoosh! Searing scenes and candid comments, continuous flashing images and – Pow! Yes! What a moment! Exciting! Exciting! This is really hard to watch. You get my drift? Ding! So perverse and bewildering a very difficult balancing act nut still the hot favourite posing with a retro arcade machine They’re watching and they’re waiting and it’s not over yet make it magical an absolute gem! A life-changing encounter for all so we couldn’t be more excited than that. We’re on it! Let’s do it! Yeah how? Have a great evening, bye bye. On the go? Yeah! Always! So back to the here and now: we’ve highlighted the pressure right? Re-tune your no-holds spin-off drama Get off my toe you idiot! We were a couple of stylish geezers Skirt-crazy thrill-seekers melting hearts chasing down answers and – oh yeah! Looking for Pom Pom Club clubbers nubiles on the razzle – phwoah! Time to splash the cash right? Thought you’d never ask! Doncha love that Pina colada chill-out experience?

Ha! Ha! So what’s going on? I’m good! You? Laugh or cry? Smarten up your day no visible lines here’s the latest pop-up production sort of orbiting space junk unintentionally weird a big bold move – yet it’s more of the same oohs and aahs, hugs and tears, flounces – crikey!

Bring it on! Cummin’ up! Voila! Tres bien! It’s a people thing – how about that? Well that’s when the magic happens and it’s spine-tingling stuff! You gotta feel it to believe it right? Quite a pivotal moment – yeah well hi there! Cheesy grin thanks very much! It’s a day of mixed emotions almost amusing let’s take a look: lot of nerves jangling here Very tense situation – what more do we know?

A space storm warning from left-field I know this is a big ask just bring yourself to tell a surprising and untold story or whatever tempting? Just talk us through on stilts that was quite bizarre but we are where we are right? If you squint you can see from those crazy pictures roots branches knockout shapes and shadows night has fallen so just go with the flow no let-up in pressure on those regular updates Nu Disco invisible mending and a cuddly toy it’s the way of the world doncha know Technicolour Vista Vision opens every day human drama dodgy cigs shocking blue films to flip your vibe more sizzle makes it easy! Hurry! Hurry! Where’s the pause button? See you in court ducky – oh right ok ok ok this demands a moment of celebration an up-to-the-minute snappy-clappy chat well I said to them I said it’s what we do! That’s it! Back to you!

 

 

 

AC Evans

 

 

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What’s Ike Got To Do With It … In praise of Ike Turner

Rock n’ roll is often a thankless task.  Accolades commonly bring mental illness and self-destruction (from Elvis Presley to Tom Petty).  One can form indisputably the greatest rock band ever, (Brian Jones), or write and record the first rock n roll record ever, only get paid $20, have no technical credit on the disc and later choose a fantastic lead singer to front your band and model her image after your fantasy of the film character Nyoka in the jungle thus creating the Queen of Rock n roll, (Ike Turner), and be left as a shadow in the Pantheons. 

Like many people the world over, I was enthralled with the Johnny Depp trial last year.  I was proud and shocked at myself that I was participating in such a mainstream cultural phenomenon.  As someone who belongs more in the 19th century, or the future (I hope – y’know ‘common sense,’ an intrinsic distrust of authority, etc..), what most people find appealing nowadays, or do, I don’t.  You won’t even catch me looking down at a phone.  Anyway, caveat, I was on what was called, “Team Amber.”  And not because I am a woman. 

I pretty much watched the whole debacle, and very carefully, reading things into everything:  who’s telling the truth and who is full of shit (pun not intended).  And at the very ending, during the Ruling, when it was decreed that both, with or without validity, were guilty of trashing each other’s public persona, I started thinking about Ike Turner.

I am an Ike and Tina Turner fanatic.  I loved the ‘hit’ when I was a kid, and if it wasn’t for my racist father always making me turn off Soul Train when it was on American TV, I’d have been in way deep.  It wasn’t until I married, my young(er) husband (oddly enough), musician Mat Treiber, that I became immersed in the musical merit of Ike and Tina.  I love both Ike and Tina together, the magic they made, the records – my fave being the early 1970s stuff, a few years before it all nuked itself out of existence.  I must say, I am not at all a fan of Tina post-Ike, and I am not alone in that.  I could put it down to the 1980s, a decade of such disappointment culturally and especially music and records.  I did my own first gig at CBGB in June 1981.  I grew up dying to be music, and when I did, the era was a shit pie to the face.  No wonder I’m more popular these days where everyone’s psych is cleaned, emptied and circumspect, instead of trendy (usually anyway).   

Yes I saw Tina at the Ritz (in NYC), which was the pivotal show for her ‘comeback’.   Yes it was very good, but it wasn’t anything compared to the 1960s and 70s.  Luckily we have so much on youtube which can be enjoyed.  I download these clips, and a personal goal is to learn every Ikette move via my TV screen.  Did you know all that fantastic dancing for the girls was choreographed by Tina Turner herself?  Incredible!  Hat’s off!  The ‘Playboy After Dark’ concert blows my mind.  The interview is fab too, with the lovely Ike who, I’m sorry, does not appear to be anything like the way he has been painted.  A man painted, smeared and destroyed by his ex-wife. 

In Tina’s recent documentary, ‘Tina,’ released in Spring 2021, there was a scene that stunned me, an admission that floored me.  This is what came back to me as I pondered the Depp legal Judgement, watching the end of the trial.  The film tells the story of Tina trying in vain to get interest in her post the Ike and Tina days; trying to get a record deal, and any interest.  Her agents concluded that it was hopeless and that she HAD to tell ‘the story’.  She had to have a gimmick, (nothing wrong with that), and the gimmick was being a victim of domestic abuse.  The film goes on to state that at that point, the gates opened for her, and she was on and in; back in the music business and bigger than ever.  How absolutely vile to be ok with that as a gimmick.  I guess that is conveniently ‘allowed’ in Buddhism?  It wouldn’t be allowed in Christianity as both Ike and Tina were raised, where the act of forgiveness promises rewards, and closure.  Tina knew everything about Ike and his history more than anyone, until he wrote a book, in defence. 

‘Takin’ Back My Name,’ is an amazing tome put out by Virgin Books in 1999, with a forward written by a King of Rock n Roll, Little Richard, praising the founder of rock n roll, Ike Turner.  A book that reveals a man raped four times by different women before he was aged 12.  A man who saw the kind of racism up front and as close as seeing blood run, yet still never had a racist bone in his body towards whites.  Despite his personal trauma, he swam through it and developed his talents on piano, guitar, music arranging and producing, and became a star.  A man who designed the clothes for Tina and the Ikettes.  Ike rose above every horror that life threw at him enough to focus on music and becoming a star for himself and his wife. He was a man obsessed with his artAnd sex and love.  Yet unlike Tina who is dubbed a ‘survivor’ of Ike, Ike didn’t survive the trauma of Tina’s cast stigma.  Is annihilating revenge really admirable? 

The image Ike Turner was left with, as a wife beater and madman, an easy shingle to hang on a black man, is abhorrent in light of his musical accomplishments, and moral ones.  He was married to about six women before Tina, and had many lovers and married afterward, as well, yet during the time before and after his reputation was smeared, I cannot find any arrests or anything such as that would be expected of a man whom society paints in such a drastic horrific manner.  Ike’s autobiography also reveals that even Elvis was in awe of Ike. Elvis would sneak into some show in the deep south, as a kid, and watch Ike from behind and under the piano, watching his legs, and everything.  Elvis revealed this story years later to Ike and Tina themselves in Las Vegas. 

I had my own positive experience regarding Ike Turner directly.  My husband covered one of his songs, and we were living in LA.  Shortly before Ike’s death of which those close to him call a suicide, we went to see him play in Malibu one evening.  The grand man sat down, did his whole set sitting down, but it rocked.  We wanted to meet him and there was the inevitable crowd and security around the backstage door.  I went up to the security guard and told him, “You see that guy over there?  He is a musician and he just covered one of Ike’s songs.  He’d love so much to meet Ike.”  When it was time to let some folks backstage, the security guard came out the backstage door and headed straight for Mat Treiber, and escorted him in, (not me unfortunately).  Clearly what mattered most to Ike was music.  It was always his blood, his medicine.  Ike didn’t remember the song at the first second when Mat told him which one it was.  Then he did, and started saying the lyrics. He gave Mat his business card which Mat still keeps in the very pocket of the jacket he wore.  Magic.  Love!  

It was the day after the Depp trial ended, and with all this drifting back into my head, that I wrote to Ike Turner’s daughter.  I told her what I thought, and how I felt.  I told her that in considering the Depp precedent, in regards to the destruction of persona and career, with or without evidence that Tina was telling the truth about everything, that she could take Tina to the cleaners in the name of her father.  The evidence being the most recent documentary where they are admitting to this scheme, for profit!  For self-promotion – hell this makes what the two present-day Hollywood kookoos did to each other, nothing – even with evidence it is absolutely clear that Tina Turner destroyed Ike Turner’s reputation, and career.

A legal proceeding as such would be the grandest moral circus of all, and the redemption of a man who went to his grave with a ruined name.  Ike’s daughter Twanna wrote back to me. 

            “It is amazing that you thought that. The thought crossed my mind, but there is a lot to consider. My father NEVER spoke ill of Tina although all of that negativity was placed out there to build Tina. My father saw what was going on and chose to take the higher ground. As you had to experience when you and Mat met him. My father was a magnificent human being. He loved people and he loved Tina. Being he did not pursue that avenue and he could have, I am going to follow his lead.” 

 What a classy response.  What a wonderful confirmation that was to me, beyond my own intuitions on the man and evidential influence he would undoubtedly have on his family.  I thought, this response is a story in itself, this is an essay.  Which is why I decided to write about it.  Tina till her death was still in the public eye today, riding on what began as a singer for a the man who created rock n roll (with his single Rocket 88), and still wagged her time with him as a way to legitimately stay ‘interesting,’ and find her a title as “survivor”.   I don’t really believe she had to do any of that.  We’re all tested in life.  Was the music business that closed to her?  Perhaps she just needed some patience and the assistance of an astrologer to pass that moral test.  I’m not a psychologist, but choosing that route assured no closure.  A fan base of women identified with Tina as a battered woman, women battered by brutes.  Ike’s genius surely set him apart from the archtype wife-beater, yet it was the archtype victim that identified with Tina, painting her ex-husband as their own.  A monumental, world-wide  psychic attack parallel to black magic, for profit and success. 

In the seeds of writing this article I began by wondering if there was any real technical evidence in all the abuse claimed.  Tina walked into a police department one day, with a bruised eye, and split?  People knew they were volatile; Keith Richards joked in the press that Tina beat Ike up too.  Then on the heels of my plans to write this essay, there was a new book out by former Ikette, and friend of mine, PP Arnold.  In this book Pat (PP Arnold), states that Ike raped her.  That was the most outrageous accusation of Ike Turner I’d ever learned of!  It blew my whole Ike-is-a-saint image.  What a shame!  I told Pat I was writing this article and I wanted to talk to her about Ike.  “I don’t wanna talk about Ike,” she told me in her dressing room recently in London.  I said, well the article I’m writing is in praise of Ike.  I thought maybe that could get a rise out of her.  She repeated what I said, as a question.  And then followed with her offering, “Ike was a tremendous musical talent”.  End of.  Forgiveness I guess, isn’t it beautiful? 

RIP Tina Turner, the music lives on.

This article was (finally) written on Monday 22 May and completed Thursday 25 May, the day after Tina Turner’s death, who passed a year exactly to the era of the Johnny Depp trial when the seeds of this essay took place.


 

Roxanne Fontana

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COLIN GIBSON: AT HOME WITH PETE BROWN (1940-2023)

English performance poet, lyricist, and singer best known for his collaborations with Cream and Jack Bruce. Brown formed the bands Pete Brown & His Battered Ornaments and Pete Brown & Piblokto! and worked with Graham Bond and Phil Ryan.
Pete sadly passed away on May 19. This interview first appeared in The Hastings Independent Press September 2015

In the big comfy kitchen of his newly moved-into house, Pete and I fell to discussing how odd it was that our paths had never crossed during our music careers, and that we were only introduced last year (2014) by my old friend the Newcastle poet Tom Pickard. Tom was reading at Hasting’s Black Huts Festival of Writing, Music & Film, and I was intrigued to learn that not only had he and Pete hung out together in Newcastle in the early sixties, but Pete had been the first reader at the legendary Morden Tower, the poetry venue set up by Tom and his then wife Connie Pickard, which attracted poetry luminaries such as Allen Ginsberg, and Basil Bunting. I knew I had to start at the beginning.

CG: I was going to ask you a bit about the pre Cream days.

PB: Well, that was really my first professional experience. I had this mad notion, inspired by reading about The Beat Poets in America, (which I got wrong. They weren’t actually doing hundreds of gigs and hitchiking everywhere), nevertheless I ended up doing just that. Sometimes it was ten shillings (50p) and a girl….if you were lucky. There was no “performance poetry circuit” to speak of, so we kind of created one, starting around 1960 when I met Michael Horowitz (founder of  New Departures and publisher of William Burroughs and Samual Beckett). Previous to that meeting I’d been published in America but never in Britain, and Michael wanted some of my stuff for New Departures.

CG: So who was publishing you in America?

PB: Evergreen Review, which was the bible of The Beats and the alternative culture, so I was very happy. I always had this relationship with America – and obviously it was America that really went for Cream, in a big way. Before that I would be sending out reams of poems to British magazines and nobody wanted to know because it wasn’t anything like the stuff people were doing currently. Then suddenly I’m in Evergreen Review, which everyone thinks is the best culture magazine in the world at the time……

CG:  So what kind of circulation did the Evergreen Review have?

PB: …….Big, big. It sold in all the hip bookshops in London, and was very successful in America, so suddenly there was this kind of confirmation that what I was doing was not complete nonsense. (laughs). It was just a nice little thing that told me, maybe I’m on the right track.

CG: So this was like an early CV, a message to reluctant publishers; Pete Brown has appeared in the Evergreen Review!

PB: Yes quite. You have to remember that at this point the British poetry scene was in the grip of the establishment, which was the very thing that Horowitz and I were fighting against; for instance you couldn’t get on radio poetry programmes, few and far between though they were, if you were from Newcastle or Liverpool, or, like me, had an accent bearing traces of the East End. You’d  have actors reading your poetry! And they all had posh voices which belonged to the kind of class you just didnt figure in. But gradually – particularly via the Liverpool scene and because we were now starting to get around a lot – things began to change. Suddenly you heard these great regional voices on radio and people began to accept them as having an authenticity that seemed to be heralding significant cultural change.

CG: And then bands like the Beatles came through, riding the wave of this huge cultural shift.

PB: Absolutely – and interestingly I remember this disagreement with Ginsberg, at the time, who says to me “The Beatles are going to change the world.” – at that point I was a bit of a musical snob because I was in love with jazz – and so I’m saying to him “its just about jazz…I don’t hear the other thing”… I could hear the blues of course, because blues lyrics were always an inspiration to me, right from the early stuff. Mamie Smith and Victoria Spivey in particular wrote some fantastic lyrics. Then there were the country blues people…..obviously Robert Johnson who I loved, and particularly Sleepy John Estes who I still, to this day, find absolutely amazing. Blind Willie McTell is another one  – imaginative, incredible lyrics that always turned me on. On another level, I started to listen to Waynone Harris. She featured great lyrics – Dont Roll Your Bloodshot Eyes at Me – I’m Scared To Smell Your Breath – You’d Better Shut Your Peepers Before You Bleed to Death. I mean those lines are so fucking good! I grew up listening to all that.
When the poetry thing took off, after the big Albert hall reading in 1965, we were sort of making a living, some of us anyway…. it was like 5 gigs for £20 a week, but it was growing. A year after that, Cream asked me to write and of course because of my knowledge of all that blues stuff, I was ready…almost..(laughs)..I didnt quite know what I was doing to start with, but I got into it fairly quickly.

CG: Was it an instinctive thing?

PB: Yes, as the lyricist in most of the songwriting partnerships I’ve had, I found a facility there.

CG: Where do you suppose that comes from ?

PB: Its because you listened to all that stuff…..whatever was playing in my house. Rock ‘n Roll from my older brother and sister, Nat Cole & Glenn Miller from my parents. And I would be hearing these great lyricists like Cole Porter And Irving Berlin

CG: Tin Pan Alley!

PB: Well that’s another thing, some of the great standard repertoire is incomparable, and of course I grew up with that too. My particular favourite though was E.Y. Harburg, one of the true american socialists. They called him Yip Harburg, and he wrote “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” “April in Paris” “Buddy Can You spare a Dime?” –  He was at that unique place in American history, and a man who influenced many of his great successors, notably Mose Allison, one of my idols, whose songs, like Middle Class White Boy and Your Mind Is on Vacation but Your Mouth is Working Overtime are just some of the best. I had Mose round for tea once, and we were just talking about stuff that had influenced him and I said “What’s your favourite book?” and he said “Well I guess my favourite book is The Journal of Albion Moonlight by Kenneth Patchem.” Patchem predessor of the beats and basically a poet, he was another honest socialist who genuinely wanted to change the world and make things better for people. Of his longer prose books ,this was the one I really liked, because it was articulated it in what I considered to be a great way. I found it heartening that Mose was into him as well, because at that time most Americans struck you as being, well terrible capitalists, (laughs), and you know, sometimes you despair. I mean…I won’t mention a name…. but one of my managers got me a writing job with a famous guitar player in America. a stadium-type guitarist and a very good musician which is why I wanted to work with him.

CG: So he wanted you as a lyricist?

PB: Yes, but in fact he had hardly anything, so I ended up writing half the tunes as well, because he just had a kind of collection of riffs and chords. Anyway, I won’t mention his name, but I was staying in San Francisco, while I was doing the job, and the US Marines Air Display Team were flying outside – I could almost lean out of my hotel room and touch these bloody planes, it was really frightening.
CG: You were in a high rise building?

PB: Well no it was only about ten floors, since they don’t do tall buildings in San Francisco.

CG: Of course – in case they fall down!

PB: Exactly (laughs), and these planes were so low, with all this horrible kind of macho flying, I just couldn’t bear it. And you know one of the things I had in common with Alex Harvey was we were both strong pacifists yet fascinated by war…….and I mentioned the story to this guy I was working with, and he said “Oh yeah,  I’ve just written an anthem for them” and I thought waaaah? (big laughs).  It reminded me that we once had a request from the Band Of The Finnish Air Force who wanted to do a version of I Feel Free… 
(Interviewer collapses with laughter),

PB: …where…..seriously….they had rewritten all the lyrics, so they were something like; I feel really free because I’m flying over my enemy and bombing the shit out of them…

(Sound of tea being expelled from interviewer’s nose),

PB: …and we went; “Oh no. Fuck no. Definitely not. Thank you very much. Not for us no. Thank you”

CG:  I so want to hear that!  Not a lot of people are aware that the Finns’ inherent sense of surrealism, goes way back, despite our notion that it was invented in the 1920s by André Breton.

PB: I know, I know. Somewhere, in a box, I have the lyric they sent me. It was frightening. It was like the 1933 Nazi manifesto you know? I mean, unbelievable. You could certainly say the Finns are off-beat. Those films of Kaurismäki, they were great, but also incredibly miserable too.

CG: Ah yes, but off-beat misery. As a touring band, it can be so easy to get a bad introduction to a beautiful country like Finland, no?

PB: True. I remember our first visit. We went there after being diverted from another gig. they said, “You’re not playing in High Wycombe tomorrow, you’re playing in Finland. OK right…so we get on a flight to Copenhagen for the first leg, but then get put on standby, and we’re thinking we might not make it, so when we finally get there – its been a difficult trip you know – no sleep,  we say, “Where’s the hotel?” “Oh no,” they say,  “you’re onstage in 20 minutes.” (laughter) so we go “OK, how many people are there?” – “Oh around 20,000.” And we get there and play, and the audience are throwing beer cans and other stuff on stage! So we ask the promoter “Why were they throwing stuff?”, and he says “Oh that means they like you” and I say “Oh really? What if they dont like you?” and he goes “Well, then they will throw knives.”

CG: It’s in those situations, where you’re really not sure what’s happening, you recite to yourself that old showbiz cliché, the show must go on. when in reality you should probably have done a runner.

PB: I know, you have to learn! (laughter)

CG: To change the subject, I was intrigued to learn recently that when you first got the invitation from Cream, it was with a view to writing with Ginger Baker, is that so?

PB: Yes sort of. He was the one who made the call, and I did try to write with Ginger. Part of our upcoming documentary is concerned with the controversy about all that. Ginger was not easy to write with, but he did have some very interesting ideas. I did write lyrics for a couple of his things and then he sort of claimed to have “lost them on a plane” and things like that, you know? He wanted to do it all himself really.

CG: I remember we did a couple of his numbers with Airforce (Baker’s post-Cream band) , and they were OK.

 

PB: Yes, obviously I loved Pressed Rat and Warthog, and all that.

CG: I remember a particular favourite of Ginger’s was My Baby Has Gorn Down the Plughole which we recorded, and he wanted to put that on the album Airforce 2 .

PB: I know, that was an old music hall song. But  Ginger is a terrific drummer. I loved Airforce, and he could do that whole jazz, rock, R n’ B thing like no-one else – as a musician I had no problem with him at all, but he’s a horrible person – I mean you know what he’s like, and we’ve all seen the film (Beware of Mr. Baker).

CG: Oddly enough, myself and Kenny Craddock, (Hammond organist & guitarist 1950-2001, who joined Ginger Baker’s Airforce at the same time as me) never really encountered any of that, perhaps because being only 20, we came with no baggage. I certainly get the impression, with hindsight, that Ginger is a man with deep grudges, some of them going back to the 1950s! (laughter)

PB:  He enjoys his grudges. He still enjoys them! He doesn’t let them go. Kenny was a terrific musician wasn’t he?

CG: Extraordinary, and very sadly missed. Of course you had a long association with Graham Bond (Hammond organist and seminal figure in the history of British R ‘n B, member of Airforce and leader of The legendary Graham Bond Organisation), whose drummer was Ginger Baker.

PB:  Ah Graham. A couple of years ago I produced a four CD set of all the old Organisation stuff including some unreleased tracks, and I’ve just finished another one, Volume 2, based on all the BBC stuff plus other tracks I’ve acquired which is coming out at probably the end of October.

CG:What about Live At Klook’s Cleek?  I had that album as a teenager.

PB: I still have it, it’s in storage with the rest of my vinyl. It was recorded by Georgio Gomelsky (see link below), who occasionally releases it and nobody gets paid at all. Apart from that one, the four CD set was fairly definitive, and then we began discovering some other stuff from the BBC sessions and ended up with another 4 CD boxed set. I have a good relationship with Repertoire Records, who are putting these out, and I do some archive things for them. I still have a toe in the archive thing, especially when I find it’s a worthwhile subject which I think ought to be out there. The first Graham Bond set sold incredibly well and at £40 a pop, we all made money out of it, so we’re hoping the next one will be just as good.

CG: You’ve produced a lot of stuff since Cream

PB: I got to producing quite a lot of records, and then I didn’t do it for a bit, just bits and pieces. Then a couple of years ago I was doing a gig in Germany with The Hamburg Blues Band, who I was a guest singer with alongside Maggie Bell and Miller Anderson, and the support act was this guy called Chrissy Matthews – an incredible guitar player, really gives a hundred percent – and he approached me with a view to doing some work together so I said I’d take a look at it, see what he’d got. Anyway I ended up producing his album, and co-writing all the songs except for one Blind Willie McTell cover. And I had a great time doing it because he’s such a great guy. I’d been a little bit apprehensive because every now and then you come across things you get asked to do – and people are very precious, they won’t move, and they don’t listen to you. You’ve been there, of course you have – and you think “why am I doing this? What the fuck do I need this for? But this was such a nice experience I thought I’d quite like to do a bit more, so I’ve been doing some bits and pieces, with young acts this time, and they’ve been going well. But when I do gigs with Chrissy’s band or The Hamburg Blues Band, I like doing a few Cream numbers you know?

CG:  That repertoire is yours!

PB:  I’ve always liked doing the live stuff, and of course yes, I wrote the stuff. There was a time, of course, because Jack was such a great singer, for a long time thought I shouldn’t be doing this. But after  I had six years of singing lessons, I felt comfortable with it.

CG: We were talking earlier about the Hammond organist and alto saxophonist Graham Bond, and how much he was willing to encourage younger players such as my (then) self.

PB: The great thing about being friends with Graham, and eventually having a band with him for a year was that he would always encourage you. Unlike a lot of the old jazzers who would go “oh you don’t want to do that” blah blah, you know, that attitude. Graham was never like that. He would always go “do it man…try that” That was the thing, especially about Graham, that he never had that sort of modern jazz attitude although he was a more than capable modern jazz musician, but you knew when you played with him that you would give more than your best, that you would go beyond, you would give it that extra few inches you know? Because whatever you thought of all those guys – Jack, Ginger, Dick (Heckstall Smith) and Graham in particular – they always gave one hundred percent. There was never a time when they wouldn’t do that. They were not coasting – never –they always hit it. Yes sometimes it was a bit wild and ragged, whatever, but most of the time it was right on and always delivered with tremendous power, enthusiasm and passion.

CG: They’re not all like that unfortunately.

PB: Unfortunately not, its like you were saying earlier, it’s not always good meeting your heroes. Van Morrison and Hastings favourite John Martyn, both seem to have suffered from it. Goes with the territory, I guess.

CG: It seems so unneccessary to be a shit, just because you are a great artist.

PB: John Martyn, what a madman. I opened for him in Edinburgh, we were doing the soundcheck and there’s this spiral staircase coming down on to the stage. Suddenly there’s this tremendous crash and he and his brother in law, or his cousin who was his tour manager, the two of them came rolling down the stairs on to the stage, fighting. Two Scots, proper fighting you know…..kill. Blood all over the place, and we’re just trying to get out of the way. (laughter)- Jack (Bruce) hated him. He was playing- again in Edinburgh- with his band, and John Martyn comes staggering onstage out of his mind, and tries to jam with him, and you can’t really do that with Jack’s songs unless you know them, you know? Complex structures and twists and turns. So he tries to play with Jack, Jack wants to kill him and it all kicks off.

CG: Two more angry Scotsmen.

PB: If you’re making a decent living why have a king size chip on your shoulder? If doing what you like makes you so miserable go get a job in a bank, or try digging up the roads, you know?

CG: It all seems a bit counter-productive. I wouldn’t particularly want to go for a pint with Van Morrison either.

PB: Zoot Money has a great story. It was when Georgie Fame was playing with Morrison, and he’s invited Zoot over to a reheasal, thinking that Zoot would be able to cover for him when he wasn’t available. So they go down to Van’s house in Bath or wherever to rehearse. Van’s manager is there, and Zoot sits down at the piano and starts playing with the band. Van’s standing there, and they all seem to be enjoying Zoot’s playing, and he’s singing a bit you know? Suddenly Van rushes out into the garden. Everyone can see him pacing up and down, poking his phone and the manager is still in there with the band. Then the manager’s phone rings, he picks it up and……

CG: No, Is it Van?

PB: It’s Van! From the garden! Apparently he’s saying “I want him out of here, he’s gonna upstage me.” He’s getting paranoid because Zoot is getting on really well with the rest of the band. As you know Zoot is extroverted, outgoing, pleasant, humerous, in other words everything that Van is not, so Van can’t bear it. He can’t bear it that everything’s going so well.

CG: (unsuccessful ulster accent) “You come round here, cheering my band up. Do you know how long it’s taken me to get them that miserable?”

PB: Ha ha! Ridiculous but true.

CG: I see you are featured in the upcoming doc, Psychedelic Brittania. I suspect Zoot’s psychedelic band Dantalian’s Chariot are in there somewhere?

PB: Oh I loved that band. And I’ve always said this, because I’ve worked with Zoot quite a bit over the years here and there, that Dantalion’s Chariot was my favourite psychedelic band. But the reason it didn’t work was because the psych audience didn’t really understand the humor. And for me…I remember watching them at Middle Earth whenever I could, and apart from being really great musically, the humor went way above everyone heads. I fucking loved it. I thought the combination of psych and humor was really great.

CG: You’re saying the psych crowd had no sense of irony?

PB: Not much. Not usually. They were too out of it to get their heads around humour.

The conversation drifted to the days when a “demo” was regarded as de rigeur in the recording process, and was always insisted upon by record labels. There was small independent studio in Islington called “Pathway” where we had both recorded many times.

PB: Pathway studios! Mike Finesilver and engineer Pete Kerr – I did all my demos there. They co-wrote Arthur Brown’s hit Fire and set up the studio with the money from that. I did several albums there, and hundreds of sessions as artist and producer, as well as the demos of course.

CG: Demo syndrome! The tracks would never sound as good in a “proper” studio and you spent half the time trying to recreate that “demo” feel.

PB: Very true, but Pathway later became known for its sound, and people like Dire Straits recorded their first album there, Elvis Costello too – it was a magic studio. 

 

LINKS

https://thestrangebrew.co.uk/remembering-pete-brown/

White Rooms and Imaginary Westerns, the documentary by Mark Waters featuring Pete. Featuring Martin Scorcese, Fay Weldon, Robert, Wyatt, Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker, it will be broadcast in spring 2016, and later released on DVD.

23rd October, before this issue, Psychedelic Brittannia, Mark AJ Waters’ documentary about Pete’s career went out on BBC 3. Catch it on iplayer.
/
11th October saw the broadcast from London’s Roundhouse of The 50th anniversary reunion of 1965’s First International Poetry Incarnation, where over seven thousand people packed the Royal Albert Hall to hear such luminaries of the beat scene as William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Lawrence Felinghetti and of course Pete Brown. Catch it on iPlayer.

Arthur Brown.

Zoot Money

The Roundhouse

Colin Gibson & Kenny Craddock were members of Ginger Baker’s Airforce 1970-71 – useful links:

Kenny Craddock

Lindisfarne

Graham Bond

Giorgio Gomelsky

Klook’s Kleek

Ginger Bakers Airforce

useful links:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Horovitz
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yip_Harburg
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evergreen_Review
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morden_Tower
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mamie_Smith
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victoria_Spivey
http://www.stmichaelshospice.org/get-involved/events/event-calendar/view/609/barefacedblues-festival

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A Playful Child

A school going child
Desires to play with
Her grandmother’s hair
After she comes home
Back from school.
She carefully plaits
The locks of hair;
Believes in herself with the intention
To caress
Smooth fall of hair
That reaches down
Her grandmother’s waist.
Time ticks by
The child grows daily in
The playground
That has also been
Her grandma’s identity
Of owning the long hair
From her youthful days;
Like the peaceful gushing
Stream of waterfall.
The homemade beauty salon
Has become the child’s playful abode.
The child is a craftsperson
A measure of free play
Long like the falling hair.
No school bell rings
That tells the child
To leave her playful salon.

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar- Nepal

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SAUSAGE Life 271

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which believes that a laughing stock is only the prelude to a laughing gravy.

MYSELF: You’re looking a bit stressed
READER: I’m going to have to stop watching football on TV.
MYSELF: Is it the poor quality? Is your team doing badly?
READER: No, it’s the bloody row. The boot boys, sponge-men, assorted ground staff, the pot-bellied fans in full kit, all of them bellowing at the players in some kind of made-up language. It’s giving me disturbing childhood flashbacks.
MYSELF: Goodness. Can you be more specific?
READER: Yes. Imagine if all the members of the DUP came round to your your house at once.
MYSELF: A terrifying thought upon which I would prefer not to dwell. Would some curious facts from around the world of items sooth your infantile Freudian soccer-angst perhaps?
READER: Bravo! That’s more like it! I feel better already!

BLIMEY! CURIOUS FACTS FROM AROUND THE WORLD OF ITEMS

Did you know that the spider is not an insect, but a mammal, which can break a man’s arm with any one of its eight wings? 

Did you know that the Montezuma Quail is witheringly sarcastic, and is not to be trusted with money? 

Did you know that the late Ginger Baker, ex drummer of The Cream, recently turned down the role of Dr Who? 

Did you know that Nigel Farage, the Caribbean white supremacist has his own miniature one-man submarine? 

READER:  I have a feeling that one of those “facts” is not true. 

MYSELF:  Well spotted, which one do you think is false? 

READER:  Let me see…. I know Nigel Farage owns a miniature submarine and is definitely from the Caribbean, because I saw a video of him limbo dancing under a horse in St Kitt’s. As for number 2, I myself was once grossly insulted by a Montezuma Quail after I rashly lent it £10. 

MYSELF:  So, could it be the late Ginger Baker as a potential Dr Who perhaps? 

READER:  Well, that definitely has the ring of truth about it, even though he is dead, which just leaves the limb-fracturing arachnid. Can I phone a friend?

MYSELF:  You don’t have any 

READER:  I’m just going to have to guess.  Is it the spider? 

MYSELF:  You are going to kick yourself. The odd one out is the Montezuma Quail, a polite, charming and trustworthy bird with whom you would happily go into business. I can only suppose that the Quail you lent money to was suffering from stress. 

READER:  I recall it having the cool demeanor of a practiced confidence trickster. 

MYSELF:  Perhaps it was another type of bird altogether, wearing a Quail costume? 

READER: Ah….  Now you come to mention it… it may have been a Hoopoe.

IRISH STEW
We are obliged by the Press Council to publish the following letter
Dear Mr so-called Guano,
in these more enlightened times, must we, the ordinary folk of Ireland, still have to put up with cheap stereotypical so-called “irish jokes” like the example on display in in last week’s Sausage Life? Contrary to (un)popular opinion, we are not a nation of potato-eating bumkins, permanently fluthered on too many jars of the black stuff. Nor are we rib-ticklingly amused by ridiculous cod-Irish names, like Toby Shaw which your ‘reader’ claimed to have changed his moniker to in honour of St Patrick’s DayThis type of puerile humour may well appeal to your low-level Jackeens, your banjaxed Bosthoons or certain classes of eejit – but I feel sure that the loyal readership of your respected and venerable organ would be better served were you to rise above this type of thing.
Sue Atiz, B. Gobb, Mahogoney Gaspipe (Mrs)
Poltroon, Limerick

YOU CUN’T FUCKING MAKE IT UP
Ever since Chef-Swear, Gordon Ramsay’s chain of upmarket kitchen utensil stores posted a severe profit warning, it has been rumoured he has been looking for a way back into TV. The potty mouthed hash-slinger is rumoured to have agreed a deal with Channel 5 to present Ramsay’s Council Nightmares, a new series in which Gordon will go into borough councils around the UK and try to improve their efficiency.
“This is going to lift the lid on the fucking appalling state of UK local councils,” he is alleged to have shouted during an interview with Stan Wok, a journalist from the catering magazine Shock Chef, “you wouldn’t fucking believe the state of some of the fucking town halls I’ve been in!” he screamed, “One, which I won’t name, had a dis-fuckinggustingly filthy agenda cupboard containing the rotting remains of hair-brained policies covered in fucking mould!” Punching Wok hard in the solar plexus he continued:  “Some of the fuckers were well past their fucking sell-by date and stored next to rafts of raw proposals and dirty plastic trays containing fucking pre-cooked processed plans. All this obnoxious shit was lying there waiting to be zapped in a twatting micro fucking wave and served up to the poor unsuspecting locals as fresh.”
Asked to comment, Douglas Pancake of Upper Dicker, an official spokesman for the unnamed council, told us: “We welcome Gordon’s intervention. This may be just the breath of fresh air this council has been looking for. Let’s face it, if Chef Ramsay can turn around a corrupt, anachronistic, run down organisation as grossly inefficient as ours and at the same time secure massive TV coverage, it’s got to be worth a little bit of public humiliation. I for one am perfectly comfortable with being called a “worthless fucking slug” or indeed the more comprehensive “a totally fucking unqualified fuckwit of a wanker who couldn’t organise a fucking shit in a fucking bucket”

WENDY WRITES
Your favourite Agony aunt is back, rehabbed, replenished and refreshed, with non-confidential, unqualified advice for the needy, the lovelorn or the just plain confused. Sponsored this issue by Wurlitzer Organs UK.

Dear Wendy,
I’m frantic. My husband Harry’s 50th birthday is three weeks away and he has all the gadgets a man could ever wish for (including a mechanical device he keeps in his shed but refuses to say what it’s for). He’s very musical, but recently returned from a business trip in the Far East with chronic incontinence which has sadly prevented him from continuing with his part-time job as church organist. Wendy – what can I buy him for his special day?
Mia Tryfel (Mrs),
Rumpelstiltskin, Kent

Dear Mrs Tryfel,
Let me assure you, there is no such thing as the man who has everything. I can think of no more appropriate a gift for your musically talented yet cruelly afflicted spouse, than the Pump ‘n Dump Commodium by Wurlitzer. With the aid of this medically-approved portable self-flushing combination reed organ and commode stool, your husband can safely resume his part-time occupation. His musical doodling will no longer be curtailed by the ominous rumble of nature calling unannounced. As your husband’s errant bowel is gently regulated, the pneumatic foot pedals pump pressurized air into the Commodium’s unique U-Pipe disposal pistons. Once the system is plumbed in to an external septic tank, any unpleasant waste is efficiently dealt with by the chaise percée-themed hygienic mahogony commode stool.
The Wurlitzer Pump ‘n Dump Commodium comes with a free starter pack of ‘sheet music’ toilet paper, featuring organ maestro Gottfried Schtumm’s moving selection of ‘relaxative’ melodies including Exodus, I Shall Be Released, The Old Log Cabin and many more.

 

 

 

 

Sausage Life!

 

 

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

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

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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Ithaka: The fight to free Julian Assange, this Sunday


All credit to ITV and Dartmouth Films in London for an ITV showing this Sunday, 21 May, of Ithaka, the moving story of Julian Assange’s family’s struggle to get freedom for Julian.

When I last saw Julian in Belmarsh prison, where he is held awaiting extradition to the US, it was clear he survived on hope that the public in sane societies would see through the grotesque charade of his persecution and come to his aid.

Julian is a political prisoner.

That is not a rhetorical term; his extraordinary story is the collapse of justice for those who dissent against the state in declared democracies. It signals the demise of truth-telling in public life and of independent journalism.

Please support Julian by watching on Sunday: ITV at 22.20. Then speak out for his freedom. It could be yours.

Follow John Pilger on Twitter @johnpilger

 

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Lunch/Sky…..

LUNCH

I have been invited
to somebody’s
“Book Lunch”

It might be a misprint
but
I hope it’s not

SKY

The sky
is like a painting
of the sea

only upside down

STRIKE

Half the country
is on strike today

so

No poetry writing for me today!

MEDITATION

My mind
wanders

Must buy
cheese!

LADDER

There is a man
over the way
on a ladder

I hope he doesn’t –

oh, he did

 

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Eric Eric 2023

 

 

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Irony


                                

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                             for John Phillips
 
 
I think you’re probably right that I don’t
do or get irony very well, if at all some
 
times, but I question whether it’s because
I’m an American. Is it? You’d know, over there,
 
being an Englishman living in the Slovenian
countryside. I’d write this poem if I could.

 

 

  

John Levy

 

 

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ORPHEUS  SON OF APOLLO

 

Roman Orpheus
Bear your lamb from harm   –
Protector of the lost and newly-born
The tender creature draped upon
Your adolescent shoulder
The only princely mantle you lay down

To frolic with the nightingales and fishes
Concordant yet transcending nature’s power   –
Your simple tunic boasts
No purple trim   –   authority
Lives only in the grace-notes of your lyre

One naked foot is pierced
By time’s narcotic thorn
But your eyes see all too clear   –
And so the ikon-makers shall suggest
Your candid poet’s face
A pattern of harmonic countenance
Beneath the un-recorded face of Christ

‘The Good Shepherd’ you become   – also
‘The Harrower of Hell’

Where hides that wounded fawn Eurydice
Your shy Byzantine princess?
‘Don’t look back’   –   she has become
In semblance of her bridal fresco
The numinous white flame of the Holy Virgin   –

South of Tiber’s sage-green trailing ribbon
Fountains   groves of olives   lemon gardens
Are her veil

 

 

Bernard Saint  
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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Memory

Close to the church doorway

St. Mary’s, Harrow-on-the-Hill

Graves dot the steep hillside

Souls we never knew

If only they could stand

Look out beyond where they lay

To the vistas of Harrow Weald

For 1000 years from this citadel

If only they could hear each other

And dance in memorial shadows

Bluebells and forget-me-nots

Gathered around their stones

Robins, finches and sparrows sang

 As the sun crept over the horizon

A tethered cross leans by the chapel wall

Where stained glass figures look on.

Remembering, in the early morning light

A man stands quietly, cups an ear, listens

Says, ‘spread your wings, the angels call’

Places precious flowers on the new grave

  
 © Christopher 2023 

 
 
The young Byron sat on a tomb at St. Mary’s to write his poetry.
 
 
 
 
 
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Hospice Nurse

Her way of comforting plashed the grief that sprawled in syllables along pathways not woven fallen falling across once keepsake leaves on acres felt. Each footfall dotting a horizontal plane destined to reach unwanted locus imperfectly alone. Fragility resists insight while needing one fresh day unequal to escape. There is no living past what remains unfinished joy. Devotion interrupted shifts compass away from chanted true north as though a real concerto resisting what finality is imagined to achieve. 

Predicate, predictor, sheaths of color dimming toward transparency

 

 

Sheila E Murphy

 

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If every


If every moment is made of moments does every one of those moments require an explanation? Propagandists sniff at the perfumed corpse of the past to carry their own stink into what’s left of the future: Those were the days when… But this most recent was a summer of tipping points, flowers abundant on roadside verges here while north and south polar ice sheets were melting. Can it matter to a nearly blind mole and his black velvet hide that he has all this while been tunnelling through coal spoil? With these out-of-season weathers how am I now to read the rain?

 

 

Sam Smith

 

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COLOUR OF PAIN

When I see your rage
at fate’s vandalism
ripping the stitches
from your life,
I imagine your mind
holds a silence of red.
 
When I see the envy
as the world enjoys
its same old shams
you can`t now reach,
I imagine your mind
as a riot of green.
 
Yet I can`t tell the colour
that invades your mind
due to the depth of pain
your eyes aren’t hiding,
spreading its education
across your face.
 
But it must be
darker than black.

 

 

 
 Gordon Scapens

 

 

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INVENTING LEMMY {from Motorhead}


From the open platform of Hyde Central

The modern absence of chimneys
Would have overwhelmed the Victorians

What do people do
Without mills and factories
How do they pay the rent
Afford new hats

Perhaps they all work in Woolworths
Weighing sweets and selling
Just the Top Twenty singles, nothing

Wild or esoteric, nothing
By Motorhead

Did I mention that Lemmy
Lived (briefly) on Hattersley?

He was seeing a girl

I never met her
But I’ve no reason to doubt
The accuracy of the story

Why would you invent it?

 

 

 

Steven Taylor

 

 

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Don’t Say Nowt

     

Don’t Say Nowt

 

Jumble Hole Clough’s creator, Colin Robinson, describes it as ‘music influenced by the landscape, industrial remains and experiences around Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire. Forgotten things half-hidden beneath the undergrowth.’ Robinson has now created forty-three albums under the Jumble Hole Clough name, the latest three being a trilogy based on written-down dreams (‘the minor transient documents of everyday life’, as he describes them). Over the previous forty, Robinson had moved gradually away from his self-imposed local brief. This trilogy, however, brings the world around Hebden Bridge back into focus: the calls of the curlews the crows and the sound of the church bells rising up from the valley (everyday experiences for anyone living around Hebden Bridge) mingle with more exotic, surreal dream-images. For example, someone – in one of the catchiest songs in the trilogy – has mysteriously filled the back of his car with riot-shields. I can’t explain why I like that song as much as I do any more than I suspect Colin Robinson can explain why he dreamt it.

The first album of the trilogy, with its ambiguous double-negative title, Don’t Say Nowt (and other dreams), contains conventional songs. Correction: conventional JHC songs, which is not quite the same thing. Conventional in JHC terms means short, sonically diverse and full of tongue-in-cheek surrealism. These are the dreams you were dreaming the moment you woke up: brief, vivid narratives with a logic of their own, which seemed perfectly reasonable while you were dreaming them.

Check it out on
https://asithappens55.blogspot.com/2023/05/dont-say-nowt.html

 

Dominic Rivron

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Steam’s Groove – (episode 24)

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Galt MacDermot – Hair
Foxy – Madamoiselle
Ronnie Laws – Tidal Wave
Roy Ayers – I Like the Way You do it to Me
Ohio Players – Smoke
Soft Touch – Plenty Action
Betty Davis – Shoo-B-Doop and Cop Him
The Gaturs – Gator Bait
The Undisputed – Truth Ball of Confusion
Barry White – Playing Your Game Baby
Vaughan Mason and Crew – Rock, Skate, Roll, Bounce Pt.1
Vaughan Mason and Crew – Rock, Skate, Roll, Bounce Pt.2
Odyssey – Our Lives are Shaped by What We Love
Dionne Warwick – You’re Gonna Need Me

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DIRTY DIANA


Fluttering her eyeleashes at Kings, Billionaires,
Doctors, Soldiers, she flirted further
Than Cleopatra’s appeal.

There seemed to be no end to her need
To embroil every man; from rejection,
She still founded a kingdom from the walls

Of want most men feel. Today there was news
Of her saucy postcard sent to a former King
Of Greece. Her cum-punning, showed a low

But high sense of humour, and yet,
One can also discern the zones of danger
She courted; often indiscreet, her distemper

And that little girl blush cast a net
Snagging her as she snogged, promised more,
Or gave gladly. She could have played grandly

Into the studied hands of the dark
Who shaped restraint and the dire demand
For order, outdated now, but back then,

In the 90s, tradition could still stain and mark.
Of course, it was just a postcard. So this
Is little more than conjecture. Diana’s rule

Has grown greater than if she had made it
To Queen.She had a virtual army of men,
as did Margaret Thatcher. She could well have wrought

a republic from how high
She chose to raise her skirt seam. And God knows,
She had the divine right to do so; taking the pip

And piss is the province of those who are free.
And yet this piece of paper I saw, this tranche
Through tree makes me wonder; just how do we

Rouse the rebel if we are to sustain anarchy?
Women know best. But then they always do.
There’s no question.. Now, in the dream-world,

Diana is, while perhaps playfully posing,
Laughing with abandon as she teaches
Love itself how to be.

 

 

David Erdos 16/5/23

 

 

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Andrew Weatherall: AW60 – aka The Guv’nor

Some words and pics from Alan Dearling

A weekend of live music, DJs and mixers. Co-ordinated by Todmorden’s Golden Lion crew. A celebration of what would have been music producer, musician and DJ, Andrew Weatherall’s 60th birthday.

Eager crowds of dancers, plenty of May Bank Holiday high spirits immersed themselves amongst lots of memorabilia of Andrew’s life and musical careers, plus the presence of many members of the Weatherall family. Andrew W was last at the Golden Lion with his many world-wide and local fans and friends for the 5th ALFOS weekender (A Love From Outer Space) with Sean Johnston and others in June 2019. Sadly, it took place only a relatively short time before his untimely demise at the age of 56 in February 2020. I was there for most of that weekend, and had opportunities to chat with him, finding him to be gentle, warm, companionable and deeply knowledgeable concerning many styles of music. The range of music he played over three days was genuinely genre-defying. It encompassed rockabilly, blues, psychedelia, techno, electronica, rave, hip-hop, rock and dance.  But I guess, Andrew will be most remembered for being centre-stage of Acid House and as the producer of Primal Scream’s ‘Loaded’ and ‘Screamadelica’ and My Bloody Valentine’s ‘Soon’. His own electronica trio, The Sabres of Paradise released three cult albums.

And so the 2023 ‘AW60’ event was a thoroughly mixed musical bag. It physically and sonically overlapped with the Todmorden Folk Festival weekend – Morris Men, clog dancers, fiddles and bagpipes were melded into the fabric of the local area, down by the Rochdale Canal and inside and outside venues, pubs and bars, cafes and eateries throughout Tod’s market streets and gunnels.

Sunday night at AW60, a variety of DJ sets and live, Andy Bell and Chris Rotter. Two guitarists…a relaxed, improvising-style set. More of a jam than a show, but delightfully intimate. Andy Bell is something akin to rock-royalty having been the co-founder of the band, Ride, often named as the creators of the ‘shoe-gazing’ style of music. But, Andy was also in Oasis for nearly ten years and in Liam Gallagher’s Beady Eye. He’s an innovator in electronic music, but is primarily a guitarist and bass-player, but most definitely with ‘added loops, pedals and effects’.  He’s also been working on his solo work (most recently the double album ‘Flicker’ 2022), new compositions with Chris Rotter and in Glok, plus occasional reunions with Ride. The sound of this duo gigging was strangely ethereal, jangling guitars and interweaving of soundscapes. Strange, but overall entrancing and enveloping. And a fitting tribute to Andrew Weatherall, who Andy Bell had worked alongside in many musical conflagrations. All in all, a magnificent party for the Guv’nor! Live Video: https://vimeo.com/822933811

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Revelation

My mind is a river bank my friend
The water keeps touching it.
It is a sentiment my friend
The memories keep recalling.
The wide sky
Paints its canvas;
It leaves
The caricature of togetherness.
Only the living code is the color of life
Under the blue sky.
Find me in a grain of sand
The horoscope of my working palm
Shows my fateful lines.
I create my meaning
Inside the deep cave
Of felt affection.
All abstract,
The weight of meaninglessness
Is like plucking the flowers
Without planting the seeds,
Aware of appreciation
Without knowing about the flower.
The cool water again,
Keeps touching the woods,
And time keeps reaching
The banks.
A revelation shows its face
In the morning mirror.

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor

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The Guilt Directory

 

It takes a long time for the threads of Empire to fray, and you still find them caught on your jewellery after you’ve pushed through the narrow library, with all its mythical heroes and unused telephone directories. You wonder which, death for death, was the most pernicious empire; but more than that you wonder what mythical heroes would make of telephone directories, being more used to scrolls and Roman numerals. Imagine Icarus running his waxy finger down the page as he searched for a cab to the airport, or Medusa checking for a local hair salon, both confused by these strange symbols that you take for granted. You read somewhere that Britain transported over three million Africans to its colonies between the mid-seventeenth century and 1807, but these numbers are too big to mean anything to you, and you feel like Pandora, face pressed into an empty jewellery box from somewhere your grandfather called The Orient, desperate for the residual scent of hope.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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Cease & Resist – Sonic Subversion & Anarcho Punk In The UK 1979​-​86

This is the sound of attitude, argument, resistance and revolt, birthed long after the first punks came into view, owing as much to DIY bedroom experiment as ‘punk’ music. Anarcho Punk was more to do with politics than music, and if it at times it became simplistic propaganda, it never failed to provoke discussion and encourage the alternative networks of concerts, fanzines and music that existed at the time, pre-internet of course.

If at times the scene was reduced to slogans painted on knackered leather jackets, ripped jeans and spiked hair, it also produced surprisingly poppy music at times, and also the ‘sonic subversion’ or Crass and their associates like Annie Anxiety, both featured here. Anxiety’s track here, ‘Hello Horror’ is a still shocking aural collage, in total contrast to the accessible pop punk of Zounds, who kick off the compilation.

Elsewhere most of the music on here, even the Crass track, is more simplistic thrash, although synthesizer sounds beam into The Hit Parade’s contribution, Andy T declaims his poetry over abstract feedback and random radio, Alternative TV are just plain weird as usual, and the alternative version of The Mob’s classic ‘No Doves Fly Here’ is still achingly despairing and nihilist.

Whilst it’s disappointing that this compilation ignores the more experimental stuff Crass, Flux of Pink Indians (called Flux by then) and the Poison Girls released, this is neverthless a great double album, which is available from THE Optimo Records Bandcamp for just £10, with all profits being donated to Faslane Peace Camp and the Scottish Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.

BUY HERE: LINK   https://optimomusic.bandcamp.com/album/cease-resist-sonic-subversion-anarcho-punk-in-the-uk-1979-86?from=search&search_item_id=1078696940&search_item_type=a&search_match_part=%3F&search_page_id=2602140370&search_page_no=1&search_rank=5&search_sig=7e3bc17f7e0e711faecd93105cae7cc4

Andy T – Death is Big Business

Chumbawamba – Revolution (Liberation/Stagnation)

‘Don’t sit back, it’s time to act
This life is ours, let’s snatch it back
Even though we disagree
we share a common enemy
Our methods may not be the same
But together we can break the chain
Different aims, different means,
with common ground in between
Don’t sit back, it’s time to act
This life is ours, let’s snatch it back
The time has come to make a choice
Stop taking orders from His Master’s Voice!’

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All About Love

 

O Sun O Moon, Bruce Cockburn (True North)

There was talk a little while ago, of Bruce Cockburn’s new album being like some of his (much) earlier work. For some of us that hopefully meant a resurrection of the Tom Verlaine-esque guitars on parts of 1978’s Further Adventures of, or the acidic despair and social observation of divorce album Humans and its follow up, the even grittier Inner City Front. But actually what it turns out to be is a return to the kind of music Cockburn made even before those: O Sun O Moon is a laid back singer-songwriter album, exquisitely arranged and produced, with vocals and acoustic guitars to the fore.

Cockburn is 78 and still going strong. He’s been making albums since 1970, I’ve been seeing him in concert since the late 70s; I even wrote my undergraduate dissertation on his work. Every time I think I might not worry about listening to new Cockburn albums any more he releases one that tries something different and re-energises my interest. At times that has been a renewed political engagement, at others a change in his band line-up, producer or just the fact he manages to succinctly capture the moment.

O Sun O Moon is a surprise turn away from political and social satire or commentary to a more personal, and also seemingly more straightforward, blues and folk based music, where texture and arrangement are the focus. It’s subtle, enticing music that isn’t afraid to remain stripped back but also welcomes clarinet, upright bass, accordion, glockenspiel, saxophones and marimba into the mix as and when required.

Cockburn sounds relaxed and slightly gruff vocally throughout, quiet and contemplative, whilst the album sounds as though it was recorded next door. It’s warm and enticing, with love – be that romantic, spiritual or sexual – often posed as not only the answer but a command from above:

   The pastor preaching shades of hate
   The self-inflating head of state
   The black and blue, the starved for bread
   The dread, the red, the better dead
   The sweet, the vile, the small, the tall
   The one who rises to the call
   The list is long — as I recall

   Our orders said to love them all
   The one who lets his demons win
   The one we think we’re better than
   A challenge great — as I recall
   Our orders said to love them all
          (‘Orders’)

There’s also what reads as more zen acceptance than despairing resignation, as long as his lover is there:

   What will go wrong will go wrong
   What will go right will go right
   Push come to shove

   It’s all about love
    The sight of your smile fills my heart with light
          (‘Push Come to Shove’)

Overall there’s sense of what-will-be-will-be and contentment. Wars and politics aren’t bothering Cockburn much at the moment, he’s not angry but more concerned with domestic routine (he has moved from Canada to San Francisco, and has a teenage daughter) and ageing gracefully. In fact dying gracefully. ‘O Sun O Moon By Night’ is a reflective song that looks backwards in time and forwards in hope:

   Pain brings understanding
   Your mistakes will set you free
   To sink into the spirit

   To clear your eyes to see

   O sun by day o moon by night

   Light my way so I get this right

   And if that sun and moon don’t shine
   Heaven guide these feet of mine

   To Glory

whilst the final song, ‘When You Arrive’ starts with the lovely lines ‘Breakfast is Mahler and coffee
 / Dinner’s Lightnin’ Hopkins and rye’, but notes that

   You’re limping like a three-legged canine
   Backbone creaking like a cheap shoe
   Dragging the accretions of a lifetime

   But you ought to make another mile or two

before optimistically suggesting that the dead will welcome him in the end. (Yes, I know it says ‘you’re limping’ but I read it as poetic license.):

   And the dead shall sing

   To the living and the semi-alive
   Bells will ring when you arrive

Cockburn is an astonishing musician, performer, songwriter and political activist. Over the course of 38 studio albums he’s charted the ups and down of life, relationships and friendships, faith and doubt, embraced the urban and rural, pointed out political lies and encouraged revolutionary fervour. He’s visited and documented refugee camps, war zones and tropical paradises, campaigned for various causes and charities, turned nature into mystical visions and kept making great albums. This is one of them.

 

Rupert Loydell

                        Bruce Cockburn • August 2023 UK Tour

                        Thursday 24        Oxford           02 Academy
                        Friday 25              London          02 Shepherd’s Bush Empire
                        Saturday 26         Kettering       Greenbelt Festival


Photo by Daniel Keebler

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Restoration, Repair, Regeneration

Broken, Katie Treggiden (Ludion)

I confess that this book’s subtitle ‘Mending and repair in a throwaway world’ but mostly the fact that the Foreword is written by Jay Blades put me off reading this book for a while. Both are in many ways irrelevant to what this book is actually about; it certainly has very little to do with the tearful nostalgia peddled by TV’s Repair Shop (which Blades presents) as they return mended items to their grateful owners. It is also not about ‘making do’ or ‘patching things up’ but much more radical and interesting topics such as ‘Repair as storytelling’, ‘Repair as activism’, ‘Repair as healing’ and ‘Regeneration as repair’.

These are the titles of the book’s individual sections, the first of which is to do with the seemingly more ordinary ‘Restoration of function’, which talks to makers who have skills such as chair caning, and to the inventor of Sugru – a plastic I have never heard of but looks absolutely fantastic. It is a ‘mouldable glue’, made in a number of vibrant colours, which has the ability to be wrapped around or between all manner of previously difficult-to-repair items such as cables, zip tags and, if you don’t mind a crazy paving look, ceramics. Some of those featured here talk about resisting a throwaway society but also more importantly of the fact that ‘Fixing objects is a way of taking ownership’. Disappointingly, Vincent Dassi who I have just quoted, along with Jude Dennis & Hannah Stanton, who ‘use furniture as a medium for the exploration of ideas’, create objects that most people, myself included, will probably not want in their home. That’s actually unfair to Dennis & Stanton, as they use their chairs as sculptural props in performances designed to provoke their audiences to ‘think differently about their furniture, what’s in it, where it comes from, and who has made it.’

‘Repair as storytelling’ is about the history that objects we own sometimes contain, and that we perhaps need more than we think as humans living in a throwaway society where built-in obsolescence is the norm. Whilst we find it hard to manage our clutter and possessions (let alone digital information) we all too often end up rootless and unable to position ourselves within familial, communal or social histories and geographies. Keiko Matsui notes that ‘People will not repair a broken object if it is not personal, valuable or historical… it must have a story, a connection to the heart, in some way.’ Re-animating, discovering or perhaps even inventing such stories seems to be what the artists in this section are doing. Celia Pym highlights the darns and repairs she makes in bright colours to construct fashion items which map ‘where holes happen’, but also makes sculptures or reliefs from stitching wool into paper bags, emphasising the crumpled textures and darning interventions.

Bouke de Vries reassembles broken ceramics in a deconstructed manner, sometimes highlighting the repaired cracks with gold leaf, at other times placing the pieces in a glass version of the original pot. Matsui at times does something similar, drawing on the art of kingtsugi, which embraces damage and repair, but she is also exploring yobtisugi, where missing fragments are replaced with pieces from other ceramics. In her case this often involves using ‘old shards if blue and white Japanese porcelain, in a way that integrates [her] identity with the cultural connection to my new home in Australia.’

Raewyn Harrison explores similar ideas of cultural connection by curating and assembling found objects, often from mudlarking expeditions by the Thames, into handmade porcelain boxes or thrown pots. Hans Tan initiated a design project in Singapore to challenge design students to repair objects for an exhibition he curated, R for Repair. The students also had to produce a little ‘repair kit’ which would enable others to do something similar. This wasn’t simply about ‘mending’ but totally rethinking and recontextualising the object. So a watch became a clock by being set in a wooden block; a tote bag was turned inside out, with elastic rope netting added to the (now) outside as extra storage; a precious cup with its handle broken off was smoothed down to make a usable drinking vessel for its owner, whilst the handle was given a small wooden box to rest in.

In the next section some makers appear to work in similar ways but frame their practice as political resistance, not only to capitalism’s demands for endless production and purchasing but also the way it ignores poverty, environmental issues, and our broken community and society. It is craft as a form of protest. Sometimes this is in-your-face sloganeering, for instance Bridget Harvey’s giant jumper with the slogan MEND MORE BUY LESS on, carried on the Global Protest March back in 2015, other times it is a more subtle highlighting of the beauty of wear and tear, the inbuilt stories in what we wear. Aya Haidar produces witty installations of used clothing hung on washing lines, with each item’s particular history annotated in stitch: ‘Produced Milk’ declaims a slip, ‘scrubbed poo off pants’ announces a pair of pants, ‘Painted fence’ states an old rag; whilst in other works she highlights stains and marks and tears by stitching colours around them. Other works here may be political acts but once again, you’d have to like them a lot to want Paulo Goldstein’s anarchically DIY repaired furniture in your house or the naively painted, smashed and awkwardly reassembled pots which Claudia Clare sees as a metaphorical representation of sexualised violence against women.

Perhaps more subtle and interesting is the work in the next section, which considers ‘Repair as healing’, referring to personal healing, not the objects concerned. Ekta Kaul’s embroidered textile work explores lost connections, with an early piece mapping out her grandmother’s Indian neighbourhood as a way of exploring her cultural and family past. Later pieces such as ‘Portrait of Place’ were co-created with community groups who learnt traditional Indian stitching techniques in addition to being able to produce a map of their West London, where the workshops took place. (It also happens to be my West London!) I was surprised and delighted to see artist Lucy Willow’s work showcased here, particularly because the work discussed is from an exhibition I saw in 2022. Drawn from the Well was an exploration of grief in response to Willow’s almost 16 year old son dying back in 2006. The work included charcoal drawing and porcelain ceramics, some broken and exhibited as pieces on the floor, others organic yet abstract shapes containing textiles made from her son’s clothes. Deeply personal symbolism, and the artist’s acts of creating by ‘tearing, ripping, stabbing, breaking’ re-present a raw, personal response to loss, and offer a space for others to remember, mourn and think; perhaps to even be healed.

Aono Fumiaki makes sculptural assemblages from what others have discarded, but it is perhaps his reinvention, which he calls ‘restoration’, of items from the great East Japan earthquake and tsunami that is the most striking. Here, original damaged items are seamlessly combined with other items as sculpture or objects: a TV remote is cradled in shaped driftwood, a section of a wrecked boat merges with two occasional tables and rests on chests of drawers. They are strange and alluring, unsettling even, in stark contrast to the more traditional (but beautiful) tables and chairs made by Marie Cudennec Carlisle & Daniel Barco which follow. These craftspeople share woodworking skills through an academy teaching schoolchildren and young offenders, offer free workshops to members of the public on low income, and run a joinery where they make and sell bespoke furniture from donated and rescued wood. They are also active in their community running The People’s Kitchen, which uses surplus food to make restaurant quality meals and offers a space for meeting and eating. They somehow bridge the extreme gap between poverty and affluence the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea offers. Bachor and Linda Brothwell are also hands-on artists in different communities. The former fills in potholes and often tops them with mosaic images, whilst the latter uses skills to intervene, decorate and repair in public spaces: wood inlays in benches, missing letters in old signs replaced using beautiful brass. These are all parts of her Acts of Care project, which she documents as she goes along.

The final section is mostly about sourcing material, being aware of where stuff comes from, and helping to sustain the Earth. It is about makers who choose to build a relationship with not only the materials they use but those who provide it. Artist and designer Fernando Laposse returned to Mexico, where he grew up, and was appalled by the environmental and social changes. He now provides a market for those who grow agave – a resilient self-sufficient plant which helps create good soil that corn can then be grown on – because sisil which is used to make rope is a by-product, and has also invented a veneer material made from the waste products of corn. Sarah Grady and Alice Robinson have established ‘a new network for producing leather in the UK, utilising hides from the farms whose regenerative practices they want to support’. As part of that they ‘maintain traceability through all stages of production’ and give other ‘designers and brands a choice when it comes to the leather they use.’ Sebastian Cox manages his own woodland and uses only coppiced wood in the making of his furniture. He remembers being amazed as a child just how quickly a deforested landscape grows back. Gavin Christman is more of an interventionist: he produces blocks, bricks and posts which offer homes for bees, bats, swifts and sparrows, all of which re made to standard sizes and can be included within otherwise normal construction practices

I don’t like all of the work showcased in this volume, and there are questions to be asked about how fine art or crafts can change the world beyond highlighting or showcasing issues; especially when they remain part of the capitalist marketplace. But many of the projects here which also intervene to mend, repair and change attitudes, communities and skillsets are provocative and fascinating to read about. I also remain drawn towards Willow’s exploration of grief (something our society does not cope with very well), Harrison’s recontextualisations of what the Thames offers up to her and us, along with Haidar’s subtle evocation and highlighting of personal histories embedded in clothing.

As I implied at the start of this review, this book isn’t really what I expected it to be. It’s much wider, more thoughtful, more diverse and much better in its content, contextualisation and considerations. I can’t summarise it better than this quote which prefaces Katie Tregidden’s own Introduction:

    … other things can be repaired. Objects, of course.
     Traditions can be. Hope can be. Emotions eventually.
     But it requires cautious handling, patience and care.
     Old hope can age beautifully.
          – Otto von Busch

 

           

Rupert Loydell

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LOVE!

Love……

A place where dreams and hopes take flight,
A vision that fills with delight.

It requires patience, trust and respect,
And gives us wings to fly and perfect.

A seed that blossoms and grows,
An affection that overflows.

A force that moves the world,
A flame that burns eternal and unfurled.

A gift that is given and received,
A bond that cannot be deceived.

A light that guides in the night,
A beacon that shines bright.

A mystery that can’t be defined,
It’s an emotion that transcends time.

A depth of feeling that runs so true,
A love that will refresh brew.

 

 

 

Monalisa Parida
Picture Nick Victor

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

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A Mirror At The Base of A Third World Store

Even before the infusion of the dark
roasted beans and the water,
even before I wake up
and realise that I am awake, I stroll
amidst the empty market
towards its lone magazine stall.

I pass one makeshift shop
on the pavement, built
with the junkyard jewels.
It has a mirror fitted granite top
of some washbasin as its base.
The store depends on the top’s sturdiness.

I stop every morning, stare at what
my old tutor would have described as
juxtaposition and I gaze
at my feet reflected in the glass.
There they are – floating, baseless.
I walk my ghost through the playground
of clouds, thin air, standstillness, stupor.

 

 

Photo and words Kushal Poddar

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Unicorn

 

 

Sophie was asleep, curled up on the settee, the head of her favourite unicorn pressed close to her face. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I went into the bedroom as soon as my mobile started to ring. It was Sam. He asked me, had I noticed anything strange about Sophie recently? It was a strange question for an absent father like Sam to ask, I thought, but I didn’t say so. I just said no, which was the truth. Run your fingers across her forehead, he said. I can’t right now, I said. She’s asleep on the settee, curled up with Roxie. I don’t want to wake her up. Who on earth’s Roxie? he said. Her favourite unicorn, I said. You should know that, you’re her father. Well, do it when she wakes up, he said. Check if it’s smooth. What are you going on about? I said. This unicorn thing, he said. She could be turning into a unicorn. See if you can feel a horn growing in the middle of her forehead. I jabbed the phone, cut him off. I can do without him phoning me up, taking the piss.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Sam. I thought, should I or shouldn’t I, then answered it. I wanted someone to talk to and arguing with Sam was better than nothing. It passed the time. He carried on where he’d left off. I’m being serious, he said. Kids are turning into unicorns. Yes, whatever you say, Sam, I said, in my tired, fuck-you voice. Goodnight.

I didn’t believe a word of it, but I googled it nevertheless. It turned out, of course, that he hadn’t made it up. There were stories out there. There were pictures, video clips even. It’s so easy to fake stuff, though: to take it all at face value you’d have to be as stoned as Sam was most of the time. It was all just too stupid for words.

By the following morning, though, it’d hit the headlines. It wasn’t just an internet rumour: it was official. Children were turning into unicorns. Nobody knew quite what to do about it. We were told not to panic. A journalist with a microphone standing outside Number 10 said he understood the government COBRA committee were meeting later that morning. Plans would be made. Guidance would be issued. Days went by. Advice sheets came in the post and posters appeared on school gates. It told you what you could do to reduce the risk (not a lot, at that time) and what to do if your child turned into a unicorn. Otherwise, life went on as normal, at least round our way.

About a week later, the government started publishing a graph on the internet every day, telling you how many children had turned into unicorns. There was even a map of Britain, too, with unicorn hot-spots shown in red. Manchester, Newcastle and London were the worst hit back then. Leeds was blue, which was worse than green but better than red. We were dark green, which was just slightly worse than light green.

Everyone remembers those first few weeks. The government called in the army and got them to erect emergency stable blocks. It quickly became clear too that, within days, Britain would run out of hay. There was talk of imports, although other countries in Europe were facing the same problem. Unicorns need space to graze. Sheep farms were requisitioned for grazing and farmers compensated. It didn’t come to much, though. A few people were found grazing for their offspring-turned-unicorns, but many more weren’t. And then, even well-provided for unicorns often ran away. Most of them ended up grazing in parks or on the grass verges of ring roads and suchlike places. Many got knocked down (like they still do). One Tory MP found herself ridiculed for suggesting the government was doing too much: horses were less bother than children, she said, and surely everyone had space to graze a unicorn. Another suggested that if there were too many unicorns, and as they weren’t human beings anymore, perhaps the best thing would be to cull them. This, on the whole, was accepted with a shrug by older people, but greeted angrily by young people with families. Fresh advice was issued: if your child turns into a unicorn, don’t give it too many sweet treats like sugar lumps because it’ll rot their teeth.

I remember the first time I saw a unicorn (doesn’t everyone?). It was in the small play-area at the end of our street. It’s all grass, with a swing and a slide in the middle. There’s a privet hedge and a fence all the way round it, so the children can’t run out into the road. The poor thing was about waist-height, bright pink and glittery. It looked confused and agitated. It kept cantering from one side of the area to the other. Every now and again it stopped in the middle and tried climbing sometimes onto on the swing, sometimes the slide. It’s hooves kept slipping off the equipment and it kept almost falling over. Then it would whinny and start cantering around again. I kept my distance and kept walking. Everyone takes them for granted now, but it was frightening back then. I felt so sorry for it, though. It was obviously still a child on the inside and couldn’t understand why it didn’t have arms and legs like a human. That’s what it’s like for them, they say, straight after they turn. It takes them time to adjust. Luckily, Sophie never turned, but I heard other parents at school say how, when they do, if you can get close enough to them to look into their eyes, you can still see the child in there. I’m not quite sure what they meant by it, but that’s what they said. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

I suppose the unicorn cults started up about then. They claimed the children who turned into unicorns were special children. They went out looking for unicorns and started venerating them. They claimed the whole thing was nothing to worry about. We were privileged to be living through a very special time, they said.

As the weeks went by, the scientists began to find out more about what was going on. Children with unicorn toys, they decided, were the ones most prone to becoming unicorns. Parents were told to confiscate and destroy them. There was much talk about a batch that had been imported from the Philippines but, as we all now know, it was all unicorns. Worryingly, they discovered that once a child began to turn, but before the changes became visible, they could pass the condition on to other children.

Of course, I was worried about Sophie. One night, as she slept, I carefully withdrew Roxie from her grasp. I cut him up into tiny shreds and put him in the bin. The next morning I told her that unicorns were magical animals and you never know when a unicorn might be called away to the magic unicorn land and that, however much they love you and want to stay with you, when they’re called they have to go. I remember thinking it sounded a bit lame and I should’ve come up with a better story, but she seemed to accept it.

As time went on, scientists discovered that the condition only affected children under twelve. The sense of relief when Sophie’s twelfth birthday came round was palpable. It was around that time she told me that of course she knew I’d taken Roxie and thrown him in the dustbin. She never lost her love of unicorns, though. When she left school she was lucky enough to gain an internship at the local unicorn sanctuary. She still helps out there.

After a few years, the unicorns started having baby unicorns. Foals grazing on the roadside became a common sight. Talk about cute. There was talk in parliament about birth control for unicorns, but it never got very far. The scientists, though, finally managed to come up with a vaccine for humans. The unicorn cults were against it, but most people were all for it. When it was rolled out, parents queued round the block with their children at the vaccination centres. You still get the odd one – usually, kids whose whose parents refused to get them vaccinated – but, generally, children don’t turn into unicorns anymore. Politicians began to talk about ‘living with unicorns’.

As everyone knows, unicorns have magic powers. It’s said that a unicorn’s tears have healing properties. The unicorn cultists bottle them and sell them. The same goes for unicorn horns. At first, unscrupulous people took to sawing the horns off roadkill but as time went on, a black market for powdered horn developed, fed by sinister poaching gangs. And not only that, but, as unicorn numbers increased, people began to notice a change in the weather. There’s a great deal more in the way of fine drizzle than there used to be. Whenever you look up into the sky these days, the chances are somewhere you’ll see a rainbow.

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron
Picture amalgamation Nick Victor

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HOW TO SHINE

 

On Insight’s Lost in a Summer (2023)


With a Lotus Eaters still sheen, Insight’s Lost in a Summer

Song-shimmers; a piece of more than perfect pop pressing
Spectacular sun through the rain
                                                               of an Essex recording day

Where Nathan Wacey produces, summoning George Martin,
And Glyn Johns and Leckie, as he steers young musicians
From first stumbling steps to sound fame.

And this should be a band on the rise as this song sounds ecstatic;
Full of joy and the struggle of the eager heart’s wanting way.
For there are tears in the eye bred by the waters of yearning

As singer, songwriter and bassist, Ben Brocklebank’s mind
Has its say. From the first few seconds we know
That this is a quality product. Jake Doy and Callum Pitt’s

Guitars are a chorus singing for us through the strings.
Dan Doy’s drums keep us fixed to the pulse of love
Passing through it, as Wacey weaves each part wisely

Following the thread as Ben sings. This first song
Elevates and escalates past perfection. In sound, it brothers
Reference and reminders, but is original, fresh, and a friend,

Ushering in former songs without being like them.
It has Lotuses, La’s, Cast, Kubb, others, while showing that
Wacey’s own House of Love has no end.

There is a trace of the Cocteau’s Robin Guthrie here too, 
As dreampop meets Shoegaze, as I feel the years washing
From me, rinsed by the sound Nathan’s caught.

There are so many groups in so many corners
But unlike every small spider, or insect these beatling
Brothers in flesh and faith have now taught

How youth in its climb can claim the stars quickly.
Each chord they play glistens courtesy of the desk.
At 2.56 there’s a pause as the message sounds redelivered.

Brocklebank’s voice climbs the star-steps as we can’t wait
To hear what comes next. At 4.36 this one song for me
Restores visions. Times, too and feelings that I went through

At their age. When Pop did not pass, and yet also meant
Transportation, from the slow world of men barely stirring
To the faster States of becoming. Songs were spells.

I remember. And so here with this magic I, in one listen
Predict a bright future in which these small stars start
Shining, in either Essex, or Eden. They are not lost.

They hold summer. Dream as they dare.
Seek their stage.

 

                                                                    David Erdos 7/5/23

 

 

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Well I didn’t vote for you

Monty Python’s Constitutional Peasants


Repression is Nine Tenths of the Law

ARTHUR: I am your king!

WOMAN: Well, I didn’t vote for you.

ARTHUR: You don’t vote for kings.

WOMAN: Well, how did you become King, then?

ARTHUR: The Lady of the Lake,…

   [angels sing]

…her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water signifying by Divine Providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur.

   [singing stops]

That is why I am your king!

DENNIS: Listen. Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.

ARTHUR: Be quiet!

DENNIS: Well, but you can’t expect to wield supreme executive power just ’cause some watery tart threw a sword at you!

ARTHUR: Shut up!

DENNIS: I mean, if I went ’round saying I was an emperor just because some moistened bint had lobbed a scimitar at me, they’d put me away!

ARTHUR: Shut up, will you? Shut up!

DENNIS: Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system.

ARTHUR: Shut up!

DENNIS: Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help! Help! I’m being repressed!

ARTHUR: Bloody peasant!

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The Good Luck of Your Bad Luck

Marcus Aurelius on the Stoic strategy for weathering life’s waves and turning suffering into strength.

The Marginalian (formerly Brain Pickings)

  • Maria Popova

marcus aurelius portrait, side profile

Most people live with a great deal more suffering than is visible to even the most proximate and sensitive onlooker. Many have survived things both unimaginable and invisible to the outside world. This has been the case since the dawn of our species, for human nature has hardly changed beneath the continually repainted façade of our social sanctions — human beings have always been capable of inflicting tremendous pain on each other and capable of triumphal healing.

There is, however, a peculiar modern phenomenon that might best be described as a culture of competitive trauma. In recent times, the touching human longing for sympathy, that impulse to have our suffering recognized and validated, has grown distorted by a troubling compulsion for broadcast-suffering and comparative validity. Personhoods are staked on the cards dealt and not the hands played, as if we evolved the opposable thumbs of our agency for nothing. In memoirs and reality shows, across infinite Alexandrian scrolls of social media feeds, the unlucky events of life have become the currency of attention and identification.

There is a way, with moderate moral imagination and considerable countercultural courage, to subvert this tendency without turning away from the reality and magnitude of suffering that we do live with — a way to esteem in attention and admiration not the unluckiness of what has happened to us but the luckiness that, despite it, we have become the people we are and have the lives we have by the sheer unwillingness to stay in that small dark place, which is at heart a willingness to be larger than our hurt selves.

It is not a new way of reframing personal narrative (which, after all, is the neuropsychological pillar of identity). It is a very old way, common to many of the world’s ancient traditions but most clearly and creatively articulated by the Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius (April 26, 121–March 17, 180).

Because the modern mind calculates validity of vantage point by estimating the comparative value of suffering, it must be observed that, later in life, Marcus Aurelius had it easier than most of his contemporaries, being Emperor; it must also be observed that, earlier in life, he had it harder than most, being a fatherless child and a queer teenager in Roman antiquity, epochs before the notion of LGBTQ rights, or for that matter most human rights. It is hardly surprising that he turned to Stoicism for succor and training in living with the uncertainty of events and the certainty of loss.

His timeless Meditations (public library), newly translated and annotated by the British classics scholar Robin Waterfield, were the original self-help — Marcus wrote these notebooks primarily as notes to himself while learning how to live: how to live with more agency, equanimity, and even joy in a world violently unpredictable at all times and especially so in his time.

In one of those self-counsels, Marcus Aurelius considers the key to regarding one’s own life, and living it, with positive realism:

Be like a headland: the waves beat against it continuously, but it stands fast and around it the boiling water dies down. “It’s my rotten luck that this has happened to me.” On the contrary, “It’s my good luck that, although this has happened to me, I still feel no distress, since I’m unbruised by the present and unconcerned about the future.” What happened could have happened to anyone, but not everyone could have carried on without letting it distress him. So why regard the incident as a piece of bad luck rather than seeing your avoidance of distress as a piece of good luck? Do you generally describe a person as unlucky when his nature worked well? Or do you count it as a malfunction of a person’s nature when it succeeds in securing the outcome it wanted?

With an eye to “what human nature wants” — what life ultimately demands as it lives itself through us, and what our highest answer is — he concludes:

Can what happened to you stop you from being fair, high-minded, moderate, conscientious, unhasty, honest, moral, self-reliant, and so on — from possessing all the qualities that, when present, enable a man’s* nature to be fulfilled? So then, whenever something happens that might cause you distress, remember to rely on this principle: this is not bad luck, but bearing it valiantly is good luck.

Complement with an equally counterintuitive and perspective-broadening modern case for the luckiness of death and Alan Watts on the ambiguity of good and bad luck, then revisit other highlights from the indispensable Meditations: Marcus Aurelius on how to handle disappointing people, the key to living with presence, the most potent motivation for work, and how to begin each day for maximum serenity of mind.

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In Memoriam Gordon Lightfoot

 

Gordon Meredith Lightfoot Jr. CC OOnt (November 17, 1938 – May 1, 2023) was a Canadian singer-songwriter and guitarist who achieved international success in folk, folk-rock, and country music. He is credited with helping to define the folk-pop sound of the 1960s and 1970s.[1] He has been referred to as Canada’s greatest songwriter[2] and his songs have been recorded by some of the world’s most renowned musical artists.[3] Lightfoot’s biographer Nicholas Jennings said, “His name is synonymous with timeless songs about trains and shipwrecks, rivers and highways, lovers and loneliness.”[4]

Lightfoot’s songs, including “For Lovin’ Me”, “Early Morning Rain“, “Steel Rail Blues”, “Ribbon of Darkness“—a number one hit on the U.S. country chart[5] with Marty Robbins‘s cover in 1965—and “Black Day in July”, about the 1967 Detroit riot, brought him wide recognition in the 1960s. Canadian chart success with his own recordings began in 1962 with the No. 3 hit “(Remember Me) I’m the One”, followed by recognition and charting abroad in the 1970s. He topped the US Hot 100 or Adult Contemporary (AC) chart with the hits “If You Could Read My Mind” (1970), “Sundown” (1974); “Carefree Highway” (1974), “Rainy Day People” (1975), and “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” (1976), and had many other hits that appeared in the top 40.[6]

Several of Lightfoot’s albums achieved gold and multi-platinum status internationally. His songs have been recorded by many notable artists.[7] The Guess Who recorded a song called “Lightfoot” on their 1968 album Wheatfield Soul; the lyrics contain many Lightfoot song titles.

Robbie Robertson of the Band described Lightfoot as “a national treasure”.[8] Bob Dylan, also a Lightfoot fan, called him one of his favourite songwriters and said, “I can’t think of any Gordon Lightfoot song I don’t like. Every time I hear a song of his, it’s like I wish it would last forever…. “.[9] Lightfoot was a featured musical performer at the opening ceremonies of the 1988 Winter Olympic Games in Calgary, Alberta and has received numerous honours and awards.

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

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FRED CONRAD PETER

 

FRED
 
Fred had some worrying appetites
A couple of which kept him awake most nights.
 
He wanted to see beyond all seeing,
To pierce the veil that engulfs all Being;
 
In Fred’s family this kind of thing was typical:
Ma and Pa and sister Flo were also metaphysical.
 
 
 

CONRAD
 
Conrad was often approached by tramps
who wanted to know if his head was held on by clamps.
 
Disconnectedness of mind from body
might prompt him to share his giant rum toddy.
 
But Conrad had no intention of sharing his booze
and what happened next made the 11 o’clock News.
  

 
PETER
 
Peter the Poetess advertised themself on Twitter
as available for readings and workshops, and as a babysitter
 
but readers and parents are mostly inclined
to think gender is real and not just a state of mind.
 
Be that as it may, their rates are quite reasonable
but, at a push, they are also negotiable.
 

 

 

Copyright © Mark Halliday & Martin Stannard, 2023

 

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language abused

 

a language used
by the immeasurably cruel
about the most vulnerable

is not dissimilar to a
policy of the most vulnerable
abused by immeasurably cruel

language
language
language

 

 

Mike Ferguson

 

 

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BIRTH


 
Over there,
the other side of worries,
a way out.
 
Like a gambler
with a calculating eye
you’ll take your chances.
 
No thinking through,
no saying twice,
just catching the flow,
 
and to the opening
you are the right face,
no ticket required.
 
You’ll be forgiven
for being a stranger
in your own language,
 
but the borrowed home
slipping your grip
has no voice.
 
You can feel the day
and accept the gift
of the only road.
 
A geography of fears
makes up the journey
of where you’ll be.
 
Then your host will hold you
like a planned future.
You’ll learn how to be you.

 

 

 
Gordon Scapens

 

 

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Average Vegan Teen by Christen Mailler

Once you get beyond the nail polish, Midnight Kitten eyeliner, selfies and bubblegum of the beginning, (which, in truth, could do with a bit of a haircut,) the magic really starts to happen. Cusping 13, Kessa reluctantly heads out to her dad’s lakeside, wilderness home in Maine for the summer, and unexpectedly discovers that she has The Gift. The living world responds to her. Animals approach her, naturally trusting her and talk to her mind to mind, (our ancient, cross-species, prelimbic telepathy,) and she to them. They show her who they really are: intelligent, individuated, relational beings, with their own agency, wants, needs, personalities – and purpose. From Bucky, the beloved, family dog, to Mihku, a wild squirrel and Sippy, a sparrow (Kessa’s animal guides,) they tell her their stories. They are her allies too: Moxie, a rainbow trout, helps save a drowning toddler, signalling to Kessa mind to mind, image to image, where Daisy has fallen in the vast Wabanaki lake. 

Kessa is an empath and an animal communicator, in the very real vein of Anna Breytenbach, Pea Horsely and Maureen Rolls; and she is also a healer (it is clear): all the plants respond to her gentle, natural touch and, at times alarmingly, grow and burgeon in an instant! 

This is wonderful, aspirational, New Paradigm, teen lit, as appealing to younger readers as it will be to teenagers (and adults too.) There’s all the thrill, excitement and flushed anticipation of first love with Arthur, and a real sense of coming of age. There are painful moments too, of course: the shattering realities of parental abandonment and divorce, the death of Bucky – and when Kessa feels the grief of a young bull who, forced to wear an abominable, spiked nose ring as a calf, was stopped from suckling his mother’s milk (so that we humans could steal it,) inadvertently hurting his mother so badly she was forced to kick him away. He miraculously escaped the slaughter-truck: “Time to send them off!” – fleeing the long line of terrified, male babies by bolting and hiding out in the woods. But he saw all his bovine brothers go, and he heard the devastated wailing of their mothers: “A strained wail echoed around the farm.” It is a moment he can never forget, but Kessa helps him with his depression, (and opens our eyes, hearts and minds in the process.)  Kessa and Arthur come to the aid of a sad, lonely and hungry alpaca too. They feed her apples, carrots and bananas under cover of night and liberate her to far better circumstances at a local animal sanctuary, with the eventual cooperation of the old man who just didn’t know how to look after her and totally neglected her.

There is a beautiful sense of teenage empowerment here – and the motivation to do the right thing, to go the extra mile when anyone vulnerable is in need – whether it be a toddler, a bull, or an alpaca.  Kessa manages to get the Green Corn Festival fireworks (which terrify and harm so many of Wabanaki’s birds and other animals,) to commit to a laser show instead. (She’s a budding writer and she puts it to good use.) A loving ethics is at the forefront here. This is inter-species cooperation at its best, and an inspirational clarion call, delivered via a gripping, page-turning story. Kessa’s veganism is no ‘fad’ and we really get to understand that, to see that it is the only humane and just way to live.

I’ve been vegan for 16 years, but my tofu will be scrambled with turmeric and onion salt from now on, and my cakes will be baked with apple-sauce! This wonderful, teen adventure and skin-tingling, lake-side romance, is not only peppered with compassion and wisdom, it has some great tips too!

Heidi Stephenson

 

 

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In memory of Ellie – who deserved so much more…

A teenage sadist
rapes his ‘pet’ cat.

He handcuffs her
so that she cannot escape
his brutal advances.

He cuts out her tongue
as ‘punishment’
for screaming out…

He smirks as he tortures her.
He strangles her repeatedly.

Months of abuse follow.
He dissects her living body!

Until torn, beyond all healing,
she dies. Her body and spirit…broken.

Ellie raped, tortured and murdered
by a human MONSTER,
by a psychopathic sadist
who assaulted her relentlessly
month after month, relishing
his evil power over
a vulnerable cat,
who should have felt SAFE!

Beautiful, adorable, Ellie,
who should have known LOVE.

Where? Where?
were his family, in all this?

Let us not make EXCUSES
for Bani J. Mezquititla, aged 18!

Let us not make any ‘allowances’ –
he knew exactly what he was doing!

 

Heidi Stephenson

 

Please sign this petition to ensure that Justice is done:

https://ladyfreethinker.org/sign-justice-for-cat-handcuffed-and-abused-by-teen/

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Dominism

Men of experience will have different styles,
whilst citizens think of everything together.
Culture saves some ability to expect
high standards. Goal-serving people.

Think on: processes will see concerns,
independent cases, allegations.
We can’t work together.
Frustration in the end.

Passionate about delivery, across the years
seeking the best way possible.
Strange servants are committed to import.
Forgive me, I just see tragedy.

 

An erasure poem taken from the transcript of an interview between Laura Keunsberg and Oliver Dowdon

 

 

 

Peter Kay

 

 

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The Road


 
There is a road that runs through my heart
opening backwards to all I’ve lived.
It’s the gold road, the royal way,
the small narrow path a foot-width wide
lit only the distance of a single step.
I know I can follow it any time I want;
all I have to do is turn around
and start walking in silence,
through darkness.
But it’s much more fun to dance in the citylight
jump and twirl down highways of lively crowds
passing through the bright colors of high life
where night never arrives,
beneath the spotlights and streetlamps
where we lose ourselves in the crowds.
And where would it lead, anyway?
Into dark cold, a cave, or dead end?
Into rain and wind and solitude?
 
No, better to shelter in the city
in the midst of the multitude
than to lose yourself, alone on the way.
And so this wisdom saves me
from the dark path back to my birth
as I run in company the other direction
trusting those at the front
who seem to know
where we’re going.

 

 

Clif Ross

 

 

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Self-Storage

Wish I Was Here, M. John Harrison (Serpent’s Tail)

One of M. John Harrison’s chapters in his ‘anti-memoir’ is called ‘a character in your own fiction’, although it seems that mostly Harrison is a character in his own allegedly non-fiction autobiography. Like the author’s last book it works mostly by allusion and misdirection, mood and atmosphere, with a large amount of narrative jump-cuts and tangential self-reflection.

Harrison is all too aware of the perils of nostalgia and the danger of reading too much in to recalled moments, so he tends to present them and move on before commenting or interpreting. Sometimes he names versions of himself, so Map Boy is – unsurprisingly – obsessed with maps and places. Sometimes, episodes or stories are presented as dreams, whilst at other times there are brilliant satirical fictions mocking genre conventions and clichés, such as ‘a fantasy in five volumes’ where ‘The Elf Queen, who’s eaten nothing for a week but the wadding from Benzedrine inhalers, has sex with Cootchie Cootie in the back seat of his 1951 Fleetline, while Tolkien and C.S. Lewis look on in passive aggressive disavowal.’

Her husband, ‘Eldrano the Elf Lord is wheeled to bed every night on a reinforced composite and titanium gurney’ and recalls that ‘the Queen left him a hundred years ago with her dwarf.’ Later, after ‘the Elf Queen’s underjaw has thickened’, and she plans some time away on her own, her dwarf ‘knows that their relationship is over’. Soon after, there is the ‘Last Transmission from the Deep Halls’ and a disappointing tour of the palace, which ‘turned out to be a stuffy, disappointing warren that just reeked of dogs.’

     ‘Q: Do you identify as a science fiction writer? A: No, I identify
     nightly, or at least every second night or so, as someone who
     would like to be rusting under the Thames.’

Map Boy, or whoever Harrison decides to be on the page you choose to read, prefers the likes of William Burroughs, Thomas Pynchon and William Gibson to Muddled Earths. He is also inclined to try and keep the author out of his own writing as much as possible, although it appears to be him describing his cat, reading the letter from Dan Dare that turns out to actually be from Uncle Don, and pondering his own creative process. However, Harrison mostly keeps himself at a distance, observing and reporting as though he is a Martian watching Earth.

     ‘Writers write to find out who they used to be, to predict who
     they might be next.’

But the question is ‘Are we bored with this old future now? Have we read it all before?’ Well, yes and no. Harrison’s worlds can be vague and ethereal enough for us to have do the heavy lifting, to visualise and co-create the setting; or they can be surreal and difficult, or tentative and undefined. They can concentrate on the rockface itself as much as the camaraderie of the climbers, or they can get lost navigating the dream archipelago or crossing the road to the corner shop. So no, Harrison’s futures may be in the past, but they are not boring. Mostly because the future is still uncertain.

And so is the past. Is Harrison scared to tell us about it, or has his mind’s Super-8 film of memory faded away or burnt up in the projector? Are these snapshots simply selections from the brain’s photo album or all there is? Or maybe this a computer-generated experiment in biographical literature? Or is it just a story about a storyteller by a storyteller? ‘Even when you’ve forgotten them you’ve remembered them.’

And so is the present, a world where the writer loses notebooks and discusses creativity, inspiration, writer’s block, fiction and reality. He watches the birds in the garden, the rain falling, then sits in the dark until the electricity comes back on and the computer restarts and then reconnects to the web:

     ‘What am I like, someone on the internet wants to know, in real
     life? A bit stiff in the joints. Not a fiction. Always walking away
     from myself.’

It is quite a feat, this walking away whilst pretending to walk towards himself, and an even greater feat to walk away from the reader at the same time as pretending to offer up himself. It’s all done with smoke and mirrors, lies and sleight of hand. Language. Words. But Harrison won’t get away with it for ever.

     ‘One day soon I’ll walk through a door, begin to say something,
     then get a surprised expression on my face and fall over dead in
     front of everybody.’

Until then, Harrison is ‘interested less in the future than the deflation and melancholy of the people the future leaves behind.’ Wish I Was Here is Harrison’s contribution to what will remain, a self-deflating, melancholic, hilarious and provocative self-invention. This book is old school experiment, several unrelated episodes from a literary reality show, a kind of negative biography with a big author-shaped hole in the middle waiting for the reader to fill based on all the evidence around it. It’s also one of the best books I’ve read so far this year.

 

Rupert Loydell

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Mysterious River.

Introduction.

Detailing the myths and legends of the River Severn from ‘The Fair Lady Avona’ to the ‘Bristol Channel UFO’. The reader will experience a journey of topographic areas and tales from a time immemorial until the present day.

The Fair Lady Avona.

Celtic deities are known from a variety of sources such as written Celtic mythology, ancient places of worship, statues, engravings, religious objects, as well as place and personal names.

Celtic deities can belong to two categories: general deities and local deities. ‘General deities’ were known by the Celts throughout large regions and are the gods and goddesses called upon for protection, healing, luck and honour. The ‘local deities’ that embodied Celtic nature worship were the spirits of a particular feature of the landscape, such as mountains, trees, or rivers and thus were generally only known by the locals in the surrounding area.

In the folklore of the Bristol area, Avona asked Goram and Vincent / Ghyston to drain a lake that stretched from Rownham Hill to Bradford-on-Avon and whoever completed the task first she would offer herself in marriage. On completion of the task, Vincent took Avona’s hand and she gave her name to Vincent’s Avon Gorge and the River Avon which flows into the River Severn, while Goram, his heart broken, hurled himself into the Severn where his head and shoulder can still be seen poking out of the mud as Flat Holm and Steep Holm.

But who was Avona? We know that she appears in the above legend and in variants she is a beautiful giantess from Wiltshire or the goddess of tides and protectress of animals, the divine guardian of the people of Bristol, making her the female personification of the River Avon and possibly a distant memory of an ancient goddess or spirit. Preserved eternal in the gorge that forms the backbone of the city, like a beating heart, her love still surges daily through the land itself. While the ‘Gloucestershire Historical Pageant’ of 1908 contained the narrative chorus styled as the rivers of Gloucestershire – the Thames, Sabrina, Avona and Chelt.

There are many river deities in the British Isles and if Avona is the River Avon as Sabrina is the River Severn, then the word ‘abona’ is of interest because it represents knowledge of the Romano-British river-name deriving from post classical tradition and not from the spelling or the pronunciation in the 14th: century (or even the 6th:). It is thus a conventional latinization and not simply the then-current name written into Latin, which would result in the Avona seen in the Goram and Vincent legend. While the name ‘Avon’ is a cognate of the Welsh word ‘afon’ ‘river’, both being derived from the Common Brittonic ‘abona’, ‘river’.

Perhaps a line from ‘The Poetical Works Of William Somerville’ printed in 1793 still begs the question:

where thro’ the vales the fair Avona glides’

Sabrina, Goddess of the Severn.

The name Severn is thought to derive from a Celtic original name *sabrinnā, of uncertain meaning. That name then developed in different languages to become Sabrina to the Romans, Hafren in Welsh, The Saxons called it Sæfern and Severn in English.

Sabrina is the Celtic Goddess of the River Severn, which flows from its source in Wales through Worcestershire to Gloucestershire and empties into the Bristol Channel and then on into the Celtic Sea.

She appears in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s ‘The History of the Kings of Britain’. The legend of how the Severn got its name begins with Brutus of Troy. He led a band of Trojan exiles to Britain and the land was named for him. On Brutus’s death, the land was divided into four parts and given to his three sons, Locrine, Camber, and Albanact and his good friend Corineus. To cement the alliance, Corineus’s daughter Guendolen was promised to Locrine in marriage. Before they were to be married, Britain was invaded by the Huns and Locrine led the fight against the invaders. A princess named Estrildis was one of those captured and Locrine fell in love with her. He asked Corineus to let him out of his engagement to Guendolen, but Corineus would not hear of it. Locrine married Guendolen, but he had secret rooms built under the castle where he hid Estrildis away. For the next seven years, Locrine continued to see his true love, using the excuse that he was making offerings to the Gods. After a time, Estrildis gave birth to Locrine’s daughter, Hafren.

When Corineus died, Locrine divorced Guendolen, sending her back to her father’s kingdom and acknowledged Estrildis and Hafren as his family. The jilted Guendolen raised an army of her father’s men against Locrine and he was killed in battle. Guendolen ordered that Estrildis and Hafren be thrown into the mighty river that ran through Locrine’s kingdom. She then declared that the river would be henceforth named after Hafren, so that Locrine’s infidelity would be forever remembered. When the Romans invaded, they changed the name to their own version, Sabrina, which means ‘from the boundary’.

Geoffrey of Monmouth also tells the story of three sisters, who were water spirits, meeting on the windswept slopes of Plynlimon – the highest point of the Cambrian Mountains in Wales – to discuss the problem of finding the best way to the sea. The first decided to take the most direct route and headed westward, becoming the River Ystwyth. The second loved the landscape and made her way through hills and valleys, becoming the River Wye. The third decided against shortcuts and took 180 miles to reach the sea passing through many cities and never being far from people. She became the River Severn.

Milton writes of Sabrina in ‘Comus’, in which the water-nymph is conjured and rescues the Lady from her plight because she is pure of heart. As an agent of freedom, Sabrina is seen as powerful, mystical and sympathetic to women who fall victim to a patriarchal system which undervalues and confines them.

The ‘Fountain of Sabrina’ stands on Narrow Quay, Bristol. The fountain depicts Sabrina and three naked boys at the moment of her rebirth from the depths of the river and her transformation into a goddess. She rides on a seashell in the manner of Botticelli’s ‘Birth of Venus’.

Mermaids of the Severn.

In British folklore, mermaids were associated with water, love, marriage, procreation, danger and also wisdom. They probably started out as ‘water spirits’ and had the mermaid label attached later, with Celtic mythology roots. Water being the portal between this world and the other world. They often had long blonde hair. The sea living mermaids had a range of supernatural powers, some could shape shift, if they married a human they became a human. If the mermaid was treated well you would have good luck and they would bring gifts, for example, water for the crops. But if treated badly you would be cursed and they would bring deadly storms and waves which caused destruction and loss of life. Human husbands would live with them for all eternity. Some mermaids lived in the sea and also had farms on land. According to Ruth Tongue, (Folklorist, born 7 February 1898 – died 19 September 1981), the name ‘sea-morgan’ was the Severn Estuary term for green-haired water maidens who lured people out to drown with their songs. Sea-morgan is a direct translation of the Breton ‘mari-morgan’ and as such, the origin of Morgan le Fay may be connected to these Breton myths.

There are many folktales to be found throughout Great Britain and Ireland of mermaids and the often uglier and rougher mermen, who could assume normal human shape. The Norman chapel in Durham Castle, built around 1078, has what is probably the earliest surviving artistic depiction of a mermaid in England. While a ‘wildman’ was described by Ralph of Coggeshall (died 1227) as being caught in a fishnet and was entirely man-like though he liked to eat raw fish and eventually returned to the sea. ‘The Mabinogion’ are the earliest British prose stories. The stories were compiled in Middle Welsh in the 12th: – 13th: centuries from earlier oral traditions, although a plausible range of between 1060 to 1200 seems to be the current scholarly consensus. In the Fourth Branch – Math fab Mathonwy’ – it tells of Arianrhod’s son, Dylan ail Don. As soon as Dylan comes in contact with his baptismal waters, he plunges into the sea and takes on characteristics of a sea creature, moving through the seawater as perfectly as any fish. Dylan is a Welsh sea-god and was killed by his uncle and the clamour of the waves dashing upon the beach is the expression of their longing to avenge their son. Perhaps the most popular tale of these isles is ‘The Mermaid of Zennor’, where according to legend, a mermaid came to the Cornish village of Zennor and used to listen to the singing of a chorister, Matthew Trewhella. The two fell in love and Matthew went with the mermaid to her home at Pendour Cove. On summer nights, the lovers can be heard singing together. But, our tales do not concern all the legends of the British Isles, only those of Gloucestershire, Somerset and South Wales within the Severn Estuary / Bristol Channel area.

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Many churches in the area depict mermaids from the 14th: century until the 17th: century. St: Mary Magdalene, Baunton in the Cotswolds has a 14th: century wall painting of St: Christopher with a mermaid depicted in it and said to represent ‘Pride’, one of the ‘Seven Deadly Sins’. The monumental brass of Thomas de Berkeley, 5th: Baron Berkeley (died 1417) in the Church of St: Mary the Virgin, Wotton-under-Edge shows the detail of his mermaid livery collar. St: Mary’s Church, Tenby, dating from the 15th: century there is a craving of a mermaid holding a comb and mirror. In Bristol Cathedral, among the fanciful misericord carvings there is a mermaid, carved in 1520. The Church of the Holy Ghost, Crowcombe, in Somerset, has a twin-tailed mermaid (or merman?) carved on a bench-end dated circa 1534 similar to that in Zennor. To further muddle the myths, the Church includes another carving combining the pagan myth of the Green Man with the symbol of two mermen from around the same date. At St: Stephen’s Church, Bristol there is a mermaid and faun on the Martin Pringe / Pring Monument. Pringe died in 1627.

Mermaids and Mermen are rare in Welsh folklore, although Gwenhidw / Gwenhudwy was the Mermaid Queen of Wales, her name means ‘White Enchantment’. In modern stories she owns a herd of white horses that run along the crests of the waves. In older versions of the tale, the foaming waves were her ewes and every ninth wave was the ram of the flock. This conception of the incoming tide is preserved in a 16th: century poem by Rhys Llywd ap Rhys ap Rhicert in which he described a boat trip to the monastic island of Bardsey (Ynys Enlli) from the Lleyn Peninsula. The passage is notoriously choppy and he described the sea as. –

haid o ddefaid Gwenhudwy

a naw hwrdd yn un a hwy’.

(a flock of ewes of Gwenhidwy

and nine rams with them).

While the fairies known as Plant Rhys Ddwfn sometimes appear as mermaids in Pembrokeshire folklore. Some Welsh mermaids befriended and even married humans.

A local story from the early 1800’s tells of a farmer who came across a sea spirit curled up on the rocks at Aberbach Rocks in Pembrokeshire. He managed to get close enough to touch her, carrying her off to Treseissylit Farm where he imprisoned her. That night he awoke to her mournful singing, calling to her fellow people to rescue her. She escaped as a shadow of grey resembling the local seals and pronounced that no child would be born in the farmhouse – a prophecy which held true until the middle of the 20th: century.

* ‘The Sea Morgan’s Baby’. – An oral tale from Somerset, circa 1916. – A fisherman and his wife found a baby sea-morgan under a waterfall at St: Audries Bay, which had been accidentally left behind by her people who had gone from the rocks and into the tide when they heard them coming. His heart was sore for the little daughter he had just left in Watchet churchyard and his wife’s heart was broken. So he picked the baby morgan up and carried it home. His wife could never get the little creature’s hair dry, not even in the sun and hill wind and it always smelt of the sea. They raise the child as their own between them and the baby grows and likes nothing more than to be paddling and dabbling in the spring-pond and the trout stream. But she was marked by her love for water and her constantly wet hair. When the villagers from Doniford and Staple turn on her once they learn what she is, she hears a voice calling her from the ocean and cheerfully returns there. A wave carries her away and she is never seen again.

From Brockweir in the Forest of Dean on the eastern bank of the River Wye comes an early 20th: century folktale where Dick Hulin and his friend Isaac would tell the tale of how they caught a mermaid in their nets while fishing in the River Wye and who had cursed Dick and his descendants when she escaped.

* ‘The Sea-Morgan and the Conger Eels’. – This tale was told to Ruth Tongue in the 1960’s, but there is also another version as we shall see later. In the estuary of the River Severn, the local merfolk – known as sea-morgans – used to entice men out to the quicksands with their bewitching songs, so that the conger eels could have human flesh to eat. In this eternal struggle, the sea would sometimes claim its victims from the land and the land would sometimes claim its victims from the sea: conger eels were, after all, a local delicacy. The morgans of the Severn were eventually defeated by a deaf fisherman who had been born on a Sunday and was the son of a witch. He used his mud sledge and slid his way safely across the quicksands with no distraction from the songs. When the conger eels came, summoned by the singing, he speared so many of them that all the people of Stolford and Steart / Stert, two villages in West Somerset, had conger eel pie to eat for days. The morgans left in sorrow, and were never seen again. – A circular Medieval and / or Post-Medieval conger eel trap which lay east-north-east of Minehead Harbour, visible as a structure, was mapped from aerial photographs taken in 1999 and was found to have been made from beach stones up to 300mm high and 19m: in diameter with a break to the southern side and the remains of a stone heap in the centre.

The same story is told of a deaf man from Churchdown in Gloucestershire which also involves Sabrina the Sea-Morgan and attributed to Wellhouse Rock off Sharpness and now some say that Sabrina returns to the river as the ‘Severn Bore’. She can be seen tickling a fish and dolphin in one of the misericords of Gloucester Cathedral from the 14th: century. While the north porch of St: Bartholomew’s church in Churchdown, which dates back to the 12th: century, has a mermaid, with her square mirror and double-sided comb in the doorway. She is a crude figure and was first mentioned by GG. Coulton who noted two letters, ‘I’ and ‘B’, on either side of the figure. He stated at the ‘Proceedings of the Cambridgeshire Antiquarian Society, (26 October 1914 – 24 May 1915)’.

The mermaid, if the letters belong to it, must be post-medieval’.

The figure was also mentioned by Doris Jones-Baker in her article ‘The Graffiti of Folk Motifs in Cotswold Churches’.

Modern critics have voiced doubts about the unique creatures and distinctive style found only in Tongue’s works and have raised the possibility that she fabricated stories and borrowed material from other books and so, the Wellhouse Rock mermaid could be the older of the two versions.

But, Sabrina is no mere mermaid, she is the tutelary goddess of the River Severn. While Nodens, a Celtic god associated with healing, the sea, hunting and dogs, is also said to ride a seahorse on the crest of the ‘Severn Bore’.

The two worlds are out of kilter now, we dredge and trawl the land beneath the waves and over-fish the waters and we no longer hear the mermaids sing.

Lundy Giants.

Lundy, which is off the coast of Devon, is about three miles long and 0.6 of a mile wide and has had a long and turbulent history, frequently changing hands between the British crown and various usurpers. The name ‘Lund-ey’ is Norse for ‘Puffin Island’ and gets a mention in the famous 12th: century ‘Orkneyinga Saga’. While being associated with a race of giants, the Island is also said to be an entry point to the Celtic underworld and connections with various saints including the Welsh St: Elen, St: Patrick and St: Nectan of Hartland. It also forms part of a Lunation Triangle which includes Preseli – the location of the bluestone site – and Stonehenge, the exact north-south and east-west lines complete a right angled triangle via Lundy and Caldey Island. In Old Welsh, Lundy is called Ynys Elen, the ‘island of the elbow, or right-angle’.

During harvest time in 1851 islanders on Lundy digging foundations for the wall of the rickyard, came upon a pair of granite coffins, 2 feet underground, each covered with a large slab, one of them was said to have been ten feet long and the other eight. When these sarcophagi were opened, the excavators found the skeletons of two eight feet tall humans, seven other skeletons of normal stature and other assorted human bones. Either in the coffins themselves or beside them were found some pale blue glass and copper beads and some fragments of pottery. The larger grave was provided with a lump or pillow of granite, hollowed out for the reception of the head of the gigantic skeleton which lay within. The feet rested on another block and measured 8ft: 5in: and male. The smaller cist, which also contained a skeleton, was 8ft: long and that of a woman, differed from the other in having no head or foot rest. Both were covered with a pile of limpet shells. Close by seven other skeletons were discovered, but these were of ordinary stature and buried without stone coverings, with their heads to the West. At the end of the line lay a great quantity of the bones of men, women and children, which were buried in one common grave – precluding the idea of being the slain in battle, but rather the indiscriminate slaughter of an entire population. The remains were buried again, but damaged by the workmen in doing so.

The date attributed to the beads and also the graves, is anywhere from Roman times to the 14th: century. The beads were apparently sent to Bristol Museum but there seems to be no record of what happened to the human remains. The glass beads (variously attributed to Early Iron Age, Roman or Viking period by the British Museum in 1925, and to ninth-century Danish origin by Bristol Museum in 1960). While the red pottery, now also lost, may have been Samian ware – normally used only to refer to the sub-class of terra sigillata made in ancient Gaul. But what of the two larger skeletons? Are they from the Celtic period and did the Celts produce such giants as the pair interred in the stone coffins? Or are they the bones of Hubba the Dane? – (Ubba), probably died 878 was a ninth-century Viking and one of the commanders of the Great Army that invaded Anglo-Saxon England in the 860’s. – The proportions are certainly rather Scandinavian than Celtic and undoubtedly, it was the custom of the Danes to remove their more honoured dead, with Lundy being the nearest point to which the defeated army and ships could retreat after their bloody battle near Appledore.

In 1928 and 1933 two separate attempts were made to re-discover the Giants’ Graves. These were unsuccessful in that no cist structure was found, though more individual burials were revealed and these appeared to be dated by coins and pottery to the 15th: century. In the 1960’s, two sites of relevance were discovered, a rock-cut ditch associated with occupation material of the mid 12th: century and possibly the site referred to in the ‘Orkneyinga Saga’ as a ‘stronghold ‘ to which Sweyn Asleifsson (c. 1115 – 1171) pursued Hold of Bretland unsuccessfully. This was sea led by a massive 6ft: 5in: thick wall, ostensibly part of the 13th: century stronghold of the documented Marisco family.

Here Be Dragons.

Beowulf’ is the oldest extant heroic poem in English and the first to present a dragon slayer. The legend of the dragon-slayer already existed in Norse sagas such as the tale of ‘Sigurd and Fafnir’ and the ‘Beowulf’ poet incorporates motifs and themes common to dragon-lore in the poem.

A slave steals a golden cup from the lair of a dragon at Earnanæs (a location in Southern Sweden). When the dragon sees that the cup has been stolen, it leaves its cave in a rage, burning everything in sight. Beowulf and his warriors come to fight the dragon, but Beowulf tells his men that he will fight the dragon alone and that they should wait on the barrow. Beowulf descends to do battle with the dragon, but finds himself outmatched. His men, upon seeing this and fearing for their lives, retreat into the woods. One of his men, Wiglaf, however, in great distress at Beowulf’s plight, comes to his aid. The two slay the dragon, but Beowulf is mortally wounded. After Beowulf dies, Wiglaf remains by his side, grief-stricken. When the rest of the men finally return, Wiglaf bitterly admonishes them, blaming their cowardice for Beowulf’s death. Beowulf is ritually burned on a great pyre in Geatland (Götaland) while his people wail and mourn him, fearing that without him, the Geats are defenceless against attacks from surrounding tribes’. – ‘Beowulf’, lines 2712 – 3182.

JRR. Tolkien also used the dragon story of Beowulf’ as a template for Smaug in ‘The Hobbit’.

The oldest account of the legend of the Deerhurst Dragon is contained within the pages of ‘The Ancient and Present State of Gloucestershire’ by Sir Robert Atkyns. The account was written towards the end of the 1600’s but unfortunately Sir Robert gives no idea of how old the legend was at that time:

There lived in the vicinity of Deerhurst a serpent of prodigious bigness. It poisoned the people and the cattle and ravaged the land. The King issued a decree to the effect that whoever could rid the land of this menace would receive a grant of land, the estate of Walton Hill. The task was undertaken by one John Smith, a labouring man. He went to the serpent’s favourite place where he found the beast asleep in the sun. With a mighty blow of his axe he cleaved the head of the serpent from its body. So ridding the land of the beast forever’.

At the time Atkyns was writing he tells us that descendants of John Smith were still living on land at Walton Hill and indeed that the axe itself was in the possession of the widower of one of those descendants. However, no further evidence exists to support the legend. We cannot date it, no record of the grant of land is forthcoming and there is no sign of the axe.

The serpent first slithered out of the nearby River Severn. Was this a parable about Viking raiders, coming up the Severn on dragon-prowed longships? Perhaps defeated by Saxon warriors wielding their two handed axes? The priory was raided by the Vikings and just a little distance away is Odda’s Chapel, once part of a royal palace complex which Earl Odda a Saxon nobleman had built for the benefit of the soul of his brother Ælfric, who died on 22 December 1053. Ealdred, Bishop of Worcester consecrated it on 12 April 1056: could the dragon story have originated around the fire in the great hall there, told by a bard in return for his supper? Perhaps it stretches the imagination further, but another local link can be suggested: Edmund Ironside and Canute signed their treaty in 1016 at Deerhurst. This settled the wars in England for a time, dividing the country between them (Edmund dying mysteriously young and suddenly only shortly afterwards). Could the dragon tale be a parable of the settlement, the Norse dragon lulled into lethargy by the Saxon king?

St: Mary’s Priory Church is one of the most intriguing and architecturally fascinating Saxon churches still in existence and has many dragon carvings along with snarling wolves. Wolves were both revered and reviled during the Anglo Saxon era, a curious paradox where the animal was held up symbolically as a noble and wise beast but practically as a bringer of death and a constant threat to livestock.

A similar tale, ‘The Coombe Hill Drake’, comes from around the 15th: century, in the hamlet of Coombe Hill, Gloucestershire, where there was talk of a large sea serpent. A long time ago a large sea serpent – possibly a Knucker Dragon, which was a type of water dragon that lived in damp, wet environments – came up the River Severn and settled on the riverbank at Coombe Hill. At first it only hunted sheep and chickens, but soon tired of this diet started preying on children and milkmaids. Before long, the villagers were all in fear of their lives and many left. A local lad called Tom Smith started leaving food out for the serpent and by doing so the monster gradually came to trust him, to the point where Smith was able to feed it by hand. One day, whilst feeding the beast a large marrowbone, he took his axe and smashed it on the head killing it instantly.

Are the Deerhurst Dragon and the Coombe Hill Drake one of the same? Deerhurst and Coombe Hill are approximately 2.8 miles away from each other and both slayers have the same surname of Smith and use an axe to kill their prey. The story of a hero slaying a giant serpent occurs in nearly every Indo-European mythology. In most stories, the hero is some kind of thunder-god – In folklore, axes were sometimes believed to be thunderbolts and were used to guard buildings against lightning. In Celtic mythology, Taranis is depicted with a wheel and thunderbolt. – In nearly every iteration of the story, the serpent is either multi-headed or ‘multiple’ in some other way. Furthermore, in nearly every story, the serpent is always somehow associated with water. Or, perhaps the storyteller was relating a long forgotten battle between Saxon and Viking.

According to historians we now know that in 877AD, Vikings camped in Gloucester for the winter under Guthrum. While in 894AD a band of Vikings sailed up the River Severn and fought a bloody battle at Minchinhampton (this may be the product of an over fertile antiquarian imagination) against King Alfred the Great and the Saxons. There has always been a story that there was a battle in Cambridge in 894AD which the Saxons won, where three Viking princes were killed and the fighting could have ranged over a wide area of the Berkeley Vale and also there is a strong case for stating that the Vikings made camp, possibly on the River Cam, when they made a big assault up the River Severn to the Midlands. The name Heslinbruge has appeared as an early name for Slimbridge and was commonly used by the Vikings when they built a stone pass, usually not much more that 300 metres from where their boats were moored, to their campsite.

She Shows No Mercy!

Over the years the River Severn has claimed many lives. But has also provided for the people with food, energy, recreation, transportation routes and water for irrigation and for drinking. She is one of ‘The Three Sisters Of Plynlimon’ – Ystwyth, Hafren and Gwy, rising from a peat bog in the Cambrian Mountains. In Celtic Mythology they were the Niskai, who desired to visit the ocean and to explore the mysterious region of the Celtic Sea and the wonders that lay beyond. Hafren was also a legendary British princess who was drowned in the River Severn.

But both her selfe, and eke her daughter deare,

Begotten by her kingly Paramoure,

The faire Sabrina almost dead with feare,

She there attached, farre from all succoure;

The one she slew in that impatient stoure,

But the sad virgin innocent of all,

Adowne the rolling riuer she did poure,

Which of her name now Seuerne men do call:

Such was the end, that to disloyall loue did fall’.

From ‘The Faerie Queene. Book II. Cant. X’. By Edmund Spencer, first published in 1590.

Of the other two sisters / rivers, Vaga is the Celtic goddess of the River Wye, the ‘Awakener of Truth’, while the River Ystwyth gave her name to the town of Aberystwyth in Ceredigion.

From the ancient Welsh book, ‘The Mabinogion’, comes the tale of a Cornish relative of King Arthur who tried to kill a wild boar which escaped across the Bristol Channel to Wales. Apparently, the story reflects the booming trade across the Severn Estuary when Gwent was famous for exporting wheat and honey, with a major iron-age trading port in the Sudbrook area. Archaeologists highlight the similarity of the remains of forts and stone circles from this period on both sides of the estuary. Immigrant Celts had crossed the river and installed their culture on the South Wales levels, trading and associating with their neighbours on the English side more than with the inland Welsh, as river travel was much easier that overland travel.

* ‘The Romans and The Noose’. – The Noose is a notoriously perilous stretch of the River Severn and is where the Severn Bore starts and can reach a height of 25 feet and surge 14 miles upriver at a speed of 15 knots.

Around 46AD, the Roman army, reputedly the 2nd: Augustan legion under the command of Aulus Plautius, first Governor of Britain, attempted to cross the Severn in their campaign to capture Caractacus, a British chieftain of the Trinovantes tribe. The ‘guerilla’ leader had escaped into the west and was leading the warlike Silures, a powerful and tribal confederation of ancient Britain, occupying what is now South-east Wales and some adjoining areas under the control of the Druids who were being forced to flee the Roman genocide against their caste. The legend says that the Druids were assembled with a vast band of ancient Britons on the west bank of the river, directly offshore from Awre near a large sandbank known as The Noose. Here the river is over a mile wide surrounded by two shifting narrow channels. It was low tide and the Roman army was goaded by the wild dancing of the British to engage in battle. The army comprised armoured foot soldiers and cavalry, who quickly crossed the small channel of the eastern bank.

When the army reached the far side of the Noose and as the Druids chanted to the river goddess Sabrina, the Romans were horrified to see the river sweeping up the western channel in the flood tide. Unable to cross they retreated back across the sands, but on reaching the eastern side their retreat was now cut off by the tide flowing back down and around The Noose to meet the flood tide still moving up the eastern channel.

As the army struggled to get to the east bank the soldiers and horses became trapped on the sand, as the bore tide swept across The Noose. Legend says that, in their panic, the army was totally drowned in front of the eyes of the Roman general and his standard bearers on the eastern bank.

The Druids had triumphed over the might of Rome and most importantly, the warrior goddess, Sabrina, was embued with a power beyond all things. The River Severn became viewed as a mighty natural obstacle by the Romans and marked the western frontier of their empire for fifty years.

Caratacus resisted the Romans for almost a decade, mixing guerrilla warfare with set-piece battles, but was unsuccessful in the latter. After his final defeat he fled North to the territory of Queen Cartimandua, Queen of the Brigantes, a Celtic people living in what is now Northern England, who captured him and handed him over to the Romans. He was sentenced to death as a military prisoner, but made a speech before his execution that persuaded the Emperor Claudius to spare him.

* ‘The English Stones’. – The English Stones are a rocky outcrop in the Severn Estuary between Caldicot and Severn Beach. The river itself, at 220 miles long, is the longest river in Great Britain and has the second largest tidal range in the world – 48 feet and flows into the English Channel. At its estuary it is 5 miles wide. Until Tudor times the Bristol Channel was known as the Severn Sea, and it is still known as this in both Welsh and Cornish (Môr Hafren and Mor Havren respectively, with môr meaning sea). During the highest tides, the rising water is funnelled up the Severn Estuary into a wave that travels rapidly upstream against the river current. The largest bores occur in spring, but smaller ones can be seen throughout the year. The bore is accompanied by a rapid rise in water level which continues for about one and a half hours after the bore has passed. The name Severn is thought to derive from a British sabrinā, possibly from an older form samarosina, meaning ‘land of summertime fallow’.

There is a tale, often repeated in 19th: century and later guidebooks, that during the English Civil War King Charles was chased across the river from Portskewett: the pursuing Roundheads were drowned after being landed at low tide on the English Stones by the boatmen, after which Cromwell ordered the ferries to cease operation. This story originated in a deposition given by Giles Gilbert of Shirenewton during the course of a 1720’s legal case regarding rights to operate the ferry and which was later printed by William Coxe in his 1801 ‘Historical Tour of Monmouthshire’. While Gilbert claimed to be ‘credibly informed’ that a group of Parliamentarian soldiers had perished while pursuing the King, another witness in the same legal case gave evidence that the incident had in fact involved a group of twelve Royalists who ‘in haste to pass’ in November 1644 had forced the boatmen to take them across at low tide. The antiquary Octavius Morgan, on investigating these stories, found that the ‘Iter Carolinum’ and ‘The Diary of Richard Symonds’ proved that Charles had intended to use the Black Rock crossing to reach Bristol on 24 July 1645, but had been dissuaded. Morgan however noted a contemporary report that Charles had a ‘narrow escape of being taken near the Black Rock’ in July 1645 and suggested that some of Charles’s party had crossed the Passage on the evening of 24 July ‘probably sent purposely to mislead the enemy and the result was death by drowning of the pursuers’. – Black Rock, Portskewett was an important crossing point of the River Severn for many centuries and was in constant use throughout the Roman period, on the route between Aquae Sulis (Bath) and Venta Silurum (Caerwent).

The Bristol Channel floods of 30 January 1607 drowned many people and destroyed a large amount of farmland and livestock, wrecking the local economy along the coasts of the Bristol Channel and Severn Estuary. The known tide heights, probable weather, extent and depth of flooding and coastal flooding elsewhere in the UK on the same day all point to the cause being a storm surge rather than a tsunami. Pamphlets of the 17th: Century depicted the great flood as a destructive and violent event.

Worlebury Hill dominates the landscape with its Iron Age Hillfort and here there is also a fisherman’s cairn named ‘Peak Wina’, also called ‘Picwinnard’, as the fishermen walked by to tend their nets, they would throw stones onto the cairn and wish for a good catch saying, ‘Ina pic winna / Send me a good dinner’. Ina was the King of Wessex (689 – 726) in Saxon times and at the suggestion of Bishop Aldhelm in 705, had a church built at Wells which later became Wells Cathedral and the ‘Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’ records he had a minster built at Glastonbury, which may refer to an additional building or rebuilding to the monastery already there.

Out spake the captain brave and bold

A merry wight was he

Though London Tower were Michael’s hold

We’ll set Trelawny free

We’ll cross the Tamar, land to land

The Severn is no stay

Then one and all and hand in hand

And who shall bid us nay’.

A verse from ‘The Song of the Western Men’, also known as ‘Trelawny’, a Cornish patriotic song, composed by Louisa T. Clare for lyrics by Robert Stephen Hawker. The poem was first published anonymously in ‘The Royal Devonport Telegraph’ and ‘Plymouth Chronicle’ in September 1826, over 100 years after the events.

The Severn Serpent.

The Severn Serpent or the ‘Sharpness Devil’ is a mythic creature reportedly sighted in the Severn Estuary. The River Severn is the largest river in the UK and has an extreme tidal range. Sightings of the Serpent are recorded at least as far back as 1866.

Writing from Overton, Gower in Wales dated 12 July 1877, Silvanus Beven, FRS, asked his brother if he believed in the sea serpent seen in the Bristol Channel?

For over a century there have been sightings of sea serpents slithering their way through the waters along the Cornish Coast between Rosemullion Head and Toll Point. One was spotted by two fishermen at Gerrans Bay in 1876. Also in that year, a ‘half-mermaid half-whale’ washed up on Porthleven Beach. The ‘Sea Monster’ was found by two boys before villagers came to see the spectacle for themselves.- ‘Plymouth Herald, et al.’ While the last was in 2002 by two seamen near The Manacles off of The Lizard. Dan Matthew and George Vinnicombe say they saw it while in different locations on the same day. – CornwallLive’. The two 1876 Cornish sightings pre-date Bevan’s letter by a year, but are not the earliest. It was reported in the ‘West Briton’ dated 20 October 1837, One of those great serpents . . . . was brought into Mevagissey last week, by a fisherman named John Hicks, which weighed 95 lbs: It is supposed to be the largest ever caught there. Many reports from the 1800’s and earlier may seem rather fanciful describing sea serpents. But, Cornwall may have played a larger part in unravelling the early history of the sea serpent, as it was the first location in the United Kingdom where an oarfish was found at Mounts Bay in February 1791. Even today, ‘Morgawr’ meaning ‘sea giant’ in the Cornish language is still talked about.

A book written by Anthonie Cornelius Oudemans was published in 1892 titled ‘The Great Sea-Serpent. An Historical And Critical Treatise’ which contained 187 appearances and 82 illustrations and was a work of suppositions and suggestions of scientific and non-scientific persons and the author’s conclusions, including the sighting of 1883 which appeared in ‘The Graphic’ on 20 October, where it was seen going down the Bristol Channel towards the Atlantic Ocean.

Ships Log. 9 August 1888’. Captain EB. Hathelford aboard the Kennet writes. – Approaching the Scilly Isles from North-North-West when First Mate Rodgers pointed out what looked to be a long serpentine neck projecting 6 to 7 feet above the water twice with a greasy trail behind it. – A greasy trail is a trait sometimes exhibited by seals and sea-lions.

In 1907, Captain Arthur Rostron – who would later captain the ocean liner RMS Carpathia when it rescued hundreds of survivors from the RMS Titanic after the latter ship sank – aboard the cargo ship Brescia, which served the Mediterranean region wrote that they were heading south of Ireland to the Bristol Channel when a serpent was seen with its neck 8 to 9 feet out of the water, the neck being 12 inches thick.

In the 1930’s there were a number of supposed sightings and a postcard appeared of the creature photographed near Anchor Head, Weston-super-Mare. The photograph was dismissed as a hoax as this was not long after the famous Loch Ness Monster photograph taken by Robert Kenneth Wilson, a London gynaecologist which was first published in the ‘Daily Mail’ on 21 April 1934.. Wilson’s refusal to have his name associated with it, led to it being known as the ‘surgeon’s photograph’. Since 1994, most agree that the ‘surgeon’s photograph’ was an elaborate hoax.

 

The Severn Serpent off Anchor Head, Weston-super-Mare

In the 1950’s, Mrs: Belmont who resided in an hotel in Weston-super-Mare and prone to sleepwalking mentioned she saw a sea serpent on a misty night.

During July 2010, Gill Pearce took a photograph of what appears to be a long-necked sea creature stalking a shoal of fish 30 yards off Saltern Cove south of Goodrington Sands in Devon. The neck was greenish-brown with a reptile-like head. Reported to the Marine Conservation Society, a spokesperson stated that it looked like a plesiosaur. – ‘Interesting’, (my italics). But at the moment it remains unidentified. Graham Oakley from Paignton also saw the creature in the sea. – ‘We Are South Devon, et al’. In the ‘Codex Boernerianus’ which has been dated to the 9th: century and is currently housed at the University of Dresden in Germany. An Irish scribe describes a pilgrimage to Rome:-

Prepared to be sent to Rome from the seaside by Torbay. May Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, give it safe conduct and not let the false man bear it away. In the fogs of the bay, amid the waves of the sea. Sea walls and sea whirlwinds, sea monsters and mermaids’.

Sylvia who lives in Worle stated that she has seen it on numerous occasions at night which leaves a silvery-grey trail. She also called the sea serpent ‘Morrigan’. In Celtic mythology, sea-serpents were a terrifying creature that reminded people of their mortality and often impending death. The Irish Morrigan (the death aspect of the triple lunar goddess) would often take on the form of a sea-serpent when confronting heroes.

David Barker who swims in the River Severn off of Weston-super-Mare, one day felt something brush against his leg and also mentions seeing a greasy trail.

The most recent widely reported sighting was in April 2019 from Clevedon by Jacky Sheppard and her husband who were outside the Little Harp public house when they saw something looking like the Loch Ness Monster going south in the Bristol Channel from Clevedon Pier to the Marine Lake. Ali Robertson also spotted the monster through her binoculars and stated that it was a large piece of wood in the Bristol Post’. There is a constant supply of debris, trees, et cetera, which comes down river from Gloucester and down the River Wye. The River Severn discharges into the Bristol Channel, which opens into the Celtic Sea and from there into the Atlantic Ocean. Its tidal range of 50 feet – one of the largest in the world – and high winds blowing in the opposite direction to the tides can create lethal conditions causing strange and violent motions, currents.

During February 2021, ‘BBC Radio 4’ broadcast the 45 minute programme ‘In Search Of The Severn Serpent’ by Annamaria Murphy investigating recent sightings of the Sea Serpent in the River Severn.

On 25 February 2021 the decomposed body of a Basking Shark was washed up on Broad Haven South Beach in Pembrokeshire which was confirmed by the Natural History Museum. – ‘WalesOnline’. While back in January 1885 another leviathan of the deep, a common Fin Whale, became stranded near the brick and tile works at Littleton-upon-Severn and the wharf is still known as ‘Whale Wharf’. But this was not the first whale to venture into the River Severn, as in 1849 a Bottlenose Whale was caught at Haw Bridge, near Tirley in Gloucestershire.

As for the Severn Serpent, all evidence of its existence is anecdotal. Why would people believe they have seen a plesiosaur when the most recent bones are 60 million years old? Or is there really something in the water?

The Green Meadows of Enchantment.

Throughout Britain, the Celtic Otherworld has been conceived as a separate country, with its own landscape, rivers, agriculture, buildings and climate. This belief was especially strong in England and Wales during the Middle Ages. Steadily, the fairies’ realm tended to shrink, until they were squeezed into the corners of our world. In some parts of Wales, the idea persisted in a slightly altered form, where the Fairies moved off-shore, to isles scattered around Britain and beneath the waves, so that they remained credible and occasionally visible, but rarely accessible. These lands were called ‘Green Spots of the Floods’ (the abode of the Tylwyth Teg, For more information, see below), ‘Green Meadows of the Sea’ (the Green Fairy islands of Wales), ‘Green Land of Enchantment’ (the name in a fragmentary folksong collected by RL Tongue which sounds similar to ‘The Green Spots Of The Flood’ mentioned by Southey) or ‘Gwerddonau Lion’ (‘Welsh Triads’, a group of related texts in medieval manuscripts). In Celtic mythology, green became a symbol of harmony, growth, abundance, vitality, healing and nature, radiating a feeling of fullness. The Green Man was the God of fertility. A sacred colour. Later, Early Christians banned green because it had been used in pagan ceremonies.

Another such island, ‘The Green Meadows of Enchantment’, is believed to lie in the Bristol Channel, somewhere between Somerset and Pembrokeshire. In the 19th: century, many a sailor returned to port boasting that he had weighed anchor on the Green Meadows which lay out to sea west of Grassholm Island and made merry with the elfin women, or had seen the island suddenly vanish. While some of the people of Milford Haven used to declare that they could sometimes see the ‘Green Islands of the Fairies’ quite distinctly. Strangely, no one could ever find it on a map.

From the ‘Pembroke County Guardian’ of 1 November 1896 comes this report from Captain John Evans. – Once when trending up the Bristol Channel and passing Grassholm Island, in what he had always known as deep water, he was surprised to see to windward of him a large tract of land covered with a beautiful green meadow. It was not, however, above water, but just a few feet below, say two or three, so that the grass waved and swam as the ripple flowed over it, in a way quite delightful to the eye, so that as one watched it made one feel quite drowsy. ‘You know, I have heard old people say there is a floating island off there that some-times rises to the surface, or nearly and then sinks down again fathoms deep, so that no one sees it for years and when nobody expects it comes up again for a while. How it may be, I do not know, but that is what they say’.

A more recent report comes from ‘The Glamorgan Gem’ dated Monday 31 July 2017 under the heading – A mystery ‘island’ off the coast of Porthcawl! – Local photographer Keith E Morgan explained: ‘At about 13.45, a ‘mysterious island’ appeared to rise out of the waters of the Bristol Channel and loom very clear on the horizon to any observer on the seafront of Porthcawl. This materialization did not last long, but the island was also noticed by the coast watchers on duty in the Old Watch Tower and they identified it for me as being the Selworthy Beacon on Bossington Down near Minehead on the Somerset coast. Due to a natural phenomenon, the background of the Somerset coast was lost in the mist and the headland appeared to be isolated and cut off from the mainland, as well as being enlarged by some form of light refraction’.

Is it light refraction that caused a mirage to those ancient mariners and townsfolk?

The Bristol Channel UFO. – A Cover-up?

A more modern mythology concerning the river is that of sightings of UFOs.

On Saturday night, 24. September 2016 at 21.30, Police in Bristol were left baffled after the force’s heat seeking helicopter camera captured what is believed to be a UFO. The round object was spotted while officers were flying 1,000ft: over the Bristol Channel. Confused police said the mystery craft was flying against the wind and was undetected by air traffic control at around 21.30 on the evening in question. – At this point, it must be added that the Police admitted that the clock was wrong by one hour and the correct time was 20.30. – The object, which could not be seen with the normal eye, was captured by thermal cameras and was filmed for just over seven minutes.

 

Still from the Police helicopter caught on thermal camera over the Bristol Channel

But now, comes a cover up of the whole episode.

A former detective, Gary Haseltine, is calling for a scientific inquiry into what footage caught by the police helicopter actually shows. He has submitted Freedom of Information (FOI) requests to find out more, but says responses so far have not been forthcoming and believes this case is a major UFO event. Journalists have also sent requests to the police to find out all the details of the incident, but have also not received any replies. – This was back in January 2017. It is also believed that the police have not published all the videos and have hid from the public the full record of the meeting of the helicopter with a UFO in the sky over the Bristol Channel.

Nothing was revealed as to what the mysterious craft was and I am surprised by the lack of journalistic investigation regarding this. We know about the smoke, so now it would be nice to be told that the truth is out there.

The following is from the Freedom of Information which Haseltine received sometime later:-

FOI 4096/16

Re: NPAS St Athan ‘UFO’ sighting.

The response states that the audio track to the recording has been withheld. The audio is stated to have consisted of material that could compromise a police operation and which could lead to the identification of named individuals (thus breaching their privacy). These are uncontroversial exemptions and are discussed below.

Appendix to response letter, setting out FOI exemptions applied (two pages).

Section 30 (1) – Sections of footage have been withheld from the responsive material. This is because the video was recorded during the investigation of a crime and to release the whole recording could compromise police operations.

Section 40 (2) – Sections of footage conflict with the provisions of the Data Protection Act (1998). The withheld material contains sufficient information to enable the requester to identify a private individual (either directly or by inference). There is no reason to doubt that these exemptions have been applied in an appropriate way. The responsive material was recorded unexpectedly during an unrelated police operation. Therefore the video and / or audio recording might breach the security of that operation. It might further breach the privacy rights of a suspect or suspects, people who are not relevant to the investigation, or the helicopter crew themselves (since a voice is as much part of a person’s identity as their face or home address).

Since then and following on from Heseltine’s attempts to obtain more information, the Police released the full video footage in June 2021, which lasts around eight minutes and the footage shows the camera changing settings as the Police appear to try to identify the strange phenomena. Heseltine passed the video to retired Police Officer and former helicopter crew member Simon Conquest who provided expert analysis of the video for magazine ‘UFO Truth’. He estimated the object was travelling at around 106 mph and said he believed the object was not a lantern, a bird, a meteor, or a known aircraft. Conquest went on to add that he believes the craft appears to be moving under its own power – leading him to conclude it was either an advanced military test craft or potentially a vehicle of alien origin. At the time, It was reported the object appeared to be flying close to the Hinkley Point B Power Station.

There had also been a report of a silver cigar-shaped UFO hovering over the Bristol Channel during May 2020, but this is clearly distortion from the atmosphere, as six ships were anchored in the Channel as oil traders were being forced to store a record amount of oil offshore in container ships due to the market turbulence at the time.

So, now we know. Or perhaps. We will never know.

 

 

© Stewart Guy. 2023.

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The End of the World Party in Parliament Square – Extinction Rebellion’s The Big One – Part 1

Parliament Square, 21st April 2023


A historical moment undoubtably – April 2023 – but assuming there is anyone around to remember, will this time only be viewed in the future as the days in which selfish governmental marionettes in the thrall (and pay) of global companies, hammered the last nails in our communal coffin, while much of the human race just looked on – too frightened, grief-stricken, busy, indolent or unaware, to object to our forthcoming murder?

                                      

“Shell profits from Hell on Earth”, Parliament Square, 21st April 2023

Local groups gather for the March for Biodiversity, Broad Sanctuary, 22nd April 2023 – Earth Day

Without the rage and aggression, the blocking of roads and attacks on the buildings of offensive organisations, do events like Extinction Rebellion’s (XR) The Big One[i], become almost invisible to the wider public? In the environs of Parliament Square over the four days, a sense of festival or Mardi Gras often took over, anger taking a back seat. Children and younger teenagers are often best at this. It is a relief to see and gives others hope, no matter how fleeting.

Dancing to samba: “Don’t Let the World Die” / “My Future is in Your Hands”, 24th April 2023

Parliament Square, 22nd April 2023


Black and bitter costumes and slogans were contradicted by the desire of a cross-generational movement to shake itself into the oblivion of fun. I even shook hands with a tree. Solidarity!

21st April 2023

Parliament Square, 22nd April 2023

The tree that shook hands with me, Abingdon Street, 22nd April 2023

Understandably, not all younger people are inclined to party, Abingdon Street, 21st April

It’s clear that every branch of social and ecological resistance is growing and that even lethargic consumerists are beginning to realise that only drastic system change can save the human race. At one level this is political – banks need to be controlled, global corporations made to pay heavily, many of them terminated altogether, as with the multi-millionaires also. The rich[ii] need to share or be phased out. We cannot afford such parasites.

By Westminster Abbey, 22nd April 2023

Queen Elizabeth II Centre, Broad Sanctuary/Victoria Street, 21st April 2023

Horseferry Road approaching Millbank, 22nd April 2023

Even if the world’s wealth could be distributed more evenly[iii], at a social level, system change will inevitably involve sacrifice even for the poorer of us – a reduction in consumer aspiration which will fall particularly on upcoming generations. We must learn not to waste food, gradually become vegetarian or vegan[iv], give up flying[v] and cut travel to a minimum. The education and health systems – “essential backbone and future of society”[vi] – need a major rethink to understand and adapt towards radically different priorities. The military needs to be made fully accountable and reduced to a minimum[vii]. Many will be reluctant to face such changes, but it cannot be business as usual any longer. We have no more time to dither or tolerate the plundering of the earth by global companies aided by increasingly fascistic ‘governments’ – among which the current UK’s Cabinet (“obfuscating on thin ice as one placard worded it”) is such a pathetically dismal example:

“I’ve seen smarter cabinets at IKEA”    Parliament Square, 21st April 2023

The Global Justice March forming up in Parliament Square, Friday, 21st April 2023

 
The March for Biodiversity, Broad Sanctuary, Saturday, 22nd April 2023 – Earth Day


Too much disruption and public sympathy can be endangered, yet if direct action is suspended – and Extinction Rebellion have clearly stated that this moratorium was temporary[viii] – a sensation-obsessed media quickly transfers its attention to some vapid celebrity, or such comparative trivia as the London Marathon or the irrelevant Coronation – an ignoral which feels like a baiting. It’s seriously worrying, that despite being supported by over 200 organisations[ix], so many concerned people were not even aware that Extinction Rebellion’s The Big One was taking place.

Friday, 21st April 2023

 Saturday, 22nd April 2023 – Earth Day


Mainstream media coverage was appallingly bad – something you’d expect from the majority of newspapers, but even the BBC[x] seems to have become a puppet for the government – a puppet of puppets. I’m not quite sure why I write “even the BBC”, perhaps because I still like to believe in some ideal version of the BBC my mind . . . in something which mostly died a long time ago. Just as I continue to believe in some ideal of freedom[xi].

Section of a banner pondering the extinction of life in the oceans, 22nd April 2023

Saturday lunchtime, 22nd April 2023

 
Pickets at the Department for Energy Security and Net Zero, Victoria Street, 21st April 2023


When I first arrived on the Friday, turning left from Charing Cross station and walking south down Whitehall, of the fifteen people’s pickets[xii] outside government buildings and the numerous other protest groups infiltrating or dominating a wide area, the first I encountered was Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, (CND), outside the Ministry of Defence, highlighting the Nurses not Nukes campaign[xiii]:

CND banner outside the Ministry of Defence, 21st April 2023

Enigmatic protestor by the gates of Downing Street, Whitehall, 21st April 2023

Lourdes Huanca of Peru, Whitehall, Friday 21st April 2023


Just along from CND, Lourdes Huanca of Peru[xiv], president of the Federation of Peasant, Artisan, Indigenous, Native and Salaried Women of Peru (FENMUCARINAP . . . not exactly for short!) emphatically addressed the crowd, with pauses for translation into English, outside the Ministry of Defence. Contradictorily, in Saturday’s more consistent sun a large crowd gathered at the same location for a demonstration which should not have stayed mysterious to me for long. Initially, I was drawn to the yellow placard below which begins: WELL BY THEIR SELL BY DATE AND INFESTED WITH MAGGOTS . . .  

Russian, anti-Ukrainian protest outside the Ministry of Defence, Saturday April 22nd 2023


On the face of it, these targets (the Anglo-American Empire, London’s City trading markets, and NATO) are all justified game – but having no access to reference devices, and before a Ukrainian group arrived to counter the protest[xv], I did not twig that this was a Russian group protesting against British support of “the Nazis in Ukraine”. Another placard stating the Russian group’s denial of climate change, perfectly illustrates the complexities of multiple protests and the potential for confusion, especially in an age of often ridiculous conspiracy theories – such as the ludicrous idea that XR was created by the CIA! If that one’s true, then the CIA seriously miscalculated[xvi]. Also, the impressive black banner below was still in my mind from across the road the preceding day:

There’s nothing tricky or propagandist about the Movement for the Abolition of War[xvii]


The first march I joined on the Friday was for Global Justice, a procession which moved sombrely around Parliament Square before branching up Great George Street towards Birdcage Walk. Eventually it turned right to end on the steps near the Treasury on Horse Guards Road. The shouting was minimal. Instead, a vocal elegy gradually spread through the crowd, partially led in my section of the column, by an XR choir from Dartmoor.

I found myself near the Dartmoor Group again on Saturday’s March for Biodiversity


Though in four days I only met one person I knew from the North West, one of the group from Dartmoor, I encountered three times, and we finally talked during Saturday’s March for Biodiversity during which conversation she echoed my pessimistic fear, a lack of hope that anything can be saved now: “It’s too late,” she said with inner devastation, “but it’s better to know we tried. Better to belong to something rather than nothing . . .” Later, glancing down at her placard: 97% OF UK WILD FLOWER MEADOW GONE, she added tragically, “That’s wrong, it’s 98% now.”

Demonstration as choral elegy, Great George Street, 21st April 2023


At several points on a short route, Friday’s Global Justice procession paused . . . and
its silent gentleness, the lines of its song, were compellingly moving. It was hard to prevent tears flowing from my eyes – as if we were all present at our own mass funeral. Or as if we could escape the inevitable one-way tunnel we’ve been in since the industrial revolution. And throughout the stillness and the song – as momento mori to nature and the best of the human spirit – came the tolling of a bell.

By the Treasury, Horse Guards Road, 21st April 2023


Only at the terminal point adjoining the Treasury did the mood become more aggrieved, with nervous security guards and police very obviously feigning confidence. From the nearby steps however I watched as the crowd gradually seemed to relax, some perhaps finding hope beyond the elegy? “We have to keep trying,” I overheard someone encouraging. “But how can we possibly make up for all those who can’t be f**king bothered?” a listener replied.

Houses of Parliament, 22nd April 2023

March for Biodiversity, Saturday 22nd April 2023


On Saturday, the March for Biodiversity was enormous[xviii], and taking a route out to the west it turned south onto Great Smith Street and Marsham Street, then east back towards the River Thames along Horseferry Road.

At the conclusion of its angry, friendly, sad but determined slow-moving loop, the march approached Abingdon Gardens and Parliament Square. All the way, our demands and protests were accompanied by a haunting symphony of bird calls – skylarks, swallows, a nightjar, owls hooting mournfully – whistles, a chorus of frogs[xix], sounds from the oceans and jungles . . .  Here, before the gradual dispersal, the leading phalanx was called upon to die and willingly did so all around me. “There’s no space for me to die,” I complained, before obligingly, the corpses around my feet, shifted about to clear a space.

            “At least it takes the weight off your feet.”

            “Die quietly for heaven’s sake!”

For how much longer will such blackly humorous stoicism be viable?

“There’s no space for me to die!”  The death of the Biodiversity March, Millbank/Abingdon Street,  22nd April 2023 – Earth Day

Although we eventually observed a long silence in death, the traffic went on beyond the houses of parliament, while the chain of aircraft on the flightpath never ceased, and the river smelt of bad drains.

22nd April 2023 – Earth Day

Parliament Square, 21st April 2023

22nd April 2023 – Earth Day

The call to “Rise again” was only transiently morale-boosting – a buzz in the neck, relief from the hardness of the tarmac – but was helped by a loud warbling siren, which at first, I took to be a big version of one of those water whistles our children used to frenetically maul in the bath or sometimes try to be poetic with . . .  But it became more insistent and resolved itself into a police motorcycle trying to clear a path for some miserable-looking VIP chauffeured by latter-day, gas-guzzling, Range Rover and aiming for a back entrance to the Palace of Westminster. Tolerantly we stood aside and the vehicle and its dying vampire were given the thumbs down as if this was ancient Rome and ironic slaves had taken over the forum . . . temporarily . . .

The March for Biodiversity dispersing, 22nd April 2023

Hope regained . . . 22nd April 2023

Climbing from Woolwich, SE18, near the end of the second day, Saturday 22nd April 2023

 

                        sun shield

                        rich heraldic defence

                        to hush the red double-decker’s as they pass

                        and usher the cheerful clatter of drinks

                        sun shades unfolded

                        in the walled garden of The Windmill –

                        the tower has no sails but still . . . 

                        before all speech is lost

                        end here[xx]

 

 

 

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben,

London and Morecambe, April-May 2023

 

                       
NOTES – accessed up to May the 10th 2023

[i] extinctionrebellion.uk/the-big-one/programme

[ii]  How do you define rich? You could try this: ifs.org.uk/tools_and_resources/where_do_you_fit_in  though I didn’t, as I knew I’d be pretty much near the bottom . . .

[iii] Sign the Good Law Project’s petition against the HMRC’s £600 million pound loophole for the very wealthy: actions.goodlawproject.org/private_equity?utm_source=NB&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=privateequitypetitionemail03%2F05%2F23

[iv] A pressing point and one which seems undeniable in the long run. In the meantime – a point I raised with two vegan campaigners – what do you do about the lamentable rise in popularity of carnivorous pets? There are vegan alternatives but they don’t look very affordable at present. See: www.animalaid.org.uk/ 

[v] See flightfree.co.uk/ 

[vi] internationaltimes.it/eric-morecambe-extinction-rebellion-supports-the-strikers/

[vii] globalcitizen.org/en/content/how-war-impacts-the-environment-and-climate-change/#

sgr.org.uk/resources/war-ukraine-assessing-human-and-environmental-costs

[viii] extinctionrebellion.uk/the%20big-one/what-next/

[ix] extinctionrebellion.uk/the-big-one/supporters/

[x] Who is paying them for offering flights as prizes? businessgreen.com/news/4113311/prize-flights-bbc-urged-stop-offering-flights-competition-winners

[xi]   Yet it is hard to continue to believe in some ideal of freedom and (eccentric) individualism once you realise how much of it comes at the expense of others. Like the fantasy of “quality always rising to the top” (9 times out of 10 it doesn’t) a great deal of the aspiration for freedom and liberty is a con-trick of capitalism or neo-liberalism. Similarly, the so-called “free market” itself, is an excuse for waste, overproduction and futile competition. Stuff economics! Such systems are a hoax – a swindle which penetrates our world so thoroughly that it’s become impossible to doubt or kill off. Like our supposed democracy, our bland freedom or individualism – cheered, encouraged, threatened – is merely token. In reality, the 95% bound to “fail” will always subsidise the 5% who “succeed”. In most cases this 5% is also a foregone conclusion – people destined to succeed through advantages of class and money. Occasionally a few others might make it into this 5%, through beauty, natural intelligence or talent in some form, but not often. Yet still the con-trick continues to stimulate consumer desire and dreams of ‘success’ – persuading us all too often to ditch community, conscience, and social and environmental concerns, in favour of self-fulfilment and a purely personal happiness.

[xii] extinctionrebellion.uk/the-big-one/peoples-pickets/

[xiii] cnduk.org/nurses-not-nukes/

[xiv] www.counterpunch.org/2023/02/03/our-demands-are-now-political-an-interview-with-lourdes-huanca-atencio/ Also:  upsidedownworld.org/archives/peru-archives/peru-in-defense-of-land-culture-and-the-female-body-interview-with-lourdes-huanca/

[xv]   www.newsflare.com/video/558169/ukrainian-counter-not-our-war-rally-allege-is-a-russian-propagandists-in-london

[xvi] Unlike the CIA support for Abstract Expressionism – which whatever you think of the artists away from the poisonousness of the art market – makes Capitalistic ‘sense’. See: thecollector.com/abstract-expressionism-waging-a-cultural-cold-war-2/

[xvii] https://abolishwar.net/about-us/history-of-maw/

[xviii]  This eight minute clip covers a lot of ground, including a host of placards and masks I missed: vhttps://www.google.com/search?q=the+march+for+biodiversity+April+2023&tbm=vid&sa=X&ved=#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:129eef40,vid:e1AGD7kyDMI

[xix] I’ll resist a direct 1963 Avengers reference! www.imdb.com/title/tt0516801/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1

[xx] Closing lines of SE18 – The Woolwich Quest

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 GOOD MORNING!

 

I fell in love

With your soul first

Then I discovered

You have more

Your heart is made of gold.

I may not be

Your first love,

But promise me

I will be your last.

The best night is that

When my head rests on your chest

You caress my hair

And wishper into my ear

I’ll come tomorrow again.

When I text you

“Good Morning”

It means you are my

First and important

Thought of the day.

Because

I want to nourish your love

In my heart

And cherish your love

In my memory forever.

 

 

 

 

Monalisa Parida
Illustration Nick Victor

 

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Emergency Benevolence

On the day of my daughter’s
third birthday we emerge
from a mid-tier inn, all tired.
I display on my cheeks a shade
of red deeper than I my usual.
My debit card has revealed
an unbalanced jaywalk across
this life we’ve been cast in,
and hence I can feel no pain
when a sedan leaving the parking
runs over my toes semi-sheathed
in faux leather footwears.
My daughter shrieks, cries, mumbles
something we can decode
even without hearing. Later after she
falls asleep, and the panic settles,
and the post-coitus boudoir holds
my wife, dozed off, and me crumbling
in a desire to fix everything everywhere.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration 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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Inkless Desire

The guitar played
For your evening star
Sings brighter than my noon.
I empty to fill, but
I do not give to lose.
The human sun
Wakes with
The sparkle in the eyes
And feet that circles the world.
My clay is blessed,
My yard guards
Your resting soul
With flowers that swing
In the breeze of love.
Death stops with me,
I make peace
And wave it goodbye,
My circle of life ends
With my days and nights of vigor.
This is my written remembrance
Not lost in inkless desire.

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal

Picture Nick victor
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‘Half a Sentry’

Wild Willy Barrett and John Otway

Some pics and words from Alan Dearling on their anniversary tour celebrating the lads’ Half-Century

Fabulous to witness these two cantankerous, curmudgeonly gentlemen back on stage and on tour together again.

Wow…and what a show…what a great performance from the legendary Wild Willy Barrett (actually, Roger John Barrett – absolutely a musician’s musician and innovative wood-worker) and the extreme madcap chaos of John Otway. Together, collectively celebrating 50 years of on-and-off ‘togetherness’. Plenty of crowd-pleasers from ‘Louisa on a horse’, through their ‘hit’, ‘Cor Baby, That’s Really Free’ to Cheryl’s going home, and ‘Geneve’, plus a rather wonderful, if wryly sad song: ‘Separated’: “It’s great to be alone”, and the lovely ‘Snowflake’. Absolutely superb entertainment and thanks to John and Willy and all involved at the Golden Lion in Todmorden.

What makes these two so special is the unique ‘spark’ – infectious mischief. It seems like a spontaneous affair that is exceedingly combustible! Wild Willy takes the mischief-making to new heights or depths, poking fun at his partner, ‘The Pratt’, the idiot joker. And with malevolent glee and a cunning glint in his eye, John retaliates with lines like:

“I’m a master musician now…my violin solo (with theremin) just got more applause than yours did!!!”

The pair deliver the musical goods in bucket-loads of fun, frolics and naughtiness. It feels and looks wonderfully spontaneous. But, it also reminds one that there have been more than a few well-publicised ‘fall-outs’ over the 50 years since they started together in Aylesbury on their legendary (long and winding roads) to become ‘pop stars’. It’s all a long time ago, just before punk was beginning. Their on stage and on tour ‘instabilities’ were just a tad acrimonious. After their major split (it wasn’t their first), Otway entitling his solo album, ‘All Balls and No Willy’, didn’t help! But now in 2023, it all adds to the hilarity, the unexpected exchanges of words, actions and exuberance of a Barrett and Otway show par excellence. Otway has written some pretty good lyrics and Barrett can certainly play them…and some…including on his wah-wah wheelie bin!

Live recently – ‘Louisa on a horse’: https://www.facebook.com/wildwilly.barrett/videos/152103077810016

Here’s a link to an early-ish Old Grey Whistle Test Otway and Barrett performance of ‘Cheryl’s going home’, always one of the stand-out moments in their show: https://youtu.be/G8C-BwAbAdc

‘I’m Separated’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DfsOXCcELw

Deadly, the Otway Roadie, has just constructed a new website:

http://www.otwayandbarrett.com/?fbclid=IwAR2BEOgRCaK4_3uI_TurWn0J1CY_4HXXe_-XfIJenWLE6LEqtdBSWh5ytNY

Meanwhile, Barrett’s woodworking craft skills have moved from making and inventing stringed-instruments to beautiful pieces of bespoke furniture.

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Charlie’s Weekend

A very brief interlude mostly in pictures…Alan Dearling

The photo above was taken on Coronation Day about 3pm. Nothing is moving. Roads without people. Maybe everyone is glued to their TVs and radios, maybe they are celebrating at home or with friends. Or maybe they’ve gone to the local Spoons in Todmorden for sustenance, or to forget about Charlie entirely. The following day I’d spotted that the Trades Club was putting on a ‘No buntings’ reggae afternoon. The poster seemed fitting for Socialist Club with probably Republican inclinations among many of its members.

At Trades Club it is something of an institution to invite families and lots of toddlers along to afternoon sessions. And so it was too for this alternative coronation event. Six DJ outfits blasted the Trades Club with plentiful loud and bass-heavy selections of reggae, ska and soul and even a little hip-hop at the Trades Club! As the organisers suggested: “Family Friendly Event – NB We strongly recommend ear protectors for little skankers”

The Trades Club lies near the Rochdale Canal in picturesque, tourist-magnet Hebden Bridge. It is relatively small, but punches way above its weight. It frequently plays host to major international star performers as you can see in the pics. Charlie’s afternoon reggae event was fun for the wildly cavorting little ‘uns and plenty of DJs and punters were in attendance in the Club bar enjoying the vibes and also the lush food from Ros’s Indonesian kitchen. 

A long, long way removed from the pomp and antique reverberations of the Westminster and central London coronation ceremonies, the State carriage, religious rites, processions, parades and military marching. Really quite refreshing in its own way. One wonders if Charlie would be amused?

Trades Club Socialist Co-operative: https://thetradesclub.com/

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Behind the Yellow Line by The Red Propellers.

What are these guys on? The lead singer trips over his own rhymes all the time, spewing stories, asides and opinions in demented non-stop incantation, whilst guitars and keyboards riff and groove in sequences and patterns behind him. One moment we’re in Alphabet City, the next we’re having an flashback about a love affair as flashing blue lights surround the burger bar. If you don’t listen hard or read the lyrics it all goes horribly wrong: the nightmare chorus of Sea Slugs turns out to be the tamer, regretful She Shrugs, and the singer isn’t back in the shithouse but the stirrup (I never did like horses). Oh Zoe indeed, whoever she is. Some New York waif lost in Bristol I suspect, or an imaginary lover from an imaginary past. Meanwhile we get Black Box Warnings where conspiracy is rife and everyone and their friends gets a namecheck as the apocalypse arrives, the four horsemen following close behind the lies of Guiliana and a host of others to take a body count. No-one takes any responsibility, no-one admits to why there is blood on their hands or egg on their face. Guiliana’s New York is also the place for drug deals in the Lower East Side where Johnny toughs it out in the stairwells and dark corridors in a kind of demented Springsteen story without the romantic bullshit. If the cd opens with love supreme love supreme it turns out to be a reference to John Coltrane’s classic jazz trance album and not a declaration. Here Cupid’s bow keeps missing its target and the city’s occupants are mostly on a downer in the November rain. In fact only the dogwalkers and junkies are out, illuminated by pop garish billboards and the flashing lights of the dustbin lorry. Somewhere in the mix there is not only Coltrane but a minimalist prepared piano played with a full on rage so that it somehow sounds like The Ramones. There may be punk in the mix here but mostly it’s the drone and chimes and sonic addiction of the Velvet Underground, the sputtering dynamic rhythms of a city on red alert with its citizens only surviving because they are full of drugs and attitude. For much of the album the mood is visceral sweaty leather black, contrasted with the yellow line of the title, hazard or crime scene tape to stop us being involved, but by the album’s close the mood is blue, remembering hippy camp scruff and the daughter away in London, Joni Mitchell and Ravi Shankar on the record player, whilst the narrator deals with the ins and outs of immigration. There’s no let up, apart from Joni’s downer songs and Leonard Cohen’s laments, just an unused second ticket and a fading into loss and grief. So either Lou Reed and his merry men are alive and well in Bristol or there is the musical reincarnation of the spirit of rock and punk and attitude alive and well in the city. Or the Red Propellers are as haunted by their musical past as this album is haunting. Risk the sea slugs and side streets for the joy of electronic guitar oblivion and pulverising punk poetry held together with… well I’ve no idea. Liquid drums and gaff tape, moody keyboards, bits of string and narcotics, I assume. Cross the yellow line and feel the apocalyptic pain narcotic stain. It’ll do you good. At least, it hasn’t done me any harm. In fact I rather like it. You were there and then you were gone.

 

 

Johnny Sea Slug Brainstorm

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GENTLE IHOR’S DEVOTION: BEYOND NAKED

 

We are sipping cappuccino’s sitting in the sunshine outside the ‘Capri’ coffee house, which is located between the Pizza Take-Away and the Estate Agents on High Street, Horbury, West Yorkshire.

Ivor Tymchak is a stylish dresser, with a penchant for sharp hats. He talks enthusiastically, ranging in a literate way from subject to subject, with a wealth of intriguing opinions on everything from the Dada artists in 1917 Zurich to the heavyweight literature of Herman Hesse and Philip K Dick, from the evils of capitalism to the cool sounds of the Chemical Brothers. There are plenty of ineffectuals in today’s music world, and not a lot of intellectuals. Ivor helps fills the cleverness quota.

‘What kind of thing is your editor after?’ he genially enquires, ‘Weird? Outrageous? Existential?’

Just be yourself, Ivor…

‘Ah, so weird, outrageous and existential it is then…’

Back in 1991 when the Gentle Ihor’s Devotion 45rpm twelve-inch single ‘Naked’ was ‘Melody Maker’ single of the week – kinda Rock, kinda Goth, they were the Wakefield power trio who elevated the Clarence Park free festival into the stratosphere. Now lead singer and writer Ivor operates largely solo, but with inputs from Nigel Goodwin and Chris Olley in a renewed phase. He played a support gig at the Leeds Brudenell Club supporting Spear Of Destiny, a charismatic frontman with a talent for drama, he wields a brolly to lethal effect on what he terms the ‘seething Punk energy’ of ‘Battle Song’ – ‘sirens are calling,  & storm troops are forming, & watch-towers are burning, for our war is coming.’

As part of the same set, he updates the talk-rap ‘Naked’ with new reference-points, ‘imagine a world where clothes didn’t exist, there’s no hiding behind power dressing.’ ‘The lyrics of ‘Naked’ are timeless and the riff is so hypnotic and uncompromising that it still has power thirty years later’ he offers. ‘I’ve tweaked a couple of references to make the lyrics topical but that’s all, the rest of it is still the original, raw, tell-it-like-it-is, honesty.’

The band’s recent resurgence has yielded two impressive digital albums, ‘We Entered The Vortex Of Desire’, a compilation of new and remixed tracks, then ‘Quatrain Terminus’ recorded at Rockfield Studios in a stripped-back moog-&-drums setting, with the reworked version of ‘Naked’. What was it like recording at the legendary Rockfield Studio, where Dave Edmunds, Queen and Wakefield’s own BeBop Deluxe had worked? ‘It was a bit like hanging around in the same airport that many other famous people had hung around.’ There wasn’t a sense of sacred awe? ‘Not for me, I’m too much of a realist. Sacred awe doesn’t improve your own recordings!’

On the former album, ‘Acid Daze (Olley Mix)’ is a kind of electro flashback to the psychedelia of ‘Eight Miles High’, ‘Dark Star’ and Timothy Leary. It starts off with pinging cymbal, driven on steady machine-rhythms and splintering guitars, ‘fields of fire bloom with strawberry haze, from along the watchtower, a hurdy gurdy plays.’ The shivery guitar is more upfront on the Chris (Six By Seven) Olley mix, with crashing walls of trippy consciousness-raising reverberation. ‘‘Acid Daze’ is a good example of my approach to lyric writing. I have a fondness for psychedelia, so when I came up with a slow, lazy riff I decided to make the song about that era. I tried to pull in as many references to psychedelia as I could, especially references from other songs about it. I like to be clever with my wordplay. ‘Seeing for miles and miles through the holes in my shoes’ was a satisfying composition. Personally, I think ‘Acid Daze’ is one of my best songs, it transports me to another world.’

He has other gears. ‘Callin’ On You’ was ignited by the discovery of a raw Blues guitar riff, built on sampled harmonica into a rumbling choogling boogie, with a video atmospherically steeped in images of rural Delta poverty, ‘there’s blackness in my story, tattooed with the Blues.’ ‘It’s a Blues song with a reference to a midnight train… what’s not to like?’ he travelogues.

It creates a very effective juxtaposition, with the raw Blues feeling… delivered in Ivor’s very white articulate voice. ‘And thanks for pointing out the juxtaposition. You always forget what’s right under your nose. Although I did try to allude to the appropriation in the lyrics, ‘once I stole a fashion and a blueprint for some shoes’ – these were blue suede shoes in my mind.’ Elvis stole ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ from Carl Perkins anyway, so that makes perfect sense.

The harmonica player is good. But can Ivor afford him…? ‘Not really. A few favours had to be called in.’

So, is it a sample? ‘Ah, the person who supplied the sounds made me promise not to tell anyone where they came from. The sounds were so good – and as far as I’m aware, he can tailor the sounds specifically for a track, so I agreed to his terms. I hope you understand?’

He sounds like an interesting contact to make. But also sounds suspiciously like Artificial Intelligence to me! ‘It does sound like AI, doesn’t it. The reason he’s so cagey with it is that he’s a songwriter and it currently gives him an edge over other songwriters. A bit like the early adopters of satnavs, they could find the short cuts when traffic jams occurred. Now everyone is in the same jam… Hmm, that sounds like a song lyric…’

Early adaptors are the bleeding edge of evolution. ‘Haha, I’m guessing ‘adaptors’ wasn’t a typo.’ No, adaptors. Those who adapt.

Can I quote you on all this? ‘Yes. AI plays the Blues is a good headline…!’

— 0 —

Meanwhile, back in days past, ‘‘Melody Maker journalists Simon Price and Dave Simpson both loved the ‘Naked’ single so it was gratifying to read about it in the national music press’ he recalls. This is around the time they were being favourably mentioned in the same paragraph as Sisters Of Mercy. ‘When Beaumont Street studios in Huddersfield got wind of the interest in it, they offered to record a dance version of the track and Nige played some of the best guitar I’d ever heard him produce in the studio. Stupidly, I didn’t ask for a tape demo of the recording after the session so when the studio went up in flames taking the master tape with it, the entire project was lost.’

‘As a band we were always difficult to classify’ he admits. ‘As we used a drum machine some people assumed we were Goth, and as I liked Goth music I didn’t particularly mind but my own influences were heavy rock. I loved Wishbone Ash, Deep Purple, The Doors, Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin etc. When ‘Naked’ broke into the music industry’s consciousness, they didn’t know what to make of it. Today, it would fit perfectly alongside Sleaford Mods, Yard Act and Dry Cleaning. Being decades ahead of the times is a tragedy, as often the work slips by unnoticed.’

‘Eddie Tempest was the keyboard player and he’s in Cornwall now’ he continues. ‘Nigel Goodwin was the musical genius behind the band, a brilliant lead guitarist but he also played bass and programmed the drum machine. Alcohol was his demon and he’s now in a nursing home slowly losing his memory and identity. I really miss him. We made a great team. He once told me the ideas I came up with were deliciously eccentric, ideas he’d never have thought of. A lot of my ideas derive from literature as well as personal experience. I spend a lot of time on my lyrics. I think they’re important. I write stories too. I used to read a lot of mystical stuff in my youth – Herman Hesse, Timothy Leary, Ram Das. I now prefer sci-fi, thrillers and detective stories.’

‘Ask me a couple of questions to get me started’ he suggests, leaning back in the chair. So, talk about the band’s ubiquitous logo that features the kind of Spartan hoplite featured in ‘The 300’ movie. ‘As a teenager I read ‘The Iliad’ and ‘The Odyssey’ and I was taken by the way people and things were described, ‘the wine-dark sea, man-killing Hector’ etc’ muses Ivor. ‘I imagined if I were a character in those stories I’d be called Gentle Ihor, so Gentle Ihor’s Devotion had an Ancient Greek influence. I did an ink drawing of the Hoplite when I was in my twenties. I think I used it this time round to disabuse anyone thinking my music was in any way gentle, especially as I’ve grown older.’

His ‘Psalm 151: Unplugged’ – check it out on YouTube, takes on an autobiographical tone of corrupted innocence, ‘a simple story of a young country boy who makes his way to the city after being told that only there can he find artistic and personal fulfilment – THAT’S A LIE!, but he believed it anyway,’ delivered with vehement old testament vitriol. It’s a new-age old-time vision of apocalyptic hellfire and damnation to chill and excite the soul with a frisson of retribution. It builds with teasing innovation, cheeky in its deliberate game-play subterfuge and crammed with energies more natural than artificial. This is a song that serves notice to the Pop world in general that Gentle Ihor’s Devotion are moving up a gear, and that this is a band to listen to with sharpened scrutiny.

For the ‘Quatrain Terminus’ album, sidestepping Goth, there’s a stripped-back Minimoog to provide techno-mechanical DAF-style bass-lines for Charlie to throw thunderous Ludwig drums at, while Ivor delivers menacingly honest intonations, it’s almost a return to simpler times… a Moog synth, a virtuoso live drummer and an angry man commenting on the state of the world. ‘Kill Them All’ starts out by taking a subterfuge of relentless electro to list the ‘thylacine, the great Auk, the Pyrenean Ibex, the Cape Verde Great skink, the quagga’ as species on the extinction list, before moving on to the ‘arms dealer, terrorist, trainspotter, paedophile, pornographer, pedestrian.’ Again, irony is lethally employed with theatrical precision to devastating effect. Ivor has a useful adage that runs, ‘Art is a specimen jar containing the emotions that subconsciously frighten us.’

‘Many people have told me my voice is highly distinctive and a classically trained actor once told me I had natural timing in my intonation’ he muses. ‘Rap is probably where I should have concentrated my efforts. ‘Kill Them All’ signals the direction I’m probably going to take, spoken word mixed with musical phrases delivering a message. I’ve recently become fascinated by Bob Dylan’s lyrics. He’s a bit like Nostradamus, clever at saying things that allow limitless interpretations. I like that. And the thing about being creative without any expectation of a career is that it makes you unpredictable and dangerous. I can do anything. I needn’t worry too much if people don’t like it. Maybe in decades to come, the world will finally appreciate what I’m doing today.’

Cappuccino’s are cooling as we sit outside the ‘Capri’ coffee house in Horbury, West Yorkshire. ‘I got the sense we had too much to talk about’ he concludes after some forty-five minutes of wide-ranging discussion. ‘I tend to go for a walk every day so we could make a peripatetic interview if you like. Although it might be hard to write. Perhaps you have a little recorder? But no, it’s no surprise we didn’t cover the simple things.’

 

 

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

GENTLE IHOR’S DEVOTION: WHILE AI PLAYS THE BLUES

 

‘Naked’ c/w ‘Seekers Of Oblivion’ (1991 Org Records ORG001, vinyl 45rpm twelve-inch single, and Life! Records, single-sided cassette)

‘The Dream Ended’ (Life! Records, single-sided Cassette)

Played the Clarence Park Free Festival, August 1992. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AlaC17HKdqE

Damn! Damn! Damn!’ (Tug Records TUGO18, German label) with ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’, ‘Big Machine’, ‘Man Of God’, ‘Profit & Loss’, ‘Baby Cry’, ‘Move On’, ‘Good Time To Die’, ‘Naked’, ‘Accept’ plus live tracks ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’, ‘Man Of God’, ‘Naked’, ‘Sex Junkie’, ‘Twentieth Century’

Gentle Ihor’s Devotion’ (Own label black-shell cassette edition) with ‘Sex Junkie’, ‘The Game’, ‘I’ve Fallen In Love With A Picture Again’ and ‘Songs And Dances’

We Entered The Vortex Of Desire’ (2023, digital) compilation of new and remixed tracks, ‘Battle Song’ 3:49, ‘My Ship Is On Fire (The Charlie Olley Mix) 4:12, ‘Going Back To Brownhills’ 4:29, ‘On The Move’ 5:35, ‘We’re Just Waiting’ 3:29, ‘As You Slept’ 3:17, ‘Acid Daze (Olley Mix) 4:40, ‘Acid Daze’ 4:20, ‘My Ship Is On Fire’ 4:05, ‘Seekers Of Oblivion’ (remix) 3:55, ‘Go With Him’ 4:51, ‘Forbidden Verses’ 4:06, ‘Mayday (Feel Like An Alien)’ 4:28, ‘The Fall’ 3:34, ‘Whole Lotta Voodoo’ 3:04, ‘Hard Left Collective – Hard Left (Molotov Mix)’ 2:42, ‘The Hard Left Collective – Hard Left’ 2:46, ‘Snow’ 4:05

‘Kill Them All’ (February 2023, digital single)

Quatrain Terminus’ (2023, digital) recorded at Rockfield Studios in a stripped-back moog-&-drums setting, with ‘Naked’ 6:24, ‘Go With Him’ 5:24, ‘Walking To The Gallows’ 5:24, ‘Put Your Phones Away’ 5:06, ‘Profit & Loss’ 6:14, ‘Kill Them All’ 6:00, ‘Monoculture Future’ 5:50, ‘Repetition’ 3:54

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCiKcBS1WsagTpZiShjmuWOQ

 

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OUR DARKEST SECRET

Ding! She was zesty – gorgeous – original
One of the must-haves of the season
Bo-ho chic smart-dolly crochet hat
Foot-stomping go-go power razor laugh
Free range legs in-yer-face gags and gaiety
What’s the mood there?
Powerful conflicting emotions
Far out and way up: talk us through that
Really that performance was the edge of freedom
Hit the dance floor, take stock test the limits
Intercept our suspect – kiss and run
An out-of-this-world experience.

Tell us a little more
Ding! I don’t think so
How much more do we know?
Well… let’s be clear
The indicators at this time show
It’s still a challenge no doubt about it
We’ll be giving it our best shot
Look! See! Nice! (canned laughter)

So profoundly moving, our darkest secret
Well, let’s face it; what happens next?
Ziiip! Twang! Whoosh!
Searing scenes and candid comments
Continuous flashing images.
Pow! Yes! What a moment!
Exciting! Exciting!
This is really hard to watch.

You get my drift?
Ding! So perverse and bewildering
A very difficult balancing act
But still the hot favourite
Posing with a retro arcade machine
They’re watching and they’re waiting
And it’s not over yet
Make it magical an absolute gem!
A life-changing encounter for all.
So we couldn’t be more excited than that.
We’re on it! Let’s do it! Yeah how?
Have a great evening, bye bye.

 

 

 

A.C. Evans

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A Swiss Revolution

  

 

A Junkie Army on the march, all scabs and skank and corroded teeth,
slopped along from Letten Station, from Needle Park, pausing to dance and piss across the Rathaus marble, then on, caving in windows so the dejected masterpieces of asset art could be taken out and set on fire.

In the Malatesta Bar, a blissful intellectual life passed as usual, the barricade of languages so lightly amused and adrift in the disarming nicotine weather.
The bartender flipped a glass ashtray into the middle of the floor and made a joke.

Brief, unexpected, incomprehensible
Zurich rising,
Zurich falling asleep.

N.B. – The Malatesta Bar is now long gone but was a pleasant place to drink and eat in the mid-1990s, popular with people working in film and theatre. On the day of the riot, it might have escaped damage due to being named after Errico Malatesta, the Italian anarchist who had been expelled from many countries, including Switzerland. Heathcote Williams wrote a film script about him, which was also the first film he acted in. In the film, Malatesta is organising an anarchist group in London and opposes the use of violence in their actions.

The poem is  from Silenian Odes a chapbook collection published by Cold Turkey Press, April 2023.

 

Jay Jones

 

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I Love the Smell of Napalm in the Morning

 

Just like those rumours of rogue commandos who never got word of the end of the war, and who’d sometimes be glimpsed, snake-eyed and foam-lipped, glaring from the edge of the wild; so there are those who missed the memo about the Renaissance and still cling on to the eleventh century, with its feudal imperatives and impractical robes. There they are, processing between pillars in the heart of the sinking city, swaggering on a balcony to wave at the homeless and the foodbank queues, sweating with the weight of archaic regalia and honours they’ve graciously bestowed on themselves. And then they’re gone, half-way round the world, to some sun-scorched island they still believe is theirs; and we wonder if we really saw them, and if they were even here at all, and if the Renaissance was just fake news and we have never really understood perspective.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture nick Victor

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SAUSAGE Life 270

 

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which uses a periscope even when it isn’t underwater 

READER: Why the long face?
MYSELF:  I’m getting into character.
READER: Gosh, that sounds interesting, what for?
MYSELF:  I’m rehearsing for a part in the High Dudgeon Repertory Company’s production of Warhorse actually.
READER: Really? Are you playing one of the horses? I thought they were all done with puppets.
MYSELF:  No, I’m playing Nelson, the Giant Anteater who saves the life of Staff Sergeant Billy Wagstaff after he is captured by Germans. The “horses” will all perform behind huge screens, as the High Dudgeon Repertory Company’s budget will not stretch to puppets, or scenery.
READER: As an experienced actor of note, isn’t it a little demeaning playing an Anteater?
MYSELF: Not at all. I once portrayed a tortoise in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Compared to that, playing the part of an Anteater is like playing Othello. You should come to the opening night of Warhorse, it’s right up your street.
READER: I’d love to! But High Dudgeon? Where exactly is that?
MYSELF:  It’s just before you get to Beyondenden.

SPACE RACE LATEST
Discoverator II, the £40million Upper Dicker space probe is “doing very well” according to Captain Rob Dulle, chief spokesman for the East Sussex Community Space Exploration Forum (ESCSEF). The probe, which launched in February, is constructed entirely from stolen bicycle parts and is currently travelling at 500,000 miles per hour on a trajectory which, once it has achieved escape velocity , will result in a voyage of discovery unprecedented in modern-day community-based space exploration.
“We hope to establish an orbit around Seepsterboo,” said Dulle, “an earth-like planet on the outskirts of constellation K99-7H, a small parallel universe three light years from here”.
“We suspect that on this planet, Boris Johnson is a mild-mannered reporter with no discernible superpowers working for a great metropolitan newspaper. Wearing thick horn-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses and a blonde wig, he is constantly in amorous pursuit of Priti Patel, the glamourous newshound with a secret super-identity: Wombat Woman.”  
When pressed, Dulle admitted: “Obviously this theory is based on a great deal of speculation which, if proved to be true, could set the baffling world of non-existent particle physics on fire. Not literally of course.”
The probe is expected to reach K99-7H by 2252, by which time, according to Dulle, the global economy will be controlled by a Korean drug syndicate based in Sunderland. “Its influence will stretch far beyond the region” he continued, “and be powerful enough to have the cities of London and Paris relocated to China”.
“New York will be under a sheet of solid ice over three kilometres thick, and will eventually become the permanent venue for the Winter Olympics.”
Halting abruptly, Captain Dulle smiled, reached into his pocket and retrieved a pack of playing cards, from which we were invited to “Pick a card. Any card. Now put it back. Don’t show me.” At this point we were quietly approached by two white-coated men who very politely asked us to leave, so that trained ESCSEF nurses could administer the captain’s medication.

BOOM BANGA BANG
With the stupidest title in pop history, Dummy Dummy Dummy Dummy by the reformed Imaginary Chairleg, will be this year’s British entry in the Eurovision Song Contest. Thought to be a potential outright winner, the throbbing, massively loud anthem was described by Mojo as “Deafeningly pointless” and “A triumph of no style over no substance”.  After declaring that the band’s royalties would be donated to charity, it defied all odds by beating Uber-Pop gender neutral band Massive Haddock’s I Can’t Stand Up For Sitting Down during the qualifying rounds, Minus deductions for lunch, travel, fireworks, spangled pyjamas, corporate entertaining and class A drugs, all proceeds from Eurovision and subsequent sales of the Dummy Dummy Dummy Dummy single will go to Guard Dogs For The Rich.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S CREAM
Dedicated science boffins working through the night with sometimes only mice or spiders to eat, have suggested that there may be a link between dressing up and excessive alcohol consumption. In response to this, Hastings’ inventor extraordinaire, Professor Gordon Thinktank, has patented Scurvy, an anti-pirate cream, which he claims will curb the obsessive urge to clap a patch over one eye, daub some eyeliner on the other, get drunk and shout at people. The unique formula, made from unpasteurised feta cheese, yams and a secret ingredient he calls Arr, will, when rubbed into the temples, produce a profound feeling of soporific tranquillity, allowing the user to experience an idyllic nirvana, far from the hedonistic temptations of antisocial dressing up.

ONE ARMED BANDIT
A new study by Cockmarlin-based radical right wing thinktank The New Institute for Going Forwarder proposes that Admiral of the Fleet Lord Horatio Nelson, having lost one eye in Corsica during the Napoleonic Wars, would have been unable to properly enjoy today’s 3D films even when wearing the provided glasses. It is also thought that due to his renowned parsimony – (he would often claim “Alas, regrettably I have left my duckets in my other breeches”) – the premium 3D admission price would have stuck in the great sailor’s craw as he watched what was, to him, just a regular 2D film. Following this, the study claims, his unpredictable temperament could very easily have led him to bombard the cinema with heavy cannon fire from a flotilla of warships anchored just offshore.
According to the institute however, his numerical arm deficiency might well have worked to his advantage today. Playing tennis would still be difficult of course, particularly when serving, but modern AI prophylactics could have provided Horatio with a distinct benefit when it came to playing games like billiards, where a steady cueing technique is crucial. Or darts, which only requires one arm.

 

Sausage Life!

 

 

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

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

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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Celebrating Slavery at the Recombinant Royal Crowning

The Coronation of King Charles 111 will be remembered, if indeed it is remembered, for the pronouncement by the Archbishop of Canterbury a few days before the event, that people watching on television and on the streets should pay homage to the new King by shouting their pledge of support at the moment the King makes his Coronation Oath.

The Archbishop’s recommendation, as published in the mainstream press, states:
‘All who so desire, in the Abbey, and elsewhere, say together: ‘I swear that I will pay true allegiance to Your Majesty, and to your heirs and successors according to law. So help me God.’

The extraordinary irony of this call is based on the fact that the Coronation Oath is the moment when the King is supposed to pledge his unstinting commitment to protecting the liberties and traditions of his people and nation. Particularly relevant under the current vicious attacks on civil liberties.

The Archbishop thus deftly reversed the roles. By placing the emphasis on the people pledging their support to the monarch, rather than the monarch pledging his support to the people, he gave Charles’s highly controversial leadership role with the World Economic Forum a significant boost.

The WEF’s ‘Great Reset’, as we well know by now, is not about supporting human liberties and national values, but about totally destroying them and dismantling the Nation State in favour of a technocratic and robotic New World Order.

The head of the Church of England thus publicly introduced a treasonous and satanic element into the royal ceremony which seemed to perfectly fit the actuality of the sinister power game in which royalty, the church, corporations and government are so deeply engrossed.

The ritualistic Coronation ceremony, which took place on May 6th, exhibited all the usual well rehearsed promotional paraphernalia that one expects from this show piece of British military discipline.

As the entourage of royal celebrities and foreign dignitaries made its way down The Mall, the crowds lining the route celebrated their slavery to the globalist agenda via mindless, almost hysterical adoration of many of its chief proponents. Coupled with an unhealthy and perhaps subconscious homage to the British class system.

Royalty’s wealth is built on the exploitation of ‘the working people’. Yet, Charles is held to be a ‘people’s king’ because, in carefully choreographed publicity exercises, he can go to the pub and enjoy a pint with the locals.

‘The firm’ that manages royalty knows a great show is a welcome diversion from the ever increasing strictures of the surveillance state; the sliding economy; the crumbling National Health Service; the political sleaze and endless rhetoric of lies that come from Westminster – all of which are anaesthetized by a grand spectacle.

Not to mention the tragic increase in ‘sudden deaths’ amongst the 80% of the British population who decided to take the weaponised ‘vaccine’ and the overall sense that Britain is sinking into oblivion – and more literally – into the Atlantic Ocean.

A great ‘outer show’ nearly always disguises an equally great inner lack. A loss of direction and meaning and a beguiling deception perpetrated on those who actually see royal figureheads as ‘great people’ serving the nation and upholding its honourable traditions.

Oh dear, how much further from reality can things go?

British royalty has a way of richly endorsing crimes against humanity, provided they serve ‘the cause’. Charles’s mother, Queen Elizabeth, bestowed a knighthood on Klaus Schwab at Davos in 2006, via attendee Jack Straw, a British parliamentarian.

‘Arise Sir Klaus, and do thy deadly deeds with the blessings of Her Majesty.’

Just as was done earlier for George Bush, General Norman Schwarzkopf and most recently (by King Charles,) Pascal Soriot, director of AstraZeneca. All individuals at the very forefront of large scale adventures in mass murder.

There is a low vibrational, primitive and insidious darkness that underlies the fake regal demeanour of modern royals. They are all in service to the court of Mammon, while outwardly displaying the facade of ‘good Christians’.

It is this dark hypocrisy that was being celebrated at the Coronation ceremony on May 6th. Exactly the same ‘shape shifting’ artfulness which is being practised by all members of the ‘elite club’ which presently controls this planet.

If only the the adoring crowds waving their plastic red, white and blue flags along the ceremonial route from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Cathedral could see the deception, rather than the superficial splendour.

How long will it be before the greater part of humanity learns to recognise the difference between the seductive play of the Satanic, and the true expression of responsible statesmanship?

 

Julian Rose

 

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, a writer and international activist.
He is President of the International Coalition to Protect the Polish Countryside and author of ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind’ See www.julianrose.info

 

 

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Zephyr Sounds Sunday Sermon No. 121

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Blue Mitchell – Good Humour Man
Emma-Jean Thackeray – Say Something
Minnie Riperton – Everytime He Comes Around
Outkast – Prototype
Childish Gambino – Me and Your Mama?
Gil-Scott Heron – Angel Dust (The Reflex Revision)
Erykah Badu – Tyrone
Steely Dan – Black Cow
Ella Fitzgerald – Gloomy Sunday
Freddie Hubbard – Backlash
James Brown – Doing the Best I Can
Lee Dorsey and Betty Harris – Love Lots of Lovin

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SAUSAGE Life 269

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
If anyone wants me I’ll be in The Horse, as the dog said to the little old lady who’d swallowed a fly

READER: So what are you doing during the Coronation and Royal Anointment?

MYSELF: I gather this is the first time they’ve anointed in public. I don’t know how I’m going to cope with the excitement. I thought I might pretend that HRH Charles III is the new Doctor Who, and hide behind the sofa.

READER: Really? With your connections I assumed you’d have a ringside seat.

MYSELF: If I never see another jar of sacred royal ointment again it will be too soon.

READER: You may scoff, but did you know that the royal and ancient coronation ointment is made by Freemasons from a secret blend of sperm whale essence, concentrated sasquatch, extract of spinach and holy water from the well of the crying statue in Killarney?

MYSELF: You surprise me.

READER(Shouting): THE ANOINTING IS NORMALLY DONE BY BLINDFOLDED TIBETAN MONKS BEHIND A PURPLE CURTAIN!

MYSELF: I take your point, but why are you shouting?

READER: SORRY! THERE’S A MAN OUTSIDE WITH A DRILL!… ah ok… it’s stopped now.

MYSELF: I expect you’ll be out camping on the Mall tonight. Not for the first time I hear.

READER (shouting): PARDON?….WHAT?…. SORRY? THE DRILL’S STARTED UP AGAIN!

MYSELF (shouting): I said God Save The King

READER (shouting): AND ALL WHO SAIL IN HER!

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PATENT NONSENSE
Prolific local inventor professor Gordon Thinktank has applied for patents on the following inventions:

  1. A perforated umbrella for people who like walking in the rain.
  2. A blunt knife for stabbing friends
  3. An electric kettle with no element, for making iced tea.

WHAT THE LOCAL PAPERS SAY
A new series featuring random excerpts from regional publications in the South East 

UMBRELLA BLAMED FOR GAS TRAGEDY
A Cockmarlin man, who cannot be identified because of his mother’s connection with Pressbutton4, a religious sect which worships 1950s red telephone boxes, has been charged with masterminding a complex pyramid scheme designed to embezzle thousands of pounds from a charity sponsoring a spelling competition for overprivileged children from all over the UK.

Harry “Bongo” Tuttenhurst (43), the stilt-walking clown who regularly busks outside Sidcup railway station, claimed in his defence that he was using the money to fund WAKO, an Australian right wing think-tank in Gecko Falls, New South Wales, which promotes the idea that arm wrestling is the true path to spiritual enlightenment.
The Sidcup Bugle

BADGER BAITS MAN
A minor crisis was averted when villagers rallied round after being alerted to a major blockage in the catering-sized teapot employed by the Upper Dicker Women’s Institute Bowling and Crochet Club during their annual meeting at Lower Dicker Masonic Lodge. “It was lovely seeing everyone pull together,” commented retired fitness coach Wendy Carthorse (93), “it reminded me of the atmosphere during the London Blitz, except without the incendiary bombs and the rationing”.
To everyone’s relief, the guilty teabag was soon fished out and disposed of by the Upper Dicker Fire Brigade who arrive within minutes. Detectives from Upper Dicker constabulary’s forensic team later established that on the basis of available evidence it was likely that the teabag had become wedged in the entry to the teapot spout during pouring, causing the flow of tea to diminish to a trickle.
The Upper Dicker Examiner 

RELIGION “BUNK” ADMITS POPE (See page4)
First an apology from the editor:
Regrettably, the recent front-page story in this newspaper warning of a catastrophic invasion of flesh-eating zombies here in Beyondenden, left our high journalistic standards wanting. This invasion, we warned our readers, could result in 50,000 angry, hungry corpses descending on the town. We understand that on our advice, many of you built elaborate, secure shelters and stockpiled food, weapons and ammunition in order to protect your families from mobs of vicious marauding undead cannibals. We offer readers our humble and unconditional apologies, in the sincere hope that your cherished loyalty will remain undiminished, and that in the future you will continue to believe every word this great newspaper publishes, regardless of the tragic unintended consequences of this inadvertent misinformation.
Zac Rhumba, editor-in-chief
The Beyondenden Chronicle 

CARP SHORTAGE HITS HOUSE PRICES
Torville Wellington, a French poodle clipper of no fixed abode, was remanded in custody, accused of being in possession of illegally acquired items; namely three billiard balls (one red, two white) which, it is alleged, he removed from the Temperance Billiard Hall, Chiddingly. He was arrested after police spotted him outside wearing a coldstream guardsman’s helmet under which he was attempting to conceal the balls.
The Chiddingly Tricycle

LOCAL ELECTION SHOCK
British Gravy Train candidate Ron Gravy has blamed last Thurday’s disastrous showing for Upper Dicker (East), on his radical plans to have all Upper Dicker public entrance and exit signs rewritten in Welsh. “There simply weren’t enough Welsh people,” he told a disappointed meeting of Upper Dicker & Cockmarlin Signwriter’s Guild, “which, with the benefit of hindsight, was a considerable flaw. I can only apologise, as my honest and pure intention was to stand up for you, the austerity-hit signwriters of Upper Dicker (East) for whom I was, until yesterday, a proud representative. My plan was deceptively simple. The Welsh word for entrance is Pwellygohgollygoh, and the word for exit is Eisteddicarephyllycmwr”.
“Unfortunately this plan – which would not only have ensured 50-75% more annual income for the signwriter and his poor starving children, but would also have provided a much-needed boost for the struggling paint industry – failed to take into account the significant absence of Welsh-speakers in the ward.”
Dyfrd Cllrwdr, the one Welsh-speaking Welshman in Upper Dicker (East) was disqualified from voting because his photo ID did not contain enough vowels.

 

 

Sausage Life!

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

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

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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Te Deum Traffic Cones

Another day seized, my body transported, my world transformed
Choking in the headlamps, I drive and follow my dream of freedom
We are the clowns with cones for the pot-holed nation
I’m living in a world of eight billion people & 1.4 billion cars
And in England, 35 million cars and 60 billion traffic cones

On every road I drive these innocent creatures nudge and stare
They are our nations’ skeletons and bones
So many signs, diversions, roads closed;
I cannot find the road less travelled
With cars, trucks and buses before, beside and behind

Hemmed in on every side in my mobile Cathedral
I listen to the archbishop and priests conducting the parade
The King, blessed with holy water, is given a crown
Glittering jewels on his head for his Coronation Anthems

Our procession trickles down the road and I watch
Red and white cones guiding, from beginning to the very end

 

Christopher
 
 
 
 
 
 
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God Will Not Save The King


 

GOD WILL NOT SAVE THE KING

                                                                              Here’s some new stuff I’ve been working on

 

Today I went for a little trip around London’s transport network and everywhere I went I found loads of these tube ads. Really weird! Hope TFL manage to remove them all in time for the coronation tomorrow.

But for some reason it reminded me how this morning I put the finishing touches to the below print editions. I really like how these have come out, an improvement on my beheaded Queen stamps I think. Proper stamp-sized ones of these are in the pipeline, but if you’d like a decent sized print for the wall you can get one here.


I also still have the God Will Not Save the King coins, as well some of the misprinted coins that have a dead king and queen on each side.

 

JUST STOP OIL AT THE SNOOKER

A quick one I painted the other week inspired by Just Stop Oil demonstration at the snooker.

Something worth considering for the armchair strategists who disapprove of these tactics: look up the tactics of the Suffragettes. Not just when they chained themselves to railings and jumped in front of a racehorse, I mean all the tactics. Look at how they burned down churches, poured ink into post boxes, fought police in the streets, set fire to moving trains and interfered with rail signals to try and cause crashes, threw an axe at the prime minister. Ask yourself if you would have supported the Suffragettes *at the time*, rather than from the comfort of the present where we can rest assured the campaign was just & effective. I would have even struggled with it, as I have with some climate actions. But on balance, the scale of the injustice at hand requires interventions that disrupt normal life. How can you have a normal society when half the population are denied human rights? How can you have a normal society that runs on fuels that will end organised human life on earth?

Direct actions like this and throwing soup at paintings are the desperate attempts of passengers trying to shake the driver awake as their foot weighs down on the accelerator.

I’m obviously not saying everything has to be about climate all the time, by any means. But the coming catastrophe will affect and maybe destroy every pleasurable or diverting thing we enjoy. So rather than getting mad at the people trying to warn us (and pressure our government to take action that will, in turn, save things like paintings and snooker from destruction) why not thank them, or even better, join them.

Because it’s not like environmental campaigners haven’t tried non-disruptive tactics, petitions and letter-writing and standing outside buildings with banners. We tried that, and the people who came before us tried that, for decades, and fossil fuel investment only expanded.

 

HELL BIKE @ THE BIG ONE

The Hell Bike I designed for Fossil Free London got plenty of action last weekend at The Big One demos outside Parliament. It had a great reaction at the protest and I was really happy to see it in its stationary and marching modes. The banners are retractable depending on what the bike is being used for (and how windy it is). I wanted to make something that is as versatile as possible for all the different types of actions and protests it will be needed on, as it’s not just a straight-up art thing, it actually needs to be useful!

                              As for the Hell Bus I hope to have some news about that in the coming weeks…


Was also really happy to see Jeremy Corbyn posted a photo of the bike on his Instagram yesterday 🙂

 

BREAK GLASS IN CLIMATE EMERGENCY



Please don’t stick these stickers on digital ad spaces (which use the same amount of electricity every day as three UK households)! Available at cost price here.

 

DEATH STAR

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ACAB JUMBO SIZE EMBROIDERRED PATCHES

 

A few people had asked about me making other things with the ACAB/SEGA logo on but I figured the easiest and least wasteful way to do it was by making some extra large embroiderred patches that could be added to existing stuff.

 

So if you want to revive an old jacket, backpack or top hat, you can order one of these here.

 

 

 


“THERE IS NO ALTERNATIVE”

Posted the below text on my Instagram before the English local elections yesterday

Don’t forget to vote for your favourite flavour of Tory tomorrow!

I’ll be voting Green in a solid Tory Red council so I’m not exactly expecting to budge the needle. But at the very least I’ll sleep soundly knowing my vote won’t be going to the Labour Right’s neoliberal, racist, war-hungry political project for the promotion of revolving-door briefcase dickheads who dream of nothing more than getting second jobs at privatised utilities firms or as advisors to gambling companies.

These are people who have nothing but contempt for everything I believe in, people who have spent the last 8 years actively sabotaging the best chance we had in a lifetime of ending neoliberalism, reducing inequality and actually improving society, and all just so they could get back to business-as-usual, crackdowns, austerity and privatisation and back-slaps with the Tory press, nodding along with all their hysterical “genuine concerns” hate campaigns about refugees or Muslims or trans people or the “woke-left” or whoever the next Enemy Within is.

And now if you don’t like any of this and are considering maybe not rewarding these pricks with your vote, according to Lib-Dem voting centrists in my Twitter replies I’m a ‘Tory enabler’? No, fuck them.

If you have good Labour councillors, then vote for them. But don’t vote Tory, no matter which party they’re in.

Just today Starmer announced he was scrapping his pledge to end tuition fees. He has nothing but contempt for us and we should show him the same in return.
“Get the Tories Out” also applies to Starmer.

Prints of this image are available from my website shop.

 

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!

 

 

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Response to ‘Little Red Cap’ by Carol Ann Duffy


The day you left, you went out to the woods,
past the white picket fence, and over the dormant tracks in a trance.
I cried that day,
‘cause I missed my little girl –
was afraid you’d become dead meat; prey
to a Romeo, proclaiming his verse to seemingly you
only you, and yet
he goes howling up at a different moon
every Thursday night.


On this particular Thursday he’d spot you,
newly flown from the nest,
wearing your heart out on your chest – he’s looking
for a little fox;
all too willing to say she’s done this before.
But I know you;
I bade you never touch a drop of that demon drink
because it’s more trouble than you’ll ever begin to think.


Look at you, infatuated by poetry,
it’s a perilous path, a slippery slope,
that will lead to blood red weals on your chest.
He’ll say he’s teaching you an art, a skill at best,
but he’s wrong.
I say he’ll eat you up, breakfast in bed,
like a fledgeling pup –
you’re a bite to him –
your tight-fitting red blazer a mere side dish,
concealing the main course within.


My dear, you must fight back –
ransack his shack, hack at his hair;
learn what needs to be learnt.
Darling, pray you only see white.
Because then you’ll know why this happens,
when girls like you go out in the night.

 



~ Wren James

 

 

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Forming Non-Monetary Civic State

 

Wikipedia lists the number of public protests this century as:

84 public revolts and uprisings.  
86 national anti-war / austerity and human rights marches.
38 national and international student protests.
461 national and international demonstrations for specific issues: racism, sexism, anti-corruption, women’s rights, anti-occupation, pro-democracy, independence and climate action.
This totals 669 movements of public outrage occurring in most of the 195 countries that make up the global population. Some of those listed repeated annually over a number of consecutive years and some recurred spasmodically over two decades; a few conflicts overlap and many are unaccounted for in these reports. This does not include military conflict. Wikipedia also lists 535 riots.

There has never been such a thirst and desperation in human history for people to understand how to take back control of our environment, future prospects and survival. In the face of such stark efforts, costing countless people the ultimate price for apparent failure, it is no wonder most are nonplussed as to what their immediate options are. With every intrusion of privacy by dictators, military and police-states, drug gangs, and western democracies – by stealth policies and privatisation of the commons; gearing up for control of people’s individual finances and renewed sovereign rule – people everywhere are disempowered. Add to this the new Cold War and national protectionism endorsing international hostility and political gamesmanship; dividing nations and citizens of those nations against each other, by gentrification and inflation policies on a grand scale; ghettoising communities; systematically dissolving public, social and health care services; reducing workers rights. These incessant crises are manufactured to groom the populace into dependency upon the most unscrupulous economic dictators as our only hope for survival. Attack is once again the only form of defence.

The ever increasingly resourceful disenfranchised population, forced into this seige-mentality and more exhaustive workloads, just to function, are politically goaded to blame each other to deflect resentment from the source of this disengagement. As a result, many have risked and lost lives, family and home to find a way through the chaos. Despite trends towards increased bigotry, complete strangers continue to welcome one another into their countries and homes. Wherever travellers roam they invariably encounter people who care and are willing to share their last provisions with them, despite differences in race, nationality, beliefs and culture. It is obvious to everyone, we have the wrong people controlling our world; that everyday people everywhere need to form a mutually cooperative global society to address global issues that nationalism and money will never solve in time. And with global temperature increases being ignored, this is THE ONLY watershed opportunity for humankind. So, how rapidly can we change it? Is it necessary for us all to agree, to drop our differences and conform to some single ideological stance?

Time for Civic State 

Some propose a better distribution of wealth, or changing government to more socialist-oriented policies, would go a long way. Older failed systems now seem preferable again, since politics has done a u-turn in its historical narative and values. But such proponents have no practical solution to accommodate nations with differing regimes. This said, it is worth looking at the number of ‘Left’ movements that succeeded in altering former centre-right and right wing governments, this century. Some headway was made, but most either failed or compromised their standards to maintain power in the face of egged-on right-wing bigotry, sanctioned by western democracies. Syriza in Greece, The Five Star Movement in Italy and Pots n Pans Revolution in Iceland are examples of former regimes overturned, but ultimately collapsed. Podemos in Spain is a current example of sustained and compromised socialist-oriented policy. The much maligned Zapatista movement, running Autonomous Municipalities in the Chiapas region of Mexico, are the longest running and on-going form of local independent governance, within the national custodial territory of an overtly corrupt and hierarchal ‘democratic’ government. They operate impartial non-sexist rights and ‘horizontal’ direct democracy. Their black balaclavas – once worn under Subcommander Marcos to protect identity from warring government forces – are now more symbolic, to represent and maintain anonymity in their councils public decision-making.

Ultimately, all systems fall foul of having to accommodate the cut-throat effects of the global economy – money the prime obstacle. Even successful public-led authorities in peaceful communities face this issue. For a description of how to bypass the monetary system to form a Parallel Non-Monetary Economy (PNME) and how it would immediately alter personal, commercial and political choices – see the illustrated supplemental posts, discussions and documents featured here.

In this article we will concern ourselves with how the application of the Parallel Non-Monetary Economy can establish and influence the functions of a civic state, crucially REDRESSING CORRUPTION, CENTRALISED CONTROL OF PERSONAL REVENUE or INCOME & PUBLIC SPENDING.

The extent of work people continue to perform without support surpasses the amount of formal paid employment in the world, especially since neoliberal ‘austerity’ tactics and global monopolisation turned the whole labour force into a gig economy. It is said openly that charitable and voluntary work are the backbone of the British economy, without which it would collapse and the country would cease to function. It is almost there. With over thirty years experience in voluntary movements, advocacy and training, I have seen the rise and fall of many noble initiatives fuelled by the motivations and ingenuity of everyday people. Yet, even when these people benefit society and official state – in public services, health, social care and the environment – I’ve seen them undermined and demoralised through the lack of the most basic personal understanding and support. Sometimes through needless personal dynamics, but also through systematic and underhanded sabotage by public authorities. I had the displeasure of resigning as a homelessness advocate, after hearing at their AGM that the local council employing me had sat on £2M (ringfenced for the homeless) gathering interest in an off-shore bank account over five years, while they watched elderly, sick, parents and children desperately perplexed at where their next shelter, meal or safe environment was going to come from. Every one of them suffering physical and mental illness, freezing temperatures, abuse and animosity, humiliation of begging and often untimely death. The extent of waste and embezzlement of UK taxes and politicians’ expense claims in comparison is obscene, yet many of these official organisations recently moved to deprive thousands of passionate volunteers (supporting at their own expense) even the refreshment of a drink and biscuit. Hyperbole? The same governance meetings held socials and buffets, while they discussed how to tactically misreport and undermine voluntary and service-user input, whilst pressuring trusting conformists to present a glowing picture of support at their annual services-forums, for their glossy full-colour brochures.

It is blatantly obvious that everyday people can run things much better than any hierarchal State. State rarely represents public interests and effectively acts as an embezzling and personal-enterprise process, especially during times of extreme crisis. What kind of people do that? Criminals. Criminals who now work towards cancelling the Human Rights Act, outlawing protest and removing voting rights by imposing an ‘approved’ photo-identification process.  When western democracies take lessons from Trump how voting processes can be tampered with, as effectively as dictators and military junta control and dismiss voting processes by force, people should be alarmed at the level of desperation and intent. Some will argue, without State in western democracies people would have suffered far worse during the recent economic crises and the Covid-19 pandemic, but the actions of State are rarely questioned beyond the immediate. No studies seem to emerge from other sources evaluating how another party, house or policy may have handled things differently. No law seems to hold representatives to account for misrepresentation and embezzlement, profiteering, or subjecting the public to unnecessary suffering, fatalities and demise of industry. While people indulge their selfish uninformed whims in the deceptive game of personality politics, countless thousands, even entire populations, pay the highest price for ignorance and indolence. And ultimately, we all pay. The only redress for crimes against the public and humanity seems to come in the form of mocking, after a proven ‘criminal’ has secured their newsworthy name, personal career options and pension. So, what holds us to this abusive system? Chiefly those controlling money, but with it the systematic dismantling of opposition to State. In every institution, State has become the enemy of the people.

Horizontal Direct Democracy

Direct democratic processes exist in various State-led democracies. Switzerland’s democratic government have a process where any citizen has the power to alter laws and processes of State. India has various communities where the mayor has to hold public assemblies to decide on local policies and use of State funds. But none of these situations ever replace the hierarchical system of government, since money and the global economy are the controlling factors. Can money and the restrictions of national economy be bypassed?

Switzerland is also home to the Swiss WIR, an alternative circular economy set up for SMEs to act parallel with but independently from the monetary economy. What eventually became WIR Bank was originally set up by a business collective to counter the financial effects of the 1930s depression. It is now a purely electronic form of virtual credit exchange between participating businesses and its successes have made it stand out as a serious contender in comparison with money. Its only setback is that it is limited to businesses within the circular economy and that the WIR Bank set its virtual value equal to the Swiss Franc so it can act in dual-currency transactions. But many feel this is its hindrance. It restricts the business the WIR is able to do within and without the circular economy, which some prefer as a safeguard, but its effects on the Swiss monetary economy are noteworthy.

By 2017, “WIR… now has over 60.000 users: [17% of total Swiss businesses. Trade in WIR has a share of 1-2% of Swiss GDP];” now with an annual turnover of two billion CHF. Stable increase and maintenance in contrast to the instability of the monetary economy and downturn in employment figures. During the Covid-19 outbreak companies could apply for zero-interest loans of up to 500,000 immediately, guaranteed by the WIR Bank. “WIR Bank also participates in the ‘COVID 19 credit’ aid program. After two and a half working days, 150 applications were approved by WIR Bank and loans of over CHF 21 million were made available. For loans that exceed the amount of CHF 500,000, 85 percent of this is secured by the Confederation, and WIR Bank participates in the remaining 15 percent. In addition to the ‘COVID-19 loan’, customers of WIR Bank also benefit from the free instant loan of 10,000 WIR, which is already included in the SME package.” Bruno Steigeler (WIR website blog March 2020). Where did it all come from? Nowhere. And when repaid it returns to nowhere.

So, WIR users significantly supplement the burden on the Swiss economy using a self-created virtual abstract currency. Yet its equivalence with the monetary economy means what they are able to achieve is limited and subject to volatile economic influences of the CHF and global economy. Imagine what it could achieve if the collective decided to de-couple it from the CHF and re-value it to out-perform the monetary economy by simple agreement. Not to give it a greater monetary value, but collective agreement on what a purely abstract numeric system could achieve. This takes some projected calculations and creative thinking, but in principle it would likely expand the circular currency beyond its current geographical location . It would not replace money, but it would survive no matter what happened to the monetary economy, its achievements limited only by the extent of the independent activity of its members. This freedom from the artificial valuation of money in the global market could make it spread globally, altering the balance of power in participating nations as each one adopted its own version of the virtual currency. How do you think businesses would respond to being able to boost sales for something that is inflation-proof and can be created from nowhere? But the WIR is not the answer. To replace money, it would have to be available to everyday people and pay for things currently available in the monetary economy. The Swiss WIR is a market-tester for this concept that shows favourable tangible process and results.

The real zenith would be to have an abstract system that would render everything FREE of material value. This sounds now like a giant leap of the imagination, but many astute authors have calculated it being closer than ever before, especially since neoliberal economics has effectively rendered the costs of material things as near to zero as it can, and pricing as an abstract process, to maintain economic control for the 1%. They simply make it up as they go along. SEPARATING FROM THIS CONTROL IS NOT ONLY POSSIBLE BUT CENTRAL TO OUR SURVIVIAL.

It is no giant leap for the general public in any country like Lebanon, Haiti, Kuwait, Yemen, Darfur, or even giant refugee cities to unilaterally adopt the Parallel Non-Monetary Economy (PNME) overnight, remove poverty and start to prosper and build infrastructure without any monetary dependency, even as an independent self-contained circular economy. The best way to safeguard from central control and abuse is through a civic state.

All that is needed for the PNME to replace money everywhere, is for it to be a more attractive market to those dealing in the monetary economy and for everyone to see what it achieves. Seeing is believing. With new established global technologies virtually everyone uses, we are now in the position to say goodbye to ANY need for a material value system and even material form of exchange. REPLACING MATERIAL EXCHANGE VALUE AND CURRENCY FOR AN ABSTRACT VIRTUAL SYSTEM REMOVES THE MENTALITY OF MATERIAL VALUE. To illustrate: when someone uses a combination lock to gain access; or a person competes for points to win a prize; or plays Bingo; the numbers are entirely unrelated to the value of the reward, yet they employ easily understood abstract numerical systems. Coupling an abstract virtual system to activities or ‘work’ every living person does, by nature and choice (removing the distinctions between formal and informal labour) makes economic security a self-generated process – replacing monetary dependency and control.

Because the PNME needs no pre-existing source, it can be adopted unilaterally by any geographical community, industry, or global campaign collective: (a list of such organisations mentioned in and approached through the book ‘A Chance For Everyone: The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy’ can be found here). But broader benefits are achieved if the general populace assemble to examine and adopt it, to take back collective control of global industry, national and international agendas and establish non-partisan political decision-making and accountability. To do this, it needs to establish and maintain a de-centralised system.

 

Avoiding Hierarchy and Corruption

 

Firstly, the words ‘government’ and ‘authority’ will change from their hierarchal meaning to that of representational accountable management. They will be public servants.

Core elements of horizontal direct democracy:

LOCAL PUBLIC ASSEMBLIES
1 – Local Public Assemblies can be part of the everyday function of any size of community. They can be held in small groups or large auditoriums with rotating facilitators who show independent impartial thinking and a track record of empowering those less vociferous.
2 – Local assemblies can publish agendas in advance for any individual with an interest in such topics to attend and earn the agreed PNME rate for contributing this work; this can be random and people able to come and go freely with successive subjects.
3 – Assemblies must maintain a robust impartial process of voting, including anonymous suggestions, which will then be fed through the consulting process for public examination and votes; it must be mandatory to properly report, explore and clarify every individual suggestion, creating a pool of opinions to address.
4 – Local assemblies can arrange, publicise and collate any subsequent research and knowledge to be disseminated for further consideration before actions are voted upon.
5 – Public voting on various subjects can be random, this ensures that not only people with vested interests have influence over decisions. If people try to influence decisions by inviting attendees to vote, it should become apparent at a local level and the fact that individual opinion gives people equal power should somewhat counteract this. If such coercing becomes known, that person and participants can be banned from earning PNME units for their attendance, and/or from attending assemblies for a period, whichever society decides. This practice can be also be outlawed. The real power of direct democracy is in disparate people upholding their common right and process.

REGIONAL PUBLIC ASSEMBLIES
1 – Facilitators for Regional Assemblies, speakers and admin can be voted in by local assemblies, based on track record for integrity to the process.
2 – Such assemblies can update attendees with achievement reports on local decision-making, for all communities to learn from and consult with each other.
3 – Regional assemblies can report activities of the PNME in public accounts and prepare voting and consultation on regional actions.
4 – Agendas for regional needs can be collated, examined and disseminated for the LOCAL assemblies to vote on and feedback decisions; then enact the decisions of the majority. This makes the regional assemblies subject to the local voting system.

NATIONAL REPRESENTATION
Existing public buildings and processes can be used for this including parliaments, councils and congress, EXCEPT that representatives of the national public interest…
1 – are temporary assignments;
2 – have NO political allegiances as party-politics is outlawed, meaning all individuals are VOTED IN FOR TRACK RECORD OF INTEGRITY and effectiveness in representing others, in that role;
3 – are not allowed to have ANY third–party business interests (or relatives) that are connected at any given time to the actions of government. If they do, they would stand down for a given period or not be allowed to propose contracts for such activities; (It may be possible to make these temporary appointments so rewarding that they need no other income than their other abstract daily activities and are banned from any other formal employment or consultation while in office).
4 – remain individual representatives with no party to support or argue against them, but they gain the VOTED SUPPORT OF THE MAJORITY OF THE POPULACE by carrying out their decisions;
5 – will show track-record of forming a cooperating accountable body to fulfil the public will and retain transparency and integrity;
6 – will uphold publicly voted terms of industry and engagement of the PNME, monitored collectively and internationally;
7 – will be immediately culpable for prosecution for ANY partisanship with corrupt or imposing behaviour, both personal and of third-parties, as well as responsible for reporting such at any level.

Local, regional and national elections will alter from promotion of partisan allegiances to public balloting of individual facilitators and national representatives. None of this requires a change in national identity, beliefs, culture or political regime. One of the common features that sustains separatist groups and conflicts is that certain parties are either ignored or directly deprived of their choices and rights. This leads to indoctrination of people who previously may have had different individual values. Usually the most violent warring enemies eventually only resolve to compromise over mutual recognition of collective rights and advantages, rather than sustained bigotries, even if those bigotries do not naturally dissolve. We can think of any long-standing conflict from the Irish Good Friday Agreement, to the MAD (Mutual Armed Destruction) agreement that ended the previous cold war. Once the population are empowered to think for themselves, much support of these factions will cease and the embedded bigotries and ignorance towards disparate choices somewhat dissolved, by pursuit of personal aims unimpeded by external financial control. This will be only within the agreed qualifying tenets of the new collective PNME that preserves human rights and standards. Notwithstanding the potential threat of partisanships forming around individuals with common aims, what the PNME empowers is for the mass of general public to overwhelm such abuses of process and even remove the support of the PNME during those instances, if necessary.

The advantage of removing personality and individual power from the decision-making process is that it translates to all cultures indiscriminately, can cross national borders and allow for truly global cooperation between general populations. These systems already exist in some places as we stated earlier, (but also in specific sectors like the scientific and health communities). At only their ‘Second International Gathering of Women That Struggle,’ the Zapatista women’s council extended this welcome – “We want to report that as of yesterday, December 26, 2019, registration for this second gathering came to 3,259 women, 95 little girls and 26 men from Germany, Algeria, Argentina, Australia, Austria, Bangladesh, Basque Country, Belgium, Bolivia, Brazil, Canada, Cataluña, Chile, Columbia, Costa Rica, Denmark, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, El Salvador, Finland, France, Greece, Guatemala, Honduras, India, Ireland, Italy, Japan, Kurdistan, Macedonia, Mexico, Norway, New Zealand, Paraguay, Peru, Poland, Puerto Rico, Russia, Siberia, Spain, Sri Lanka, Sweden, Switzerland, Turkey, United Kingdom, United States, Uruguay and Venezuela. Quite a feat for a small collective of unknown independently minded women with little if any economic power to speak of.

As the economy of the 1% now effectively hinders global recovery of our climate and ecosystem, the Parallel Non-Monetary Economy immediately reverses the dynamic for the 99% to call the political, industrial and economic shots and frees every individual from monetary dependency and material valuation, once and for all time. We no longer need to petition, protest, riot, or form a violent revolution, or wait around for money, capitalists and governments. What we need now is for general public collectives to examine, form and adopt the PNME. It does not require specialist education. Once one community employs the Parallel Non-Monetary Economy, everybody will. This is the watershed moment and proposal to take back public and individual control of our future, through Civic States everywhere.

Journalist Laura Gottesdiener, visiting the Chiapas region of Mexico in January 2014, shared this: “…Careening through the Lacandon jungle… men and women raised peace signs in salute. Spray-painted road signs read (in translation): ‘You are now entering Zapatista territory. Here the people order and the government obeys.’”

 

Kendal Eaton

For more detailed ideas of how the PNME and use of public funds can be monitored, managed and reported see chapter 17 of ‘A Chance For Everyone: The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy,’ or this partial serialisation, here. A summary of the projected immediate effects of the PNME upon current social, political and business practices can be found in this FREE illustrated supplement download RESOLVING THE MONEY OBSCENITY: Parallel Non-Monetary Economy: Past, Present & Future.’

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Vilnius – a lesser-known Baltic gem

Alan Dearling concludes his tales from Lithuania in Part Three of his stand-alone articles

Vilnius is the capital of Lithuania. It’s a lively, bustling city. A mix of the medieval and modern. A city of many histories filled with churches, cathedrals, castles, forts, a diversity of religious faiths, and the secularity of clubs, music venues, concerts, exhibitions, museums, galleries and open spaces. Sadly, it has suffered at the heart of at least two genocides by the Germans and Russians in the Twentieth century. There were about 200,000 Jews who died in Lithuania, most from Vilnius, during World War 2 under German occupation (1941-45). There are a number of museums and cemeteries where the deaths and deportations of Lithuanians are remembered in the pre- and post-War years, 1940-41, then from 1945 up to 1990, under the oppressive, occupation regime as a ‘constituent republic’ within the Soviet Union. Overlooking the city is Gediminas Tower, a small castle perched on a hill, which also houses a museum. Likewise, the impressive, recently renovated, circular Bastion is home to a museum of weapons and pipes for tobacco smoking! The Cathedral Square and bell tower are major visitor attractions but were mega-quiet in bad weather.

Here’s a link to the Museum of Occupations (aka the KGB Museum): http://genocid.lt/muziejus/en/

And the Green House – a sombre reminder of the fate of the city’s Jewish population: https://www.jmuseum.lt/en/expositions-2/i/196/holocaust-exhibition/

There’s also a relatively new Museum of Modern Art, the MO Museum: https://mo.lt/en/?gclid=EAIaIQobChMIoauEhcy6_gIVg-7tCh2MqgANEAAYAiAAEgJqsfD_BwE

 There are plenty of other galleries and museums across the city, plus many opportunities to visit the myriad places of worship, most are Catholic, but there also many of which are Orthodox.

However, the Covid pandemic, inflation and the spectre of the war in Ukraine are all still impacting the lives of locals, and to some extent the visitor numbers to the city and the country of Lithuania as a whole. There’s plenty of signs of optimism, but it is tinged with a few reality checks. Here’s a statement from Ministry of Economy towards the end of 2022: “Signs of recovery in tourism are already visible. In the first half of 2022, 456,000 foreign tourists stayed in Lithuanian accommodation establishments, which is 4 times more than in the same period in 2021.  More than half the level of 2019.”

The UK is struggling with inflation and so too is Lithuania.

“Lithuania’s annual inflation rate eased to 16.6% in March 2023, from a 10-month low of 18.7% rise in the previous month. This was the lowest reading since March 2022, as prices increased softer for food & non-alcoholic beverages (27.6% vs 30.2% in February), housing & utilities (34.9% vs 37.8%), and transport (2.7% vs 10.6%).”  Source: Statistics Lithuania.

I’ve been visiting Lithuania and Vilnius as an ‘artist in residence’ and one of the ambassadors in the Free Republik of Uzupis on many occasions from 2016 onwards. Making sense of, understanding the current state of play, is still something of a hard call, since this has been my first trip back to the Baltic State after the Covid pandemic. I’ve been a participant in the Uzupis 1st April Independence celebrations a number of times and I have to say, Uzupis and Vilnius seem quieter – many fewer people on the streets. Some of my favourite bars and venues have closed, such as the two Snekutis pubs in Uzupis and by the Egg statue. There seems to be continuing tensions between the populist government and night-time venues (especially the smaller ones) over the curfew time (which has often been 10pm). The city hasn’t really bounced back into its previously vibrant party mode, post-Covid.

Music on my visit

Very unusually the only music I saw live was during the Uzupis 25 year birthday celebrations was from my friend and fellow Uzupis ambassador, Brayden Drevlow playing piano and some jazz music in the Uzupis Kavine.

https://www.braydendrevlow.com

I also ran some of my own impromptu musical ‘noise’ sessions with folk in bars like at Devinke, encouraging punters to play a mini-hang drum. But, Vilnius is home to some lively and sometimes edgy performance spaces. Loftus, Tamsta (linked to a major music equipment store) and Kablys, ‘The Great Hook’ (where there is a hostel too, but the outside area seemed closed on my visit) are three of the most popular. And once the weather improves

– I experienced a lot of rain, sleet and snow – Downtown Forest Hostel: https://downtownforest.lt/  where I stayed, provides a great outdoor venue for bands and performers. In past visits I’ve had a great time imbibing the vibes, food and beverages witnessing the fine Lithuanian folk-pop sounds of Kamaniu silelis and Baltic reggae with Ministry of Echology. On each visit to Vilnius I always call into the Baltik Shop, Ragaine, where the knowledgeable staff get me listening to the latest Baltic music – particularly, new, slightly psychedelic folk music, mostly sung in Lithuanian, Latvian and Estonian. Lots of jaw’s harp and other indigenous instrumentation and vocalisations and harmonies to die for. All worth checking out.

Official music video by Kamaniu silelis performing ‘As Bijau’ (2022): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YpAZxZNkCU

Kamaniu silelis: https://kamaniusilelis.bandcamp.com/

Ministry of Echology voyaging into electronica and EDM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqEFaza6jP8

Tribal sounds from the powerful, Virginia Pievos, ‘Oi toli toli’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hnBsloVCsA

Ragaine, Baltik Shop: https://www.discogs.com/record-stores/store/ragaine/

I met up with Tomas Jonusas from Grybai for lunch in the remaining, and pretty funky Snekutis bar, where some of the most authentic Lithuanian food is available all day long. Great bar with a night-club sort of atmosphere. Tomas owns Grybai (the Mushroom Manor Farm) some 80kms from Vilnius, and I worked with him to establish his own festival site where, with other friends, we put on the Magick Gathering. Now, a few years on, a number of Lithuanian music events have been hosted there including Menuo Juodaragis and Braille Satellite (a DiY indie festi which will be taking place again in 2023). My own health post-Covid, is likely to preclude, sadly, my own personal major involvement. A real shame, but I wish them well. It’s a special place set in a quite wild woodland/forest, small lakes for swimming and a natural authenticity often missing in many more commercial event sites.

Doc Wör Mirram ‘Trip to Litauen’ July 2017 (Braille Satellite festi) at Grybai: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l44bhu0Ui0w

Braille Satellite: https://www.braille-satellite.pro/

Mėnuo Juodaragis: https://www.facebook.com/MJRfest?locale=lt_LT

Meeting the police!

I was pulled over by two police near the market in Vilnius. The male member of the duo then interrogated me for about twenty minutes. He was pretty intimidating. And they have guns, of course. Our ‘conversation’ with him inside the police car and me having to lean in the window went something like this:

Policeman: So, why did you cross the road?

Me: There was no traffic and I wanted to get to the other side.

Policeman: But you come from England…you have same laws as us…you know you have to use the crossings.

Me: We don’t have this law.

Policeman: Oh yes, you do, I have visited your country…

Me: I’m sorry we don’t, but thank you for telling me about your law…

Policeman: We need for you…you must pay a fine…

Me: I’m sorry…we just don’t know this law…

(I then skedaddled, as fast as possible away from the major crime scene).

Later I checked up on-line about traffic laws for pedestrians. There are indeed a few. None of which the UK has. They also had enforcement fines – some pretty hefty ones during Covid. This is what I found out:

“Fines for breaking the quarantine rules will range from 500 to 1,500 euros for individuals and from 1,500 to 6,000 euros for businesses. Police will be given the right to impose fines.”

And Rule No. 1950 for Vilnius:

“87. Pedestrians must go to the other side of the carriageway only through pedestrian crossings (also underground and above the road), and where there are none, at intersections along the line of sidewalks or curbs. Pedestrians must not cross the crosswalk. When there is no crossing or intersection in the visibility zone, it is allowed to cross the road at a right angle in both directions in places with a good view, but only after making sure that it is safe to go and will not interfere with vehicles.”

I think I must have crossed the completely empty road about 100 metres away from a pedestrian crossing!

Lithuanians also face fines of up to 40 euros if caught crossing the street while using mobile devices. And I was told that you can be fined up to 40 euros for smoking a cigarette within 5 metres of a bus stop!

Finally, gentrification…

My temporary home in the Downtown Forest Hostel (seen with its eco-pods in the distance at top of the first photo) is located about five minutes from Uzupis in the Old Town area of Vilnius. My memory of it was it being in the middle of an area of old houses, many a bit run down. A few are still there, but now since my last visit in 2019, the whole area has undergone a major regeneration. It felt odd, rather unsettling, not just because the architectural styles seem to be lifted more from Scandinavia than the Baltic states, but also because there has been no attempt to upcycle – this is wholesale gentrification.

It’s now trendy, filled with up-market shopping malls of almost Bauhaus design containing coffee bars, cocktail lounges, expensive, high-end shops and boutiques. Definitely it is now the ‘in-destination’, the place to visit, and even more – the place to live and work.

 

Vilnius is indeed evolving! But, I end this final article from my Lithuanian visit with a pic of a selection of playing cards from The Hague Tribunal pack which I purchased in Vilnius. Putin’s Russia is never entirely forgotten…

 

 

 

 

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BRIEF APPRAISAL


There’s no shortage of war artists

I’d prefer to have a shirt

That isn’t frayed or discoloured

 

Where I sweat. I sweat a lot

Drugs (amphetamines)

 

The problem

With using bleach on stains

 

It does away with the stitching

 

And there’s the dilemma. You
Need to plan for a replacement

Sooner rather than later. I like

 

The futurists, surrealists. Kirchner
And the expressionists. But none

Of them are combat specialists

 

In my childhood I’ll play with soldiers

Endlessly. But I won’t be born for ages

 

The shirts belonged to my Grandad

Not the one who fought. The other

 

I’ll inherit them

Gran had kept them

 

God love her

 

Sometimes I sound foolish. Poisoned

 

In the trenches, Paul Nash
Is cold but most spectacular. Grosz
And Dix, the Germans. Goya takes

Some beating. Those atrocities

 

Did he see them or imagine?

 

If I had to own one

I’d want Uccello’s

 

The Battle of  San Romano
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Steven Taylor
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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THE DOHYŌ OF TIME

Those days now seem as archaic as the antediluvians

As passé as Picts

As anachronistic as Amenhotep

So, I wish the entropy of time would wither my recollections

But mementoes of conflicts ignore the second law

The memories remain fresh …

Too fresh

 

Those days I was always outside

Hoping someone would invite me in

Which would, at least, mark a certain progress

But I was invisible; a denizen of London Below

 

Those days I wore a mask

Hid behind a nom de guerre

Spoke sotto voce to obfuscate

But anonymity fails when everyone knows who you are

 

Those days I told myself I’d move on, that time was on my side

Now scars mean my psyche barely twitches

Emotional fibrosis transfigures smiles into grimaces

Longevity stagnates into physiological sclerosis

I can barely crawl across time’s mat

As day-by-day my life’s dohyō shrinks

 

 

 

 

 

 Mark Greener

 

 

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God Save the King!

 

Nostalgia is the monarchy, commanding with all its shortcomings, as workers work levers with fingertip flinches: static, inaccurate trainers of recalcitrant gramophones. The courthouse steps talk to me – in second languages, of course – but their accounts of snakes fleeing the domus patris shrinks me to back to my four-year-old fears. What am I even nostalgic for? I watch the sweet street of the royal hairdresser flood with tourists and towering ravens, fluttering apologetic eyelashes as they wheel empty trolleys in search of loot. I’ve a bag full of near-misses and ricochets; a bag full of riddles, tight to my chest. Workhouses rise on every corner, tottering stacks of ridicule and heart attacks, each boasting an apostrophe chipped from pediments, a monument to the apostate mass. The mob moves on without motive or monitor, filter-feeding on nothing but the mechanism of sighs. Some might say it’s a sign, but my resignation is uncooked, my sense of perspective milky with dust. Nostalgia is a day divorced from all untoward appurtenances and a sad crown. These Royal beads will swarm me.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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A Lapse of Attention

The beach is coarse sand, almost grit. Brown duck feathers here and there. Grey pebbles, chips of worn glass. Farther on, low cliffs. Pulling down the clouds is rough work, muscles straining, skin taut. Once in the water they dissolve, a golden grey sheen where least expected. I’ve found something strange at the foot of the cliffs. Minuscule red flowers growing in the shale. They seem to be talking; it could be the wind, or your insistence on commentary as we work. We could listen awhile, take a break, let the clouds swim around, but don’t put down your blanket, the wind will pick it up, and we’ll be in England before dark. Or are we moving already, twisting the strands of light tighter and tighter, ancient sails that no one could reproduce? The water is cobalt now and furry. I think your blanket is flipping over our heads, bending down to catch our hair, our words, our frail and forgetful, as we fly off to England, watching the light intensify and our bodies spin along the rain.

 

 

Andrea Moorhead

 

 

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Net Zero and the Transhuman Agenda: War against Nature and Humanity

I have covered the great deception of ‘Net Zero’ in more than one article already. But I’m sticking with it because this massive con trick lies right at the heart of the current attempt, by a small group of psychotic control freaks, to gain absolute control over planetary life and to eviscerate the fundamental laws of nature in the process.

We must spell it out as it is. The intention behind the World Economic Forum’s Great Reset, Green Deal ‘Net Zero’ agenda is to completely block off the arteries of sentient life on earth and replace them with an insentient artificial construct.

A construct which, going under the heading ‘Fourth Industrial Revolution’ demands that thinking man/woman is made redundant, to be replaced by computer power directly accessed to the human brain. The Transhuman agenda.

Rapidly developing algorithmic and digital technologies are the dark techno gods of this planned take-over of life on earth. A life that must be stripped bare of access to the higher dimensions of universal awareness, and kept strictly to a material, five sense prison camp, to include passive obeisance to the perpetrators.

We must not be afraid to state that the motivation for bringing about this dystopian holocaust is quite obviously very dark.

There has existed for millennia, a perverted anti-life element within the human race, which is only out for its own narcissistic ends. It’s a ‘me, me, me’ obsessed element which has no truck with the existence of God, or indeed any universal benign source of life. It only knows the essentially demonic cravings for ‘full spectrum dominance’.

The weaker mirrored version of this despotic malfeasance is to be found in those largely unconscious human beings who become hypnotically entangled with this grandiose narcissism. Here the current obsession is the ‘selfie’ and the seeming need to show others ‘how one is looking’ in 101 different poses and locations on an almost daily – if not hourly – basis.

“Oh well” some may say “at last they are having fun”. But, I observe, the love affair with the seductive agility of the EMF powered mobile phone, is actually an obsession. It follows a very similar pattern as the smoking addict.

Young people in their tens of millions have developed a kind of nervous need to repeatedly pull their cell phones out of their back pockets and check if anyone has called them. It is an addiction which has produced a weird kind of spectacle to those who remember a time when people looked where they were going and took in the atmosphere and specialness of place without needing to ‘snap’ it and without the snapper making sure that he/she is the main feature of each image!

Humanity, until a critical number become conscious, automatically follows the messages and psychological persuasions of those who control the status quo. Who set the agenda.

So when Klaus Schwab and Yuval Noah Harari announce that it’s ‘advanced technology’ that is going to lead humanity to the promised land, and that a reinvented cyborgian world will be ‘an improvement on God’s version’, many EMF addicts fail to register any resistance to this soulless proclamation. They are already half way there.

Nevertheless, some seem to be aroused by the story that the ending of the world will come about via something called ‘global warming’. This suggests that there must be some form of self preservation instinct still working here. Some emotional sense of the undesirability of this outcome.

But we should question whether this emotion is the result of being told, repeatedly “you should be frightened”, or whether it is an actual sense of shock? Followers of Greta Thunberg, Extinction Rebellion and Just Stop Oil, for example, seem prepared to make quite a show out of their ‘save the world’ ambitions.

It looks real enough until one realises these are government and WEF/Soros/Gates sponsored shows and that the participants are brainwashed believers in whatever they see or hear on the BBC, CNN or their favourite social media portal. Their brain cells seem to lack the ability to make an independent critical judgement. There has been a deadening of the basic will power ‘to question’.

The relentless process of psychological attrition is something that the proponents of a New World Order do particularly well. Dumbing down is proving an effective weapon in the war against a humanity collectively addicted to the technological take-over of their lives, and to the fake green story about ‘the ending of the world’.

That fake green story centres around the stated WEF, UN, EU imperative for achieving a ‘Net Zero’ world by 2050. An imperative, one way or the other, signed up to by just about every country of the world.

But, as I have explained in previous writings, ‘Net Zero’ is a quasi scientific fiction, completely devoid of reason or rational thought. It utilises two abstracted meaningless words ‘net’ and ‘zero’ to convey something that everybody is supposed to understand as a saviour remedy for an overheating planet, but which is actually a scurrilous plot for the decimation of life on earth.

Please be aware: ‘Net Zero’ exactly fits the description of what we are told run-away global warming would do to our living planet.

The demonic element of mankind likes to perform this sort of black magic on unsuspecting mortals.
It likes to reverse the reality and make the complete suppression of the ‘plant CO2 to oxygen’ photosynthesis cycle – into a global redemption agenda. And the survival of a living breathing green planet, the number one enemy.

If one chooses to interpret ‘Net Zero’ as a jargonistic way of saying ‘zero carbon’, one is led to believe that those standing behind this planned global ecocide have pinned all their alarm-clamouring around a recent verifiable trend of just 0.13 centigrade increase in warming per decade, with no increase observed since 2016 and a slight cooling factor detected since then (NOAH/NASA).

This is the ‘science’ which stands behind the story of the coming ‘catastrophic over heating’ of the planet. Which can can only see ‘excess CO2’ as the key causative agent of our planetary demise.

Such a position fails to take cognisance of the fact that our global survival system is being brutally subjected to a litany of deeply wounding attacks via out of control levels of pesticides, plastics, chemtrails, EMF pollution, gas fracking, nuclear radiation, deforestation, concreting over of fertile land, water poisoning, insect annihilation, GMO mono-cropping, animal factory farming and its toxic wastes, war (greatest finite fossil fuel user), ubiquitous oil spillages, wild life habitat destruction and continuous pharmaceutical disruption of the world’s natural healing systems – and much, much more.

As if this litany of attacks on the integrity of planetary eco-systems and human health was not enough, we must now add:

The ‘Net Zero’ ecocide saviour remedy.
The digitalisation and robotisation of a large segment of the work place.
5G powered ‘Smart City’ concentration camps for disenfranchised farmers and country dwellers. Those still committed to working ‘with’ nature and growing real food. Not the synthetic stuff promised by ‘Green’ Great Reset.
A weaponised ‘vaccination’ programme to coincide with the hitting of the 5G ‘on’ switch.
The confiscation of all private property, so that we ‘will have nothing and will be happy’.
An extended ‘war theatre’ to include space and almost every populated and unpopulated region of the world.

And last but not least, the greatest prize – the complete dehumanisation and de-spiritualisation of homo sapiens via an ‘upgrading’ of the species into computer powered Transhuman cyborgs.

Yes, a state that Yuval Harari claims will produce results better than those achieved by God.

However, the rhetoric and the reality are not in sync. Cracks in the grand plan are appearing with increasing frequency. It’s leading figureheads appear increasingly off balance, almost comically in some cases.

The Covid agenda has given us a much clearer view into the snake pit. We see there, amongst other things, the further weaponisation of health and the almost unfathomable deception perpetrated by Big Pharma and the US Department of Defence. *

We are learning fast. We now see that Covid, 5G, Net Zero and the Great Reset/Green New Deal are all part of one plan: a declaration of war against nature and humanity.

We are finding a commonality of resistance to this brutal intervention across an ever widening field of human expression.

The pace of another sort of change is quickening. Antonio Guterres (WHO) announces the desperate need for further ‘Stop Global Warming’ measures, leading to the need to bring forward the ‘Net Zero’ deadline to 2040. He and his henchmen are clearly rattled by the rising tide of awareness and push-back.

‘We the people’ are rising inexorably. Spring is breaking through the waning grip of Winter.
Push-on we will, for the challenge we are confronting has a liberating effect on our souls and on our passion for the manifestation of a life based on Truth.

* The recently uncovered evidence that the US Department of Defense financed the production of the mRNA GM ‘vaccine’ subsequently rolled out by the corporate pharmaceutical industry.

 

Julian Rose

 

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, a writer and international activist.
He is President of the International Coalition to Protect the Polish Countryside and author of ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind’ See www.julianrose.info

 

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Talk About Their Worries

– I worry about the widows and orphans.
– We all do, sometimes.
– I lay awake at night.
– We all do. About once a week.
– I think of them in their separation.
– That’s a very lyrical worrying.
– It’s my style.
– I worry also.
– What do you worry about?
– This.

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

 

 

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The Dissociative Identity Of My City

At night my city shapeshifts.
Now a light sabre, its edges art deco,
the city lacerates the umbrage and
the nimbostratus we have prayed for
all summer.

You remind me, the other night
leaning against the balcony
I drew a simile with an age old tree;
it inhales all that we be; it exhales gas, pollinates our sleep until we are
obliterated to be nothing
but a haze of dreams.

I grin. My city is bipolar. I say.
We make love after awhile. In our afterglow
the city becomes a drunkard unzipping
its mellowness in the first shower of the season.

 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration 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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Hold

we’re sorry                   but all our poets
are busy at the moment           variously involved in
direct action to prevent
the extinction of the human race                     walking
in the woods                waiting
on tables                      you name it
they’re doing it
most of the time

we’re sorry                   but all our poets
are busy at the moment                       trying to see
through the surface of things              but failing
most of the time                      except when
an urn,
            a nightingale
                        an ancient mariner
                                    a particular tree
                                                or a tyger
comes along                to get them going

please keep reading

your love of poetry                  is important to us

we’re sorry                   but all our poets
are busy at the moment                       a poem
will be provided                      for you
as soon as one becomes available

your reaction to it                    may be recorded
for training purposes

did you know              you can also
take a piece of paper               and a pencil
and write a poem                     yourself?

 

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron
Illustration Nick Victor

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Maple


 
Already numb
to the media rush of floods
homes washed clean
like the hands of a priest
before sacramental wine
until all that is left
is god
standing like an echo
of our choices
 
There is no judgement—
we’ve slipped
like river ice too thin
to support the sparrow  
we are heaved
          old newspaper
in a whirl of wind
that sweeps empty streets
before the storm
 
catastrophe
the new normal
but it isn’t us this time
Not these hills
devoured by fire
here          tree swallows dip
above the pond
sunset thrusts daggers of gold
through autumn leaves
 
even now
the taste of sugar flows
through the trees

 

 

 
Alfred Fournier

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Royal Babylon: The Criminal Record of the British Monarchy

An investigative poem by Heathcote Williams.
Narration and video by Alan Cox.


Top of Form

A A.
A scurrilous narrative poem detailing the history and doings of the House of Windsor, by one of Britain’s leading poets.

Heathcote Williams’ book-length poems have covered a number of important topics, most notably Whale Nation, a powerful argument for a worldwide ban on whaling. Royal Babylon lays out in verse form what Williams calls ‘the criminal record of the British Monarchy.’ It is a short but powerful book, detailing the ways in which the Queen and her family have made headlines over the years by activities and connections which, time and again, have shown poor judgment, demeaning behavior, or a lack of compassion. From animal killing to sexual scandal, profligacy to remoteness from her subjects, the accusations pile up in a 500-verse tirade which has all Williams’ hallmarks of passion, satire and irony.

‘A phenomenal piece of work’
     –Jeremy Hardy

The poetic radical do-cu, is a really interesting genre and it deserves its own domain so that it is not marginalized
     – Mike Figgis

‘Morning heafcoat…very apt presentation…may the last king be strangled with the intestines of the last pope’
     –  Keith Allen

 

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Grandes Routes


For Charlie Baylis

Crickets sing & the sun sets out of sight &
vacant months years end calendar shifts
according to need amongst sunken old tramlines
videos of journeys take us there through glens &
plains wherever we lay change in humidity
the sparkle has left the Perrier rattle of
containers delivering goats’ milk crinkle of
the Pharmacy bag that has seen better
days from Woodborough Rd to St. Pancras
to Paris Montparnasse stowed
condensation takes on a life of its own an
art to managing expectation Jack on the
Peak time as a construct to enlightenment
ink releasing slowly through metal
Charlie’s been to the West Coast taking
his holiday in the south fingerprints on the
glass lime battles with ice the owner of
the photograph needs to be traced winter is
the starting point a guitarist kills time in
Copenhagen Manchester Vienna Brussels
& Berlin open borders may we live in that
world again no I didn’t author ‘Spatial
Patterns of Nitrogen Uptake […]’ she adds
an extra washing line to accommodate
the extra washing shadow of the olive tree on
the blue shutter against the noise of
improvised solo piano recorded in
Brooklyn oil the hinges select from
the shelf an attempt to replicate information
travels freely these days from gritty
deserts to table talk collect the bountiful
crop of tomatoes back from the plot await
instructions the summer has lowered
the rivers the water that remains is soft

 

 

Andrew Taylor
Art by Rupert Loydell

 

 

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The Right to Protest

Yet again, new laws have been passed, without consultation or due process, to stop us oiks and troublemakers from protesting about what concerns us. Cynically brought forward to before the horrornation of Not-My-King Charles, and given royal assent by said numpty, from last Wednesday:

Protesters who block roads, airports and railways could face 12 months behind bars.

Anyone locking on to others, objects or buildings could go to prison for six months and face an unlimited fine.

Police will be able to head off disruption by stopping and searching protesters if they suspect they are setting out to cause chaos.

These laws can basically be used to criminalise anyone who takes to the streets for a cause they believe in, and suggest we’ve clearly got those in power rattled. A statement from the home secretary, Suella Braverman, said (with a straight face too) ‘The range of new offences and penalties match the seriousness of the threat guerrilla tactics pose to our infrastructure, taxpayers’ money and police time.’ Boo hoo.

Jun Pang, who works for Liberty, noted that ‘the government are using a statutory instrument to bring draconian measures that the House of Lords threw out of the bill back from the dead, once again evading scrutiny and accountability’ and declared that ‘it’s worrying to see the police handed so many new powers to restrict protest’.

Earlier in April, the Government passed the Policing Act which gave police more powers to shut down ‘seriously disruptive’ protests – a term that can (and no doubt will) be defined and re-defined by the Home Secretary to stop demonstrations the powerful don’t like.

Thanks to an enormous national movement against it, the House of Lords stripped some of the worst anti-protest proposals out of the Policing Act before it became law. But the Government resurrected its rejected plans with the Public Order Bill and have rushed it through.


Justice suggests we should be concerned because:

Protest empowers communities to stand up to injustice, influence decision makers and play an active part in democracy between elections.

Throughout history civil disobedience has been vital to safeguarding our democracy and securing our rights – from women’s right to vote, to the right to be protected from discrimination.

Heavy-handed crackdowns on protest grind democracy to a halt and violate our fundamental human rights.

Find out more at https://www.libertyhumanrights.org.uk/


Amnesty state that

 

Protest is an invaluable way to speak truth to power. Throughout history, protests have been the driving force behind some of the most powerful social movements, exposing injustice and abuse, demanding accountability and inspiring people to keep hoping for a better future. 

Unfortunately, these precious rights are under attack and must be protected from those who are afraid of change and want to keep us divided. Governments and others with power are constantly finding new ways to suppress protest and silence critical voices. Global trends towards the militarization of police, the increase in the misuse of force by police at protests and shrinking civic space mean that it is becoming more difficult to stay safe while making your voice heard. 

More at https://www.amnesty.org/en/what-we-do/freedom-of-expression/protest/

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Time Outside Clock

I am buried in deadlines.
It seems that
The sun will shine late
Tomorrow.
But there will be tomorrow,
There will be my path
In the rush hour.
Early morning sweaty bus,
Water not dripping
From my bathroom faucet.
My thoughts sleep
While I stand.
I am an exhausted old lamp post
Without current passing in its veins.
The keys in my laptop were busy.
They rest now,
I cannot rest without them.
An escapist wind
Blows and my poetry pages
Remain inkless.
Words can blow away your mind,
I only write poetry
And push my article deadline
For many dawning and dusking
For many shining and setting
For many raining and drying
Like many start and shutdown
Of my laptop.

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor

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Eyes without eyes

 

Bogdan Puslenghea
Illustration Nick Victor
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Pantomime Politics

Matt Kennard on the pretend adversarial two-party political game which the Tory and Labour Parties work together to maintain, along with the UK/US imperial project; and why we need a new party or a radical assessment of what goes on inside Westminster.

“The Labour Party works as the liberal wing of the British establishment.”

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NOT MY KING

Charles is king. No debate, no legitimacy,
no questions asked. 
That’s not ok in a modern democracy.

‘There’s absolutely no way ANYONE should swear allegiance to a man who was best mates with Jimmy Saville, Who allowed his Peado brother back in the family, Who married his mistress after his wife was killed under very strange circumstances. Not my King.’
   – Benny James @Beno ldn

The UK’s largest anti-monarchist group announced plans to disrupt King Charles’ coronation, calling on people to express their dissent at the event next month with yellow “Not My King” banners.

Graham Smith, the leader of Republic, said Monday that the monarchy was in “quite a lot of trouble,” speaking at a meeting with foreign correspondents in London.

Ahead of the upcoming Coronation of King Charles III and his wife, Camilla, as queen on May 6, a group has been preparing to hold a series of protests dubbed ‘Not My King’ in central London to express their opposition to the new monarch.

The demonstrations will be held in Trafalgar Square, less than 900 meters (about 2,950 feet) from where the coronation will take place in Westminster Abbey, and along the route of the procession to Buckingham Palace.

Graham Smith, CEO of Republic, said: ‘It’s time our country was represented by someone who had to work for that privilege, someone who doesn’t rip off the taxpayer and someone who doesn’t demand deference. It’s time we had an elected head of state.’

 

  • ‘Not My King’: Anti-monarchy protesters face police crackdown in the UK

They are trying to scare us into not expressing our beliefs and opinions.

The Human Rights Act

Article 10 – FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION

We are free to hold opinions and ideas and to share them with others without the State interfering.

Article 11 – RIGHT TO PROTEST

We have the right to peacefully express our views. Authorities must allow us to take part in marches, protests and demonstrations.

The Governments Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Act is a serious threat to human rights, particularly the right to protest.


It gives police extra powers, but does not give any new rights to individuals.



They are using these powers to take away our freedom of expression. Know your rights, read the new legislation. Fuck the Tories.
 Abolish the Monarchy.
 

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Do You Believe in Magic?

Art is Magic, Jeremy Deller (Cheerio)
Magic and Modernism, Rupert White (Antenna)
The Transcendent Brain, Alan Lightman (Pantheon)

Art, for Jeremy Deller, is not only magic but anything he wants it to be. His work is often curatorial and documentary, sometimes surprising and fresh, at other times just plain silly. For Deller, who has written and signed his own back cover blurb,

     Art is a way of staying in
     Love with the world.
     It is also a form of Magic,
     A cover version of reality, it
     can trick us and is profoundly
     absurd if not stupid.

Although sometimes Deller is interested in folklore and ritual, at other times his ‘magic’ is the kind of postmodern sleight of hand that works with The Sealed Knot groups to re-enact The Battle of Orgreave, miners versus police, partly in the village itself where the event occurred. At other times he facilitates discussions or art exhibitions about a social or political topic in community spaces such as a pub, or simply acts as a provocateur or interventionist – sometimes from an unexpected point of view – or juxtaposes the unexpected. There’s a wonderful shot of a miner’s son in full glam-rock wrestling outfit (almost drag) stepping into a mine lift cage with his father in hard-hat and dirty workwear.

Sometimes Deller documents what already exists: Depeche Mode fans, for instance, exploring their enthusiasm, devotion and dress sense; other times he transposes something into something else, such as a full size inflatable Stonehenge; or gathers up responses to his interventions and provocations. One of my favourite spreads in the book shows what the caption calls ‘A selection of possible copyright infringing T-shirts […] to commemorate the one-year anniversary of the Brexit disaster’, featuring provocative slogans such as

     FRANKIE SAYS FUCK BREXIT

     JOHN & PAUL & GEORGE & FUCK BREXIT.

     MY BOYFRIEND WENT TO LONDON AND ALL I GOT WAS FUCK BREXIT

     ABERCROMBIE & FUCK BREXIT

Ultimately, according to the brief interview at the back of the book, it seems that Deller is keen to ‘make people remember and feel angry’ and to make people think for themselves, trusting that ‘Art and ideas have afterlives’. This isn’t the sort of Art that we expect to and often see in white-walled silent galleries, this is art that involves people, a kind of art from and for the people (who of course may not want it). Deller sees it as a kind of folk art, but notes that he is ‘updating the idea of folk art to include performance and sound and other things contemporary art had adopted.’ However we or he positions his work Art is Magic is an intriguing and provocative retrospective.

Rupert White’s book Magic and Modernism is subtitled ‘Art from Cornwall in Context 1800-1950’ and is a fairly straightforward historical overview that ‘throws light on the links between art, folklore and tourism, as well as the Celtic revival and the occult’. It’s wide-ranging and informative, with extensive quotes, numerous illustrations and fantastic (and sometimes fantastical!) connections between writers, artists, places, movements, events and beliefs.

I have to admit I find the book rather unquestioning when it comes to the folklore, ritual and superstition in these accounts, and prone to exaggerating the isolation and difference of South West England. Did the general Cornish population really believe in fairies and piskies? Were May Day rituals fertility rites or just a chance to drink, dance and have a roll in the hay? Research, including by the pagan academic Ronald Hutton, suggests that assumptions and fictions have often been made about many rituals, events and images, especially with regard to their claimed historical roots. And the secret knowledge of many occult societies and individuals is often simply a need for ritual and community as much as the lure of some (usually conspiratorially-supressed) other or unknown.

However, the book is an intriguing addition to the literature of the neglected but important artists and writers who predated and facilitated the later and more famous art colony of St. Ives through their fascination with Cornwall’s landscapes and cultures, its primitive and naive folk artists, its rural space and way of life. If you are at all interested in Marlow Moss, Ithell Colquhoin, D.H. Lawrence, Stanhope Forbes, Aleister Crowley, Bernard Leach, indeed in cultural, literary and art history at all, this is a book you need to read. The webs of influence, friendship, correspondence and influence spread much wider than you can imagine…

Alan Lightman’s book is a scientific exploration of ‘Spirituality in the Age of Science, which rationally considers how creativity, mystery and the sublime can be accounted for in the human consciousness. It’s a welcome riposte to the evangelical reductionist approach many scientists adopt or feel is necessary, and whilst never supporting any form of deism or ‘other’ here, Lightman – through discussion with others and exploring newly published research and ideas – shows that there is room in contemporary theories and understanding of atomic structure, neural networks, human bodies and society for the unexplainable. As he states in his Introduction ‘We are experimenters, and we are also experiencers.’

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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ACUTE NORMALITY MALFUNCTION

 

Surrealism claimed to be more than at art movement and, via Dada, assimilated the nihilist anti-art principle into a new dispensation, a new ontology, or even histology, of the real.

One of the most ‘revolutionary’ Surrealist innovations was the Surrealist Object considered as ‘a precipitate of our desire’. The most spectacular of these, such as Salvador Dali’s ‘Lobster Telephone’ (1936) and the ‘Object (Breakfast in Fur)’ (1936) by Meret Oppenheim, are almost ‘object sculptures’, close to the assemblages pioneered by Dadaists such as Hausmann, or the Merz constructions of Schwitters. (Duchamp’s original readymade, the Bicycle Wheel, was mounted on a kitchen stool and therefore a kind of assemblage). However, for the Exposition Surrealiste d’Objets at the Charles Ratton Gallery, Paris (1936), Dali and Andre Breton devised an extensive taxonomy of these displaced entities. Their list and exhibits included mathematical objects, natural objects, primitive objects, irrational objects, interpreted objects, incorporated objects, mobile objects, god-objects, scatological objects, ‘problematic and intriguing objects’, dream objects, perturbed objects, objects functioning symbolically, and other fetishes of psychic compulsion.

Breton was later to make other examples such as the poem-object, the song object and the phantom object. No doubt this latter species was related to Alberto Giacommeti’s sculpture ‘The Invisible Object’ (1935) which, together with his ‘Suspended Ball or the Hour of Traces’ (1930), performed a catalytic role in this Surrealist experiment. These psycho-physical entities shared a new kind of space with assemblages and installations, sculptural works, subversive furniture, ritual costumes and even shop window displays – a favourite Surrealist object was the mannequin, a humanoid figure related to automata and dolls. For Breton these crucial works exemplified the principle, first proposed by Eluard, of a ‘physics of poetry’, furthermore they occupied a cultural space that overlapped with modern science. Again, some objects, for instance Bellmer’s Poupees (Dolls), are generic ciphers capable – like Hoffmann’s Olympia, or the madcap ‘musical sarcasm’ of Os Mutantes, or Haraway’s Cyborg thesis – of provoking moral meltdown in the mind of the spectator. They exert a compulsive fascination, a form of enchantment that seems to hold the key to certain libidinous obsessions intimating a profound fear of sexuality, especially of female sexuality.

 In ‘Der Sandmann’, the student Nathaiel says of Professor Spalanzani’s mechanical daughter, his artificial bride-to-be, “Only in Olympia’s love do I find myself.”  But his shocked friend speaks for others repulsed by the effect of this strange attraction, when he says: “We have come to find this Olympia quite uncanny; we would like to have nothing to do with her…”

These uncanny automata, and other surreal objects, reside in a fantastic sphere where science, magic and art converge. As Hal Foster explains, they expose ‘the desires and fears of the surrealist subject bound up with the uncanny and the death drive’. As in the case of Hoffmann’s Olympia, these objects are heralds of a new imaginative post-moral order, a new politics of desire: for only in Objects do we find ourselves.  

Much Surrealist political thinking from the pre-war era can be confined to the realm of nostalgia and cultural history. Yet, beneath the period impedimenta, the essential principles of the movement remain potent. With its demand for total freedom of expression, even the manifesto Towards A Free Revolutionary Art (1938), produced in the twilight years of the old avant-garde at the height of the Nazi and Stalinist anti-modernist purges, remains relevant to the situation today. For at the core of Surrealism is this one simple principle – freedom – or, to quote the First Manifesto: ‘Le seul mot de liberte est tout ce qui m’exalte encore’  (‘The mere word freedom is the only one that still excites me.’). Against traditional repressive institutions (family, country, religion) the Surrealist project deployed the imagination, its most powerful weapon, to dissolve or fracture the boundary between the imaginary and normative symbolism.

In order to transform the world Surrealists developed a number of ‘cardinal virtues’ such as convulsive beauty, black humour, mad love, dreams and the marvellous. In ‘Limits Not Frontiers of Surrealism’ (1937) Andre Breton identified five significant factors of the surrealist project at that time: Materialism, the Convergence of Paths, the Two Poles (of objective humour and objective chance), Automatism and the ‘fantastic’. These principles, or factors, were derived in part from Hegel, Marx and Freud, but their synthesis in the ontological innovation of ‘open realism’ provides us with a compelling vision for a continuing strategy, a way of pro-active engagement with the meta-culture. ‘Convergence of Paths’ refers to a merger of hitherto discontinuous paths or ‘highways of great mental adventure’, including the latest scientific developments that, by fusion with Surrealist ‘open realism’ leads to a singularity, an acute normality malfunction, involving the ruin of the Cartesian-Kantian edifice. This is an outcome that ‘seriously disturbs the sensibility’ for as Raymond Durgnat said, ‘the pang of beauty’ cannot be confused with ‘an idiot adoration of what’s seen’ rather, it is the ‘shock of tearing the veil.’

Certainly, the heyday of Surrealism in the Roaring Twenties coincided with the emergence of new scientific concepts that have indeed shattered comfortable, traditional interpretations of the human condition. In the Uncertainty Principle (1927) is to be found the ultimate manifestation of ‘open realism’ for, whereas in the past, the basic building blocks of reality as described by natural philosophy fitted neatly together, now, the indeterminate nature of the actual relations between such qualities discloses a disturbing disconnection. Or, to describe the phenomenon more precisely, we have discovered, and/or observed, a ‘lack of commutativity between canonically conjugate qualities.’

When dealing with fundamental particles, this ‘lack of commutativity’ (Kragh), or lack of reciprocal interchange, characterises, not only the relationship between position and momentum, but also between energy and time. So, in the quantum state it appears that normality malfunction is the ‘default mode’ of physical existence and this normality malfunction incarnates the surreality of now, the uncanny, or anarchic, discontinuity between familiar objects and our perceptions.

 This is the ‘strange dislocation’ G. S. Kirk has identified as a chief factor in the ‘special kind of imagination’ defined as ‘fantasy’. It is the ‘phantasmagoric redefinition’ or ‘kingdom of the instantaneous’ generated by symbolic images as described by Angela Carter in The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman (1972). Normality malfunction, the breakdown of ‘commutativity’, is the catalyst of spontaneous autogenesis and the workings of objective chance; fundamental indeterminacy negates the logic of intentional cosmic creation and triggers moral panic. This apparent ‘malfunction’, or absolute divergence, has always characterised the Surrealist enterprise. By extension it also defines the main characteristics of the emerging Hyper-Culture. A condition, or state, in which it has never been more problematic to be human: a tangential condition of divergence from the norms of historical tradition. The ‘apotheosis of the interpenetration of human lives and the media’ (Sirius), a ‘happening’ on The Planet of the Mutants staged in Rio by Os Mutantes (‘surrealism mixed with lysergic poetry madness’), an ‘organised mania for connecting everything to everything else’ (Adorno), an erroneous zone (or Interzone) state of augmented reality (AR), where ‘illusion is a revolutionary weapon’ (Burroughs) and where traditional values evaporate in moral meltdown to a background of canned laughter.

The Convergence of Paths in the epoch of the post-medium aesthetic and of post-modem communications may culminate in the evolutionary synthesis of the human and the non-human, of the animate and in inanimate, of person and machine – a scary, uncanny, mutation with replaceable body parts. This era of the human memory chip, of ‘eye-borg’ prosthetics, of hip-wriggling hot bots, of predatory insectoid micro-drones, of CG Synthespians and Neurocinematics, of techno-savvy toddlers, of ‘Frankenfoods’, of Taser-firing robot helicopters, of the silicon download, of Internet Crusaders, of driverless cars, of digital reality fused with fractal geometry – will witness a metamorphosis from meta-culture into Hyper-Culture. Hypermedia technology evolution has continued to accelerate, from the Pittsburgh Nickelodeon of 1905, to the twenty-five screen Brussels Kinepolis megaplex of 1988, to the 2009 Lakeside Shopping Centre multi-artist ‘goggle-free’ 3D hologram event featuring Pixie Lott (b.1991). Consequently, the Hyper-Culture, the matrix of an ‘infernal desire machine’ indistinguishable from the ultra-diorama of virtual reality, may precipitate a transformation of the human condition. This transformation will be create a state of cyber-visionary transmutation in a physical sense – a triumph of Technosurrealism, of custom car hyper-style and hybridisation over repressive identity politics – a singular union of opposites.

 As Breton wrote in Crise de l’Objet (‘Crisis of the Object’): ‘Poets and artists meet with scholars at the heart of those ‘fields of force’ created in the imagination by the reconciliation of two different images.’  For, as mental capacities are augmented by bio-computing technologies, so the human body and its environment will also mutate into an entity that is part organic and part machine – the Cyborg Singularity prefigured by Hoyle and Elliot’s A for Andromeda (1961). Here, at this supreme point of all possible speculations, at the event horizon of the Hyper-Culture, cosmetic surgery, technosexuality and ‘body modification’ merge with neural computing, self-replicating nanotechnology and artificial intelligence to neutralise the threat from militarised combat robots, wall-climbing automata and other autonomous machines. Outrageously, ‘designer fashion’ will create the post-biological future, liberating a new techno-politics of desire, finally signalling the end of ‘modernity’ as the term in currently understood, eliminating the bogus binary opposition between technology and ‘nature’. The editorial of the first issue of La Revolution Surealiste (1924) announced ‘Fashion will be discussed according to the gravitation of white letters on nocturnal flesh…’ reaffirming the age old link between fashion and fantasy, between couture and anarchy, between fetishism and the flesh of night.

 

 

A C Evans

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Starman (featuring Maxi Priest)

A highlight from the recent Easy Star All-Stars album Ziggy Stardub, a complete reggae re-imagining of David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

The album was released in April, and features guest performances by Macy Gray, Steel Pulse, Fishbone, Alex Lifeson (Rush), Vernon Reid (Living Colour), The Skints, Mortimer, The Expanders, Samory I, Naomi Cowan, and many others.

Purchase or listen at https://easystarallstars.bandcamp.com/album/ziggy-stardub

 

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After Sheppàrd After Shelley: England in 2022


 
 
Bo, despised now but boosterish, resigns –
finishes off himself and the Queen with a bow!
 
Through public scorn of this politician, springs
muddled Truss, without knowledge or feeling,
 
syphoning our last reserves. The Queen drops,
into ‘our’ ‘cost of living crisis’, ‘dead’
 
to quote the caption of the little girl’s sketch
that proud Dad magnetized to the empty fridge.
 
Mannequins in mourning peer facelessly
from over-lit sex shop windows, Brexit
 
borders sealed for one silent minute, while
Time stands stagnant, our escape route
 
blocked by bridges raised ‘in honour’,
cranes lowered ‘with respect’. Subjects
 
respond with cargo cult carvings:
Thames mud sculptures, bat-faced
 
effigies propped up on cartoon limbs
beside closed public loos, shut hospitals.
 
Flowers are sprinkled on Holocaust
memorials and designated dumps.
 
Police club a lost rollerblader
to the ground, while crowds cheer
 
the regal recycling van (oh! tempestuous
mourning bursts along the Covid Wall).
 
I hold up a blank sheet of paper to protest
against elegies by Duffy and Armitage.
 
Once the lad is lifted to his rollerskated feet,
he’s wheeled off to the police van – and so am I!

 

 
Robert Sheppard
 

19th September 2022: the end of the Festival of Mourning
for our late Empress of Bressex ‘of happy memory’,
the final poem of British Standards (at last)

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SAUSAGE Life 268

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that says to hell with coputers, we’re sticking to our tursty old tyrepirter

READER:  Have you seen Titanic II yet?
MYSELF:   Unless someone took me during the night when I was asleep, no.
READER:  Well you really must see it!
MYSELF:   Oh. Really? Must I?
READER:   Yes! Its brilliant! But if I was you I’d take a packet of tissues.
MYSELF:    Ah, now it’s beginning to sound like my type of film.
READER:   Oh dear. Sometimes words fail me.
MYSELF:    Sometimes?

RECORD OF THE MONTH
Help Me Out I’m Down To My Last Million by Rick Wokeman
All your favourite fragments of music played on a CFX99229 handcrafted bamboo piano supplied by Hoyahama of Japan with ivory keys made from the tusks of sustainably harvested free-range African elephants. Rick, composer of the legendary Ice Skating On Ice and author of My One Hundred Favourite Fishing Lures proves that he isn’t quite ready to pop his rock ‘n roll clogs with this stomping 200-track release on vinyl, CD cassette and chromatically-enhanced AI hologram showcasing a personal selection of well-loved classics, scientifically reduced to their smallest atomic size. Download these tracks: Dvorak’s Humoresque (bars 28-32), The hummable bit from Rites of Spring (11 sec), 4’33” by John Cage (digitally remastered 15 sec mono edit), Hey Big Spender (chorus only, with guest appearance by Shirley Bassey).

THERE’S A GULL IN MY SOUP
Hastings’ most eminent inventor, Professor Gordon Thinktank, has come up with a brilliant solution to the escalating herring gull problem. Hot on the tail of his innovative NoShit seagull diapersthe Patent Office is currently considering an application for The Foodflap, a decoy litterbin designed to entrap the always-hungry seabirds. The invention is based on the council’s classic litter bin designed by local artist Bandy Sponk known as  Birdfeeder, which has successfully sustained the local gull population over many years. Thinktank’s version will appear perfectly normal, that is to say overflowing with pizza boxes, half-eaten cheeseburgers, and mouldy chicken remains and surrounded by old mattresses and prams. Once the bird is inside, the lid slams shut, and the only way out is via a tunnel which terminates at Brighton.

TROPHY ATROPHY
Hastings & St Leonards Warriors 0 – Chiddingly Pharaohs 8
Hastings & St Leonards Warriors have suffered another embarrassing first round Lillettes Cup exit, this time inflicted on them by lowly Chiddingly Pharaohs, 200 places below them in the Bob’s Corner Shop ‘n Nail Bar League (south).  Warriors’ Irish manager Alabaster Tipperary was visibly upset as he spoke to us, post-match, in the back room of The Tortured Soul, the S&M bar owned by the club’s Russian-born proprietor, Oliver Gark. “We was robbed,” he told us, “and I have lodged an official objection with the FA. Apart from the fact that all eight goals were clearly offside, the lads were inhibited by The Pharaohs’ pink away strip with black lace edging, an outfit so garish that some of the lads had to wear blindfolds. Even fearsome central defender Nobby Balaclava was repelled enough to prevent him from getting close enough to demonstrate his legendary vicious but fair studs-up sliding ankle-bender”.
“On top of that” he continued, “we had groin-kick specialist Ruud Van Smoot sidelined with a broken jockstrap, and we are still waiting for the medical team’s verdict on Bert ‘Pinocchio’ Lampwick whose girlfriend’s father’s attempt to castrate him the night before the game was fortunately thwarted in the nick of time.”

A BEFORE B EXCEPT AFTER C
Donald Trump and I are old friends, and he recently sought my advice about indexing the 300 kilos of vinyl records he has ordered for the ‘Trumpus Room’ in the replica White House he is having built at his 2024 presidential campaign headquarters in Miami. Donald is nothing if not his own man, and when I suggested that the alphabetical method was far superior to indexing by genre, this is what he replied:
“The alphabet? Tremendously bigly overrated.
Over.
Rated.
A is always first. Why? What’s so great about A? Step up to the front Z. Valuable letter Z. Can only go up in price. Can you guess what A is currently worth? Nothing folks. Practically nothing. A? Totally overrated letter. Mort Hitler, who will be my secretary of defence after I have won in ‘24, tells me the letter Zee is worth a hell of a lot in Scrabble. (I don’t have time for Scrabble by the way. In case you hadn’t noticed, I own several golf courses). Whatever…. Melania loves it. (The letter Zee, not Scrabble)… Smart lady.”
@donaldjtrump

ROYAL VISIT
King Sparky Hullabalulu II, Mighty Grand Wizard and Supreme Potentate of the Principality of Pomegrania, arrived in Upper Dicker recently on an official state visit, arranged to coincide with the coronation of HRH Charles Windsor and to mark the towns’ twinning with Utterfrack, Pomegrania’s capital city. At a special ceremony, Lord Mayor Derek Windfarm presented King Sparky with a Hastings & St Leonards Warriors FC away strip (pink polka dots on imperial purple with green satin shorts), a Warrior Park Soccerdrome season ticket (restricted view), and a black commemorative sash celebrating last year’s Alistair Crowley Day. Thanking His Highness, the mayor gratefully accepted in return the King’s gifts of a two live ostriches, a solar-powered electric blanket and a diamond studded Mickey Mouse watch.

 

 

Sausage Life!

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

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

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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Sand On the Star – On Jan Woolf’s BLOOD, GOLD AND OIL

Upstairs at The Gatehouse, London, April 28th,  2023

 

While it was The Beatles or even Sinatra for some,
For Jan Woolf it was Lawrence. Sat at those Seven Pillars
She sensed a presence which has remained to this day.

As her pin-up through poise and time’s artful pose
Returns to us, lovingly guided onto the acted page
Of this play. For this three-hander applauds the love

And loss in that Desert, free of Lean we are learning
About the multitudes in one man; from Lawrence’s view
On the fame his ghost and shade has been offered,

And on into the storm in the sand-dune roused
By his great masterplan. TE Lawrence for Woolf is the first
Celebrity Rock-(and-sand) star. His reach and image have

Continued to touch her whole life. She has walked in his steps,
And stood at the summits he scoured. She has written compulsively
For and about him in acts of devotion, with a playwright’s

Faith and mind-marriage, as pen becomes ring; an art wife.
And so the play shimmers in Upstairs at The Gatehouse,
A dry-land oasis as Highgate’s fluids flow. A stone’s throw

From Marx, this revolutionary returns to dodge bullets,
While defying the country lane swerve that killed him,
To tell us where it is lost love goes. Into an anniversary

Exhibition play framed by its protagonist Dr Caroline Howard
Played by Suzanna Hamilton, strident, eccentrically yaffle-ish
And as beguiling as she was in Radford’s 1984, where

While Burton and Hurt both essayed men who were ending,
Here two young actors seek to serve the experiences
Of each woman, who as writer and her representative

Extract secrets sand-rooted from beneath a theatre pub’s
Sawdust floor. What truly charms is not taste. What touches us
Is intention. And here Woolf is writing her way back to a place

Where she can confront the revered by bringing him 
Into battle, not only with his past, but the future, and where
She can with words at least, kiss his face. And this play is a kiss.

Every line leads to passion. For man and martyr, for Politics
And for peace. As Mascuud Dahir’s soft Muzz honours 
The Arabian face, slim as shadow and Douglas Clarke-Wood’s

Earnest and Christ-like TE teaches how even the most
Conflicted of souls finds release. Isaac Bernier-Doyle’s direction
Peels worlds, revealing for all golden moments. Simon Jackson’s

Light and sound design presents passage from the love of girl
And boy across time. Holly Louise Chapman’s costumes allow
For true transformation as an army shirt unveils into Jubbah

Summoning up in one image the ridges and hills Lawrence
Climbed. The correct music allows the dream-drift to prosper.
From Delius and Arvo Part to Beethoven with a scimitar

Raised to Jarre. But that is hardly the point as this Woolf howls
For her hero as he bleeds for all warfare and advocates
For the Arabs who left his heart captivated and so much

Of his flesh bearing scars. Jan Woolf has borne this play
For ten years. She has polished it, like a relic in Howard’s
Arabian revolt exhibition. It is her own excavation of the soul

And the source of her joy. Which is to do with understanding
Our place, be it lived in or fought for. Her own activisim
In turn allows others to see that politics today is a toy

Placed into the fat hands of fools who have lead us
Into makeshift wars, or to Brexit; but take that toy away
And it glistens as a truly socialist stance captures light.

We just have to unravel the dark that we have drawn
About ourselves, suffocating under ignorance and avoidance,
Whereas it was men like Lawrence who in living his dream

Coloured night. The blaze of blood smears the play;
In containing life, it floods through it. The pitch of oil and skin
Creates pictures richer than those on the wall.

And all the while as you watch the gold of grief grows
And glimmers, as if it were a snake sliding sweetly
Across the bosom of sand. Stay enthralled.

For this play has a point. It is not just about adoration.
It is about what we value as represented by whom.
It could be Lawrence, Lennon, or Woolf’s dearly departed

Colleague and friend Dr Neil Faulkner, to whom the play
Is now dedicated, a classic Lawrentian himself, gone too soon.
This then, is Play as purpose, and more: play as evocation.

Of a time and a standard that the hours we have do not share.
For we are in the mirage. We no longer deserve its enchantment.
We have become insubstantial; so in reflection it is for

Both the sand and the star to beware, in case we trespass
Too far and pay no heed to those heroes who made a stand
For a moment and were then removed, tragically.

From Christ and Lawrence to – who? How tightly do you
Hold your own hero?And in what context is that status deserved,
Practically? Politicians perform. But actors attempt to people

The mask and the magic. Writers reveal them and in unlocking
Each truth kiss the key. And so it proves in this heartfelt call
Across London. In which Arabia’s anger is both myth and muezzin.

Great books are binds. Strong words seal us. And while plays
Can scale prisons, we can see the gates open. Awake!
Love is learning. And while night provokes insight,

It is only in dreams we stay free.  

               

                                                                     David Erdos 28/4/23

 

 
Blood Gold and Oil runs until April 30th matinee. 
 
Tickets and Information

Listings information

25th – 30thApril
Upstairs at the Gatehouse, Highgate Village, N6 4BD
Tues – Sat, 7.30pm, Sun 4pm | Running Time: 75 minutes
£20 – £16 | www.upstairsatthegatehouse.com | 020 8340 3488
 
Press contact: Annlouise Butt / Jan Woolf
E: [email protected] T: 020 8340 4256
E: [email protected] T: 07967 161 291

 

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The Mel Outsider Reformation: More Than Three-Chord Wonders

THE MEL OUTSIDER REFORMATION:

MORE THAN THREE-CHORD WONDERS

 

All Rock stars are outsiders. It comes with the job description. Moody rebels, surly misfits without a cause. Hey Mel, what are you rebelling against? ‘Whadda you got?’ It’s the Rock star’s role to externalise our inner angst, to embody the alienation that dare not speak its name, to talk through our more irrational impulses. ‘Most of the Rock stars that I’ve encountered are actors’ says Mel Outsider.

The Mel Outsider Reformation is educated Rock that brims with genius, informed with an insider’s knowing. In literary terms it runs from Albert Camus ‘The Outsider’ (1946) through Colin Wilson’s ‘The Outsider’ (1956), but with a killer backbeat, jack-knife rhythms and death-wish guitar riffs that need ratifying by the Geneva Convention. They know all the right poses. They touch the correct reference points, Bob Seger’s Silver Bullet Band, Mink DeVille, Stiff Records, Patti Smith, Graham Parker & the Rumour, Lou Reed. ‘Thanks, lovely compliments,’ he says, ‘nothing was wilfully directed at any musical reference points, but I would certainly be pleased to be categorised alongside such luminaries. Listening to such greats has always been a soundtrack although for most of the last twenty-five years I’ve tried to immerse myself in Soul music, Philly being my go-to preference. I’ve got no idea why I do this actually.’

The reality of it has the familiarity of difference. Shifted sideways. Watch the video for ‘Disley Blonde’ shot in cool monochrome, and it’s all sharp leather and shades, the street-corner hoodlum H-bomb slouch-stances, a feather boa, the hiss of stylus biting vinyl, mainlining on smashed neon tubes. Classic Rock sleazy Blues with fuel-injected licks and a rippling piano interlude. It’s highly likely, but not definitely certain, that Mel did not murder the hitchhiker glimpsed in the rear-view mirror. He’s a reconditioned appliance taking a walk through the danger zone. Cut this band and it bleeds a quickening pulse of electric beats-per-second. It’s everything you most loved about music rammed through the blender’s immaculate fix.

Mel must be very proud of the band’s current ‘Miss Victory V’… it’s a very powerful album. ‘Yes, very proud. It’s most definitely the one album that feels more developed and expansive than the previous ones. The previous band were always too busy on the road for anything to be completely considered, everything was always very rushed which resulted in a ‘that’s okay, it will have to do’ attitude. Surviving a year on the road with my old group was Rock ‘n’ Roll bootcamp, it was killing me slowly. With the new set up, everything seems to have calmed down a little. I’m pleased about that. I’m pleased that people are finding interest in the new group and engaging with the lyrics. I’ve got a great squad. I can name a team for the gigs a bit like Brian Clough might have done.’

Isn’t that the very best reason to create… guided by that inner impulse? the intuitive? ‘Yes, I guess so, and the instinct that I could do much better than I had done previously. A toned down more melodic sound with the female vocals and the brass arrangements really kept me interested and that’s something that will continue. We are recording new material at the moment.’

The thirteen generous tracks on the ‘Miss Victory V’ (Planet Records PLANCD41) album – ‘a classy Rock set by a long-standing band with a shifting line-up but a resilient core membership’ according to critic Norman Darwen (in ‘RnR’ magazine), it snatches dashboard confessionals in observational snapshots. ‘Remember where you came from,’ he self-cautions as his trip starts outside a hair salon in Disley, south Manchester, narrating a journey of regret and futile pleasure seeking. ‘Misty Colour Hotel’ is located midway between ‘Heartbreak’ and ‘California’, ‘empty streets, empty city’, desolation angels that conjure the crummy low budget hotel lobbies he’s had the displeasure to frequent as the Rock star he never was. A distant sax wails mournful bebop phrases in nifty moves. It’s here that Mel professes to remake and remodel his band. ‘Remake Remodel’ was once the title of a Bryan Ferry song on the first Roxy Music album. Now it’s a track where bass strings resonate, and horns honk around jousting guitars. It’s a story in which Mel admits to throwing her painting from the window of the College Art Block, as a soulful girl-voice breaks in, and ‘when a band is cracking up, you just gotta start at the bottom.’

They take songs from the Rock ‘n’ Roll wide-screen mythology, but place it in a very northern English setting, Blackpool and Lancashire factory girls. ‘That’s how we live, so it’s staying true to the cause, if I hear any Americanism drifting into the vocal accent I ask them to stop doing that please. Lancashire and the North is huge and a very varied palette from which to apply the textures.’ Yes, Manchester has a massive music history, from the Hollies and Freddie & The Dreamers through to New Order and Oasis. ‘That’s very true – but we live in Colne near Burnley, so we are just slightly removed from the tall buildings and trendy northern quarter area.’

But he’s a character who can’t let go of the luring Rock ‘n’ Roll dream, who refuses to go straight with a comfy suburban life, so ploughs ahead pouring out his heart to his soulmate in ‘Queen Of The City’, talk-singing to some kind of Audrey Hepburn Holly Golightly, falling away to just a drum-click behind his pleading vocal. Powerhouse vocalist Hayley Gaftarnick and the sublime Ellie Coast (both from Leeds) share accompanying vocals. The Lancashire factory girls of yesteryear remind him of a lost weekend in Blackpool with a crowned beauty pageant winner on the lozenge-shaped ‘Miss Victory V’, ‘in the chill of the winter by the factory wall, there’s a figure walking shadow by the side of the road.’ A manic Hammond organ dances as the back-up girls chant ‘I’m no judge but it’s plain to see, just exactly why they call you Miss Victory V.’

— 0 —

 If the Adverts were the ‘One Chord Wonders’, and Status Quo were ‘In Search Of The Fourth Chord’ according to the title of their 2007 album, Mel plays therapist to the underdogs, wastrels and ne’er-do-wells through the saga ‘More Than A Three Chord Wonder’. It’s a wearily testifying soul ache with chiming Stax guitar in which he’s ‘like a Boxer that just won’t quit, I’m still searching for one last hit.’ Until ‘Education’ is an epic track that opens with martial drums, to move into the dense crashing jazz-literate instrumentation and hurdy-gurdy organ of a kind once flaunted by the Blockheads, as covert operation guitars skydive all the way. With lyrics that Ian Dury might have penned about a girl at the bar who wants to go to Paris to see the Colosseum, and a guy at the bus-stop who asks ‘wasn’t Julius Caesar the cat who designed the leaning tower of Pisa?’ ‘It’s just a bit of fun wordplay really’ he says dismissively. ‘I do hear young people coming out with all sorts of rubbish when I’m in the pub, I get most song ideas when I’ve had a couple and awkwardly when I’m driving just before a full moon. Have you ever tried jotting ideas down on the steering wheel? It’s not easy on the M6.’ Jack Kerouac used to be great writing about life ‘On The Road’… but that was before Rock ‘n’ Roll came along!

‘Yes, it’s all part true part observational.’ It’s like he’s reading his own back pages, ‘I have a story, a story to tell,’ about how – finding life too slow and dreary, fifteen-year-old Adrian Melling aka ‘Mel Outsider’ started out as the East Lancashire runaway who cut school to spin the Waltzer cars amid flashing fairground lights, loud music, popcorn and girls, and walk the ponies for the travelling circus. ‘Yes, myself and a pal called Colin Hutchinson ran away with a small town circus, it wasn’t very glamorous sweeping up the sawdust and dealing with the ponies but we could have a good drink in our knackered caravan which became home for a short while. Colin never came home, and we were recently reunited in Morecambe of all places. I hadn’t seen him since 1976!’

Hit by the itch to move by the luring thunder of a distant freight train, he was soon ‘running round town like a Rock ‘n’ Roll fool.’ Until, for over five decades, Mel has been a mainstay of the local music scene. If there’s a music industry job he ain’t done, I’ve yet to hear of it. He’s been label boss, record shop proprietor, promoter, tour manager, producer, mover, shaker and Rock ’n’ Roll groover, Rock ‘n’ Roll he gave you the best years of his life. As songwriter lyricist and main character he was flamboyant frontman of Brit Rockers the Outsiders, who recorded two albums, ‘Skin’ (1990) and ‘Ripped Shirt’ (1993). Trouble is, there’d been a 1960s Cleveland band called the Outsiders whose cult garage-acid single ‘Time Won’t Let Me’ was collected onto Lenny Kaye’s ‘Nuggets: Original Artyfacts From The First Psychedelic Era, 1965-1968’. Then there was a Wimbledon Punk band also called the Outsiders who recorded for Raw Edge Records around 1977.

‘Yes, there were various other groups called The Outsiders. Around 1990 whilst on tour in Holland we discovered that the third most famous group in Holland were also called the Outsiders. It’s not a very imaginative name. But it was pre-internet when we started, and by then we were too far down the line to our detriment, so we simply re-branded as the Outsiders UK.’ So Mel’s band became Outsiders UK to complete a staggering 286 live gigs in 365 days to promote LP ‘Black Shoes And Travelling TV’ (1998). Outsiders UK became popular across the European circuit, releasing final critically acclaimed album ‘Everything’s Gone Vintage’ (2016).

‘That’s why I switched to the more unique name, in order to step in line with the search engines!’ So now they’re back in the new guise of The Mel Outsider Reformation. And each track on ‘Miss Victory V’ is killer, from the slapping backbeat and thick dirty smears of searing sax on ‘Iron Age’ confiding ‘secrets never to be told’, the muted meditation on heritage that is ‘Bikini Diet Plan’, ‘S-Bend Phantom’ which is more z-bend Dead Man’s Curve than it is a plumbing convenience, on which Mel’s voice sneers and insinuates around stratospheric guitar. ‘Real Go-Getter’ is a mean motor-scooter where ‘I gotta pay the rent, but my money’s all been spent.’ And there’s a ‘Bad Boogaloo’ that’s swamp-thick, wearing its wink-hat, running on fumes, and namechecking The Killer and Ramsey Lewis en route.

The album’s standout track, ‘Knock ‘Em Up Jack’ is key, a Rock ‘n’ Roll odyssey that takes in empty rooms and one-night stands until it’s too late to stop – ‘why don’t you give these guys a break? they’ve been playing too long,’ and Velvet Underground’s ‘Sweet Jane’ in the everyday story of a Rock ‘n’ Roll music band. ‘Yes, ‘Sweet Jane’ was a record that a Dutch venue owner would always seem to play while we were waiting to hit the stage at his venue’ Mel explains. ‘It was called ‘Cafe de Klomp’ in a town called Etten-Leur. His name was Jac van Donggen and that’s why the track is called ‘Knock ‘Em Up Jack’. We used to stay upstairs in his flat.’ The reference to ‘Sweet Jane’ I can understand, but why does Mel also name-check jazz pianist Ramsey Lewis…? ‘Ramsey Lewis is another neglected name and his record ‘Wade In The Water’ started my love of soul and jazz.’ But there are other inputs. ‘I can also hear the beauty in those wonderful seventies recordings by Colin Blunstone.’

This time around the band retains the services of musical director and bassist Matt Pawson and guitarist Liam McCartan. Dan Arnold joins on guitar alongside Karl Francis on drums. Barney ‘Boogie’ Williams from The Milltown Brothers & The Animals takes organ, piano & keyboard duties. Andy Morell plays sax and leads The Pocket Central Horns. The ‘Miss Victory V’ project was produced in Accrington by Mark Jones of Real World Studios, who describes the album as ‘the Rock ‘n’ Roll ‘Dante’s Inferno’ for the Twenty-First century.’ Mark has previously produced, engineered and worked with such luminaries as Peter Gabriel, Cat Stevens, Patti Smith, The Blue Nile, Wishbone Ash, The Ting Tings, Black Grape and Goldfrapp to name but several. Grammy winner Mark Phythian was on hand to aid and master, as he had done for Coldplay.

But Mel’s also a musical all-rounder. He’s rubbed stylish shoulders with famous and infamous Rockers, Blues performers and singer-songwriters. No mean producer in his own right, he’s produced twenty-eight albums for artists including Heads Hands And Feet (with Albert Lee and Chas Hodges), New York songwriter/ poet Angela Costa (winner of the Allen Ginsberg prize) along with Michael Chapman.

Just going off at a tangent here… many years back this writer used to see Mick Ronson when he played with Michael Chapman. I always held Michael Chapman in high regard as a writer and a performer. What kind of an experience was it to work with him? ‘Michael was a fun guy to be around, he really knew the road and his ‘Fully Qualified Survivor’ (1970) record for EMI was introduced into my young life by my elder brother Keith. I played it non-stop. I met Michael in 1994 and asked him to make a new studio album for my label Planet Records (another unimaginative name, sorry). We put his twenty-first album ‘Navigation’ out in 1995 and had top Folk album of the year for this one, it’s a cracker and was a return to form for him as he had been in the musical wilderness for a while. I found Michael to be great company and also very supportive to other young writers that we worked with in these days.’ Mel also travelled and worked with Delta blues legend David ‘Honeyboy’ Edwards – who once recorded in Chicago with Peter Green’s original Fleetwood Mac and was the last surviving musical link to Robert Johnson. Mel promises to release an album of unheard ‘Honeyboy’ recordings.

As with Ian Hunter, it’s a mighty long way down the Rock ‘n’ Roll Dream but the road goes on forever. ‘Yes, I love Mott The Hoople too. I approached Verden Allen from Mott The Hoople with the offer of joining on key’s, he was interested but turned me down on account that we had two guitars, he said that he would play with one guitar but couldn’t face two.’ But once you’ve played with Mick Ronson, I guess he has high standards. ‘None better than Mick Ronson, Jeff Beck, Zal Cleminson (of The Sensational Alex Harvey Band) best three guitarists in the world, Oh and Paul Kossoff. Much better than that awful Jimi Hendrix racket.’

Don’t stop bopping. All Rock stars are outsiders.

 

INSIDERS/ OUTSIDERS

1988 – ‘Grit In The Oyster’ compilation (Pendle Hawk Records, Pen001), includes Outsiders ‘People Stop’

April 1990 – ‘Skin’ ten-track LP (Planet Records, Plan002), the Outsiders on ‘Skin’ were Colne East Lancs based with three ex-members of Manchester New Wave Of Heavy Metal band Touched (Ebony label) and Aragorn (Neat records), it also included members from Dragster and SFW. Side one: (1) ‘Bastard Blues On A Kamikaze Highway, (2) ‘Misinformation’, (3) ‘Plough Boy’, (4) ‘No Good’, (5) ‘Skin’. Side two: (1) ‘Tuff’, (2) ‘James Brown Blues’, (3) ‘Hate To See My Baby Growing Up This Way’, (4) ‘Genie Genie’, (5) ‘Only Flame In This Town’.

1993 – ‘Ripped Shirt’, the Outsiders, thirteen-track CD (Planet Records, Plan004) Mel Outsider (vocals, guitar, harmonica), Liam McCartan (bass, vocals), Paul Edmondson (drums), Peter Rowlands (guitar, voice). (1) ‘Bastard Blues On A Kamikaze Highway’, (2) ‘Get It’, (3) ‘Ripped Shirt’, (4) ‘What If I Don’t Know Your Mind’, (5) ‘Headline Blues’, (6) ‘Dirty Side Of Rock ‘n’ Roll’, (7) ‘Leave The Past Behind’, (8) ‘I Want You’, (9) ‘We’ll Be Drinkin’’, (10) ‘Down (Like An Apple)’, (11) ‘Poor Cow’, (12) ‘Still Life’, (13) ‘Tell Mam’, (14) ‘Nothin’’.

1997 – ‘What’s In The Pub 96’ eighteen-track compilation (Dutch release, Pub001)

1998 – ‘Black Shoes And Travelling TV’ by Outsiders UK, ten-track CD (Planet Plan16) with (1) ‘These Days’ 4:41, (2) ‘Bring Em All In’ 4:00, (3) ‘Through The Gardens That We Know So Well’ 6:52, (4) ‘Black Shoes And Travelling TV’ 5:39, (5) ‘Licky Pup’ 5:31, (6) ‘The Proud Ones’ 4:15, (7) ‘Hate To See My Baby Growing Up That Way (Version Two)’ 3:57, (8) ‘Stuck In Old Diane With You’ 3:35, (9) ‘No Good’ 2:37, (10) ‘Some Kinda Law’ 3:35.

1999 – ‘What’s In The Pub 99’ twenty-track compilation (Dutch release, Pub002)

2016 – ‘Mersey Girls’ seven-inch single (Plan38)

2018 – ‘Everything’s Gone Vintage’ by The Outsiders UK (June 2018, Planet Records PLANCD39)

(1) ‘Memory Lane’ 4:28, (2) ‘Millstones And The Wheels Of Steel’ 4:03, (3) ‘Mersey Girls’ 3:27, (4) ‘River Blindness’ 5:59, (5) ‘Hurricane Sister’ 6:04, (6) ‘Loose Connections’ 5:44, (7) ‘Confidence Tricksters’ 5:04, (8) ‘Chain Lightning’ 3:43, (9) ‘Panza People’ 8:17, (10) ‘Death Rides A Pale Horse’ 5:13

 

2022 – ‘Miss Victory V’ (2022, Planet Records PLANCD41) as The Mel Outsider Reformation, (1) ‘Disley Blonde’ 3:57, (2) ‘Misty Colour Hotel’ 4:43, (3) ‘Queen Of The City’ 3:58, (4) ‘Miss Victory V’ 4:17, (5) ‘Remake Remodel’ 5:05, (6) ‘More Than A Three-Chord Wonder’ 5:37, (7) ‘Iron Age’ 4:53, (8) ‘Bikini Diet Plan’ 3:25, (9) ‘Education’ 6:33, (10) ‘S-Bend Phantom’ 4:54, (11) ‘Real Go-Getter’ 4:43, (12) ‘Knock ‘Em Up Jack’ 5:03, (13) ‘Bad Boogaloo’ 2:55

 

VIDEOS: 

https://www.youtube.com/@planetrecords1478

The Mel Outsider Reformation, ‘Disley Blonde’ official music video

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TaRonIHTM9s

The Mel Outsider Reformation (featuring Ellie Coast ) ‘Queen Of The City’, official Video
www.meloutsider.co.uk

Electronic Press Kit https://bit.ly/MelOutsiderRPK 

For further details, interviews with Adrian or high res jpgs, contact Sean McGhee/Reel Press
Tel: 01946812496 Email: [email protected]

 

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

 

 

 

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The mudcubs and the wall

 

The city people were just too busy to pay any attention to the mudcubs and their fanciful ideas. Theirs was a city full of enterprise, endeavour, efficiency and urgency. A city where targets were met and commitments honoured. Trains ran to time, buses travelled at 12 minute intervals precisely three miles apart, repairers and deliverers told you when they would arrive and then did so.

The city people were so sure of themselves and their effective, economic, enterprising city that they decided to become completely self-sufficient. They decided to build a wall around their city. Not an ordinary wall with gates, windows and doors. No, there were to be no comings or goings through this wall. It was designed to keep the outside, outside.

Outside was what the city people feared. Outside was wildness – exuberant, lavish growth – where life went on with no apparent purpose and to no apparent order. Birds flew where they wished, wild flowers and grasses seeded and grew in every nook and cranny, and the weather – well, there was no controlling the weather!

So the city people built their wall. They built it thick and they built it high. They built it so that it cast the whole city into shadow, so that they could not feel the breath of the breeze on their faces, so that birds, animals, insects and plants were excluded. What they planned for was complete control. So they walked on concrete, worked in artificial light and mass produced their food.

The mudcubs were saddened by the building of the wall. They asked the Clean-Up King about it but he just talked about the storm before the calm. It didn’t seem quite right and wasn’t very encouraging. They had been used to making the long journey to the edge of the great city. They had loved to lie in the long grass feeling the heat of the sun and the vibration of the crickets around them. They had climbed gnarled, knobbled trees bent with age and swum in the sparkling, bubbling, racing waters. It had helped them think about the other beautiful country.

Now all of these pleasures were denied them. All they could see were the grey tones of prefabrication and concrete. The city people, however, were proud of the independence they had created. Their pleasure came from meeting all their own needs by the creation of their own hands and they could see no drawbacks to the isolation in which they were living.

Then it began to rain. No ordinary shower or thunderstorm that passes. This was hard, driving, persistent and torrential rain like the spray of continual machine gun fire. It forced the people off their streets into their homes, offices and factories, wherever there was shelter. It fell without let up. It fell relentlessly.

As time passed the rain began to make the rubbish mountains slither and slide. Avalanches of cans, wrappers, carriers, fag ends, bottles and papers began. The detritus of the rubbish mountains floated down the streets silting up the drains, clogging the overflow pipes. As the sewers blocked, puddles formed in the streets and spread. Water rose to kerb level and began to seep into homes. Rain continued to fall as time began to blur. Tomorrow turned into today and the waters lapping at the city wall continued to rise.

The mudcubs, though, were not in love with the wall. They hated the imprisonment that the wall had imposed. They had longed to break free and now they seized their opportunity. Splashing, stumbling through the rising water they made their way to a large construction site where the foundations for what was to be the third largest building in the city were being laid.

“A hole in the wall! A hole in the wall!” they shouted to the builders who were beginning to climb their cranes in the hope of avoiding the rising tide. One began to operate a demolition ball. With repeated swings it smashed against the city wall making the firmly fixed stone splinter and small pieces fly. Others ran to find explosives.

The explosives were placed in the cavity formed by the demolition ball and were held in place by the mudcubs. The detonator was pressed. Bricks flew. The blast rocked the crane throwing it down into the sea of water. A rain of rubble fell.

Then, as the smoke and dust cleared a large gap appeared in the compact, regular pattern of the city wall. Water began to heave as it moved towards the gap and then poured through tumbling outside the wall and out of the city.

Water drained through the gap keeping the level constant across the city until, finally, the storm began to end. With the ending of the storm, the sewers slowly began to reduce the water level. The gap in the wall was widened and deepened and, in time, the water cleared and the city people could begin to assess the damage.

Now they could see their foolishness and arrogance. Now they demolished the wall leaving only a final layer of rubble to remind them of what they had done.

In time this random collection of stones became covered with wild grasses, weeds and flowers. The countryside that the mudcubs had loved began to invade the city. Now, though, the city people had learnt to welcome the wildness of nature. They knew little of the Clean-Up King and less of the mudcubs but they had taken the first step towards the other beautiful country.

 

 

 

 

Jonathan Evens

 

 

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lemon

a single
bright yellow lemon
on a blue plate and
its picture outside
with a background
of the sea beyond
others’ houses

we know waves lapped
on the shore, private
yachts sailed, ships
journeyed with fine
cargoes, and special
sunshines were over
that horizon

if the photo was of
simplicity as art,
it worked with the
few vivid colours, but
we know the person
lived a privileged
and corrupt life

 

 

Mike Ferguson

 

 

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TIRED AND BLUE

For Dorothy Parker

The first thing I remember
was ice-green water
only water…and only ice-green.
I was gazing out of a window at the rain
and these huge waves frothing on the sand –
simply staring at falling rain
trickling away…
like drops on a window-pane –
in a haze of it…an imperfect film
blurred and flickering –
that pale blue sky
and those ceaseless Strauss waltzes
and this inexplicable pain in my heart
and then gradually…
so tired so much of the time –
tired and blue.
And there I’d be!
Like those old horses on Sixth Avenue –
struggling and slipping…
I kissed one of them once! –
Well he looked sad standing there
and I liked him –
and – well – nothing …
nothing astonishing
nothing separate
and that constant thought of death
nice and restful…
those tightly stored tears
that kind of drowsy cheer…
in a haze of it –
struggling and slipping
into Shakespeare’s amiable death.
And there I’d be!

 

 

Phil Bowen

 

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Bippety and Boppety Await the Onset of Better Times

– I don’t like this.
– I don’t like this at all.
– And I think things are getting worse.
– It really does seem like things are getting worse.
– Every day there’s bad news.
– There’s never any good news, or so it seems.
– It’s very depressing.
– I am very depressed.
– But I suppose we should look on the bright side.
– We should try.
– I mean, things will get better.
– I’m sure they will.
– They have to, don’t they?
– I guess so.
– Another drink?
– Hell yeah.

 

 

 

Martin Stannard

 

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Eric Morecambe (Extinction Rebellion) Supports the Strikers!


Morecambe, Thursday 27th April 2023      PHOTO by Sam Ud-din

 

NEU strikers and sympathisers joined Eric Morecambe (holding an Extinction Rebellion flag

behind his back in classic fashion) on a grey Thursday to demand a long overdue, fully-funded, pay rise for teachers and nurses – the essential backbone and future of society.

Local Conservative MP, David Morris . . . facing the wrong way as usual

 

At one point the strikers were even joined by insubstantial, pro-Nuclear[i], climate-change denying, social crisis denying, everything-obvious denying, Conservative lackey, David driving-past-in-Morecambe-&-Heysham[ii], Morris. If the face seems unfamiliar its because he’s not often around . . .

By this point both of David Morris’ legs had dropped off and the marionette was shrinking

 

Back from a long, enchanted sleep – in a nearby cellar – Morris was visibly overwhelmed by the occasion. Like the government, he hasn’t a leg to stand on. Pay Up!

Families support the strikes, Morecambe, Thursday 27th April 2023

 

Local composer, performer, teacher and producer, Peter Moser, along with Eugene Doherty, President of Lancaster and Morecambe Trades Union Council, and Sam Ud-din, District Secretary of the NEU, led the group in several renditions of the song made famous by Morecambe & Wise, Bring Me Sunshine[iii] . . . until we got it right – altering the final chorus[iv] to:

            Bring me funds
            Bring me glue sticks
            Bring me love . . .

 

 

 

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben

Morecambe, April 28th 2023

[email protected]

 

 

NOTES    All notes accessed on April 28th 2023

[i]  greenpeace.org/international/story/52758/reasons-why-nuclear-energy-not-way-green-and-peaceful-world/

[ii]   internationaltimes.it/make-votes-matter-2/

[iii]  en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bring_Me_Sunshine

[iv]  google.com/search?q=bring+me+sunshine+song+lyrics

 

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BEEFHEART’S CONNECTION


For years, I thought Trevor Grimshaw
Was someone else, a different lad who
Sat at the same table, drank Irish stout
 
When I told people I knew him
It was almost true
 
I just mistook Trevor
For Bailey, Emanuel
 
Who worked in a warehouse
Stacked cardboard boxes
 
Slept there some nights
And wore sandy coloured flares
Big collar shirts. Cowboy boots
 
Helped Victor Brox as a Roadie
Became a close personal friend
Of Captain Beefheart
 
Not Trevor, the other lad
 
There was no disrespect intended
 
It wasn’t done on purpose
To draw (or deflect) attention
 
From Trevor
Beefheart’s connection
 
I’ve apologised to his daughter since
 
 
 
 
 
 
Steven Taylor
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Check Your Head 02

Steam Stock
Zephyr George
 

Tracklist:
King Curtis – Memphis Soul Stew
Talking Heads – Once in a Lifetime
Positive K – I Got a Man
Jean Jacques Perry – E.V.A.
Beck – Sexx Laws (Wizeguyz Remix)
Missy Elliott – We Run This
Q-Tip – Breath and Stop
Funkadelic – (not just) Knee Deep (part 1)
Led Zeppelin – Trampled Underfoot
The Temptations – I Can’t Get Next to You

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in captivity

where high-wire dancers somersault blindfold without a safety net,
where trapeze artistes with exotic sounding russian names flip gravity,
where teams of ponies ridden bareback roman style by long legged women in spangled tight costumes whose smiles fade with the spotlights, where elephants dance, lions are tamed, where red nosed clowns ritually humiliate, where just for sixpence after the show
you can see the animals in their cages so just follow the crowds now
through red velvet curtains, down the sloping dark tunnel to a windowless cellar where half a dozen zebra, eyes wide teeth bared,
lips foam speckled tethered right by lions each in their own cages
that are too small to turn in, muzzles resting on de-clawed paws,
the odd canine exposed in a stroke victim’s lop-sided grin right by
shackled elephants their heads nodding like geriatrics, a sodden floor
watch where you’re steppin’! that nostril needling stench of ammonia

that no amount of aerosol can smother and breakfasts done, beds stripped, residents propped up in high-backed chairs, pills dished out,
telly switched on and fragments of memory loop tape: a boneyard
no-one’d cut through except for a dare (where’s my daddy?) waiting outside the odeon for some boy who never turned up (where’s my daddy?) the day she got married (did I dream that?) her black cat called smutty, a circus-ring, that man that I married (what was his name?)

 

 

Kevin McCann
Picture Nick Victor

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ONLY FOR ME!

I fall in love with

My best friend,

My crush,

My soulmate,

My heaven.

And it all happens

To be you.

My soul knew

Your way

Before we met.

You are my favourite

Thought,

Addiction,

Every moment,

Bonding of atoms,

Poem,

Music,

Light,

Direction,

Practicals,

Home.

Your heart deserves

To be filled with

Molecules of love

That makes you

Bloom everyday.

My heart vibrates with yours feelings

And feels everything

I always dreamt of.

My love language

Is to understand

Your dreams

And make you

As the most special

Human being on earth,

Only for me.

 

 

 

 

 

Monalisa Parida
Picture Nick Victor

 

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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STATE OF EMERGENCY

There’s always a but or a reason
why the headline’s not true;
it’s never as simple as you think.

Law is abstract, assault a defence,
and they were clearly asking for it.
Days don’t pass without appeals,

miscarriages of justice or the scrum
collapsing, policemen being found out.
You can rewire the past, lie through

your teeth, we still don’t believe
what you say. The evidence is clear,
we’ve seen the film, your fingerprints

are on the corpse, that smirk gives you
away. We aren’t as simple as you think,
won’t accept your excuses any time soon.

 

 

   © Rupert M Loydell
Picture Nick Victor

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Species

Scent and red pens. I mark essays as the cat marks his territory, scratching here and there in the margins. The weather hasn’t arrived yet, a victim of paperwork on the crumbling south coast, and we use these days of absence to catch up on lingering tasks and take stock of where we are. Paper and blankets. I wrap up today’s tasks as the cat wraps himself in an Instagrammable blue blanket, while an X marks a map on the scrolling screen. Some nights, there is more darkness inside than out and it’s hard to tell where animal lies. A prick of fur at a rap on the door, and a lying animal – all stink and red, with dead eyes winking – walks in without waiting to be asked. It says it owns the territory by right of birth and blood. Mark my words and take it as read: the cat is nowhere to be seen. I wrap sunflowers round my throat and pull them tight.

 

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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When the Spring Is Done

The day is done in the spring.
The dusk even has a memory
Of the early dawn.
The stars have arrived
In the night sky
Their intensity forgets not
That they own the night,
But high above.
From the ant hill of life
I see the eternal height of bliss.
The cosmos is shiny
It is not devoid of light
In the dark sprawling sky.
The thrills of spring
Brings visions of survival.
Who would not want to depart
With the spring
And go forever
Where the spring goes?
The river imitates the spring;
It has no particular destination
It is only destined to flow.

 

 

 

 

 

Sushant Thapa
Photo Nick Victor

 

 

Bio A Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal who holds a Master’s
degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He
has published three books of poetry namely: The Poetic Burden and Other
Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK,
2021) and Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021). Sushant has been published in
places like The Gorkha Times, The Kathmandu Post, The Poet Magazine, The Piker
Press, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Impspired, Harbinger Asylum,
New York Parrot, Pratik Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, Atunis
Poetry, EKL Review, The Kolkata Arts, Dissident Voice, Journal of Expressive Writing,
As It Ought To Be Magazine and International Times among many. He has also been
anthologized in national and International anthologies.

His poem is also included inthe Paragon English book for Grade 6 students in Nepal. He teaches Business Englishto Bachelor’s level students of BBA and BIT at Nepal Business College, Biratnagar,Nepal and he also teaches literature and Managerial Communication to students ofBBA and MBS respectively at Degree Campus, Biratnagar, Nepal. Recently Sushantrecited his poem “The Poetic Burden” in Kalinga Literary Festival, Kathmandu, Nepal.Sushant was recently awarded with Indology Best Poet Award 2022 from West Bengal, India for his debut poetry book “The Poetic Burden and Other Poems.” Sushant’s fourth book of poems titled “Love’s Cradle” is going to be published from World Inkers Printing and Publishing New York, USA.

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Cheese

Hua hadn’t looked in the Tupperware container in the fridge for over a week. When she took it out and removed the lid the cheese crawled onto the countertop, spotted with brown and blue mould, sweating.
‘You bastard,’ the cheese said. ‘How could you do that to me?’
Hua began to apologise. ‘I’m so sorry, I….’
‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ the cheese said curtly. It was clearly in a bad way. Hua wasn’t sure what to do.
‘I stink horribly, it’s embarrassing,’ the cheese said.
‘…’
‘Well don’t just stand there. Fetch a knife or something and try to get me cleaned up.’
Hua picked out a sharp blade from one of the drawers and began to scrape away the mould.
‘Ouch, that hurts,’ complained the cheese.
‘I’m doing my best,’ Hua said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘Let’s just take it slowly, OK?’ the cheese said. ‘I’m feeling somewhat fragile.’

 

 

 

Simon Collings
Picture Sky Cheese

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Rik Warwick: Enjoying a new talent on the musical block

Alan Dearling informs us that:

Rik Warwick is a guitar finger-picking maestro. In fact, Rik is quickly becoming a cult guitarist around Todmorden, Hebden Bridge and up and down the Calder Valley in the Pennines. Superb playing on his Martin guitar, offering a range of classical, film (and video) favourites, plus his own instrumental interpretations of a range of popular tunes. If you’ve heard of the following list of guitar pickers, he may remind you of Davy Graham, John Fahey, Bert Jansch and John Renbourn. It’s most definitely not your normal ‘pub music’! Nice geezer too!

These photos and videos are from Sunday ‘sesh’ at The Pub in Water Street, Todmorden. Do go and watch and listen.

Rik plays Bach: https://vimeo.com/818285392

Rik’s ‘Tubular Bells’: https://vimeo.com/818289332

Rik Warwick – Be Happy: https://vimeo.com/818292802

Rik keeps on confusing me (and possibly many others) by using a diverse range of surnames and even first names (alternating between Richard and Rik) – but maybe, perhaps just maybe, he’ll settle down to one identity.

As I said, ‘Maybe!’

Great guitarist…

 

 

 

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Welcome to the New Age

In The New Age – The Atlantic Recordings 1988-1995, Kings X (6CD, Cherry Red)

The band I end up comparing Kings X too are Thin Lizzy, but that does both bands a disservice. It’s mostly because I can’t think of any other hard rock bands who write great melodies and harmonize so well, but Kings X have the edge, because of the way psychedelia, funk and a bit of soul creep into their music, at times softening what often gets called alt.rock or progressive metal.
 
Each of these six albums – their first six – gets the bonus track treatment (often live versions, but sometimes B-sides, edits or alternative versions; nothing major) and comes in an individual sleeve. The set clearly charts the changes, ambition and growth of the band, from C.S. Lewis inspired sci-fi concept album to grungier climes, at which point they changed label.

Out of the Silent Planet (the C.S. Lewis novel) underpinned that first album, one I confess has never grabbed me. It sounds like a thin version of Rush’s 2112, one without the complex layered guitars. The religious subtext of some of the songs meant the band got labelled a christian rock band, however hard they tried to say they were not, simply guys interested in faith, doubt and spirituality.

Their second album, Gretchen Goes to Nebraska, continued to explore those themes, and included a song that shared its title with their debut album. Again, I find it hard to hear much in it, but the next album, Faith Hope Love, felt like a massive step away from where they had started from. A mix of the anthemic (‘It’s Love’ and the title track), hard rocking, and free-er tracks such as ‘Moanjam’ (which would become a consistent  highlight live, with extended jamming), paved the way for critical and live success, perhaps proving that their song title ‘We Were Born to be Loved’ was true.

1992’s King’s X was more back to basics. Some gentler moments like the intro to ‘The Big Picture’ punctuate a pretty standard hard rock album, which riffs and bludgeons its way into the listener’s head. Despite consistently outstanding bass playing and guitar solos, it comes across as tired and samey, in contrast to concert recordings which show the band in top form. Dogman, released two years ago is a different beast altogether though! It comes in at top volume and with maximum creativity on the title track, then we get a further engagement with the notion of ‘truth’ on ‘Shoes’, which is full of vocal layering, guitars and energy.

Dogman is one of my favourite King’s X album. It’s heavy but filled with light and shade; it’s loud but also offers moments of emotional quiet and pensive thought. It aches, groans, screams and celebrates, and points the way to the final album in this box set, Ear Candy. Clothed in psychedelic graphics and photos, this album is even better than its predecessor. I’m not a big fan of drumming but the subtle playing which underpins the music here is outstanding, as are the changing dynamics and textures of the acoustic guitar and treated electric guitars. There’s a groove here, which softens the edge of some tracks, as does the foregrounding of the vocals. Sometimes the music even gets bluesy or – dare I say it – proggy for a few moments. The general tone is melancholic and questioning, the sound warm and embracing (although I have seen weird reviews that say the sound if dry and cold!), the production exemplary. It’s a knockout album, one that ended the band’s tenure at Atlantic Records, one that ends with the contemplative ‘Life Going By’, which not only contains an outstanding guitar solo but details Doug Pinnick’s own sense of foreboding, doubt, transience and freedom.

I’m not much of a heavy metal or hard rock fan but King’s X are an exception. Their music is original, different, accomplished and beguiling. This box is a great way to encounter their first few albums.

 

   Rupert Loydell

LIFE GOING BY

Ohh… my life going by
Ohh… my life going by
My life going by

I’ve read confusing fiction
And lived a contradiction
And I’ve wondered where on earth I’ve been

I’ve known a love forever
A truth I couldn’t sever
A chord that flows as free as wind

I’ve stood on the mountain and drank from the fountain
And poured it all out on the floor
Turned my back to the glory and walked the tenth story
And come back to knock on your door

Ohh… my life going by
Ohh… my life going on
My life going…
Ohh… my life going by
My life going…
Ohh… my life going by
My life going by

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RIP Mark Stewart, 1960-2023

Paranoia, conspiracy, political activism and great music. Whether releasing music solo, fronting The Pop Group, or playing with others such as The New Age Steppers, Stewart was a musical maverick and force of nature.

Mark Stewart passed away in early hours of Friday 21 April 2023.

 

Two quotes from a 2019 interview with Mark, published as part of a CD review at it:

‘Turn your hurt into healing, pain into power and wounds will become wisdom.’

‘The secret of change is to focus all your energy not on fighting the old, but on seeding the new. Attention is an alchemy that turns anxiety to beauty.’

The Pop Group – We Are Time

  
No waiting, No running
No searching behind
I will break you time
I will break your mind
Waiting
Is a crime

All will be now, dreams are too fast
You are the first, we are the last
Last, last
We are last

No sequence to follow
No fear of tomorrow
Kiss of neverness
Life of timelessness
We’ll break the speed of change
We’ll tame eternity

Time is within you
Shines through your eyes
We’ll kill the word
Black letter lies
Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies
Your world is built on lies

New Age Steppers – Crazy Dreams and High Ideals

Don’t worry it’s only art…
High ideals and crazy dreams
High ideals and crazy dreams

Some of them use their bodies
Some of them use their minds

And our ideals will prevail because we refuse to be
The stepping stones that pave the way for the small minority.

What are you trying to say
Your eyes give you away

High ideals and crazy dreams
High ideals and crazy dreams

Mark Stewart – Jerusalem

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Duplicate Publishing Fair



Duplicate Publishing Fair will be held at Eastside Projects, 86 Heath Mill Lane, Birmingham B9 4AR on Friday 5th (4-8pm) and Saturday 6th (12-5pm) of May. The fair is free to attend and open to all.

Exhibitors 2023: School of the Damned Press, OOMK, Rabbits Road Press, Bunny Bissoux, Rosalie Schweiker, Pittville Press, The Portland Inn Project, Radical Art Collective Stoke, Ground Workshops, Back To Books, Fawn Press, Harun Morrison, L4 Photography, Book Works, Mikayla Shuker, Mikrayola, No Go Press, Georgie Mac, Bunny Propaganda, Purple Ladder Studios, Less Than 500 Press, Geen Jones, Staff Room Press, Here Is Jonny, Dislocatedzine, Aleesha Nandhra, Khidr Collective, Fathomsun Press, Lunchtime for the Wild Youth, Tom Gooch, Morrigan Ivy, Eric Monk-Steel, Bushra Saleem, Unknown Publishing Thing, COPY, Leah Hickey, Summer Book (George Manson & Luke Humphries), Triple One Five, Charlotte with Ink, James Unsworth, Aarushi Matiyani, 3:03 collective, Erika Price, Elliot Hanks, Commonplace Press, Mark Pawson / Disinfotainment, BCU Illustration

There will also be a range of free workshops throughout the day on Saturday 6th May, so join-in and get creative!

More information at https://duplicatepublishingfair.com/

Eastside Projects is an artist-run multiverse based in a free public gallery in Digbeth, Birmingham. We commission artists, make art, think-in-public, curate exhibitions, programme events, work alongside communities, build relationships, create production facilities, support artists, produce public art projects, generate and apply research, develop talent, train artist-curators, and imagine new realities.

 

Eastside Projects is a house, a gathering space, a factory, another reality where anything is possible and everyone is welcome.

More about Eastside Projects at https://eastsideprojects.org/

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Sylvia’s Mother

Sylvia’s mother said we don’t need to bother
working class women in our fight for the vote.
Sylvia didn’t.

Sylvia’s mother said we’ll pause our struggles
for the duration, hand out white feathers.
Sylvia didn’t.

Sylvia’s mother said we don’t need men
from the working class with socialist views.
Sylvia didn’t.

Sylvia’s mother said she’d join the Conservatives,
stand for election which she did (but she lost).
Sylvia didn’t.

Sylvia’s mother says she’s delighted her statue
now stands in Parliament Square.

Sylvia isn’t. Hers will be placed in Clarkenwell Green,
she’ll stand with her people there.

 

 

 

 

Tonnie Richmond

Tonnie Richmond lives in Leeds and has spent many summers as a volunteer archaeologist in Orkney. She has had poems  published by Yaffle, Dragon/Yaffle, Driech, Leeds Trinity University and others. Her first pamphlet will be published later this year.

 

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Black Feathers

Their barbs stir up a breeze
on a blind-air day.
The dust, gravel, gravy of sun
and sand, the feathers
writhe in their future,
the state between life and death.

Their origin has been obliterated
by a black feline
that balances its languor on a fence-line.
Their freedom means nothing.
The feathers just be,
a part of the shadow so rare this summer,
and I try hard to fathom what this means,
but nothing and nothing comes to my mind.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration 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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SAUSAGE Life 267

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that thinks Dominic Raab is innocent until proven human

READER: Did you see the Rees-Mogg interview at Monacles R Us?
MYSELF:  No, I should have gone to Spaffsavers

FROM THE TIMES OF LONDON
At a recent meeting of the Eurosceptic Institute for Mumbo Jumbo, Baloney & Contemptible Bunkum, chief cheerleader Jacob Rees-Mogg, was asked what possible reason there might be for a man of his social position to be not wearing a monocle? “Oh, but that is where you are quite wrong!” The top-hatted, tripe-warbler replied, with an arch, patronising half-smirk.
Utilising a delicate pink aristocratic thumb and forefinger, he adjusted what we had mistakenly assumed until then to be his spectacles:
“As you can see, I am wearing not one monocle, but two. It is no secret that I am, at the very minimum, twice as posh as an ordinary posh person. With that in mind, I instructed an old family friend, the late Bertram Pauper, head jeweller at Bertwhistle & Scrivener of Mayfair, to weld together a pair of antique gold-rimmed monocles.”
Pausing to gaze, stony-faced at a nearby camera, he performed a smile and continued,
“My intention was to secure them to my face using the normal monocle-gurn, but unfortunately, that made me resemble an owl chewing a scorpion. Clever old Bertram came up with the ingenious idea of attaching a thin, hooked rod to either side, which, when anchored to my ears, securely clamps the two monocles to my face.“
Magnified by his double monocle, the noble eyes dimmed like over-poached eggs, as he added gravely,
“The Pauper family has enjoyed a long tradition of faithful service to the gentry, spanning many generations. In this centennial remembrance of the sacrifices of 1914-18, it is worth noting that Bertram’s great uncle, Wilfred Pauper, threw himself on a land mine in order to protect his commanding officer, my maternal Great Grandfather Lord Montague Mountjoy-Pemberton, as he bravely ordered his men ‘over the top’ at Ypres. Betram went to his grave unselfishly knowing his place, little realising he had facilitated the botoxically inscrutable,
yet obsequiously patronising, gargoyle-gaze, with which my public is now so familiar.”

MORE STUNNING GIFT IDEAS
From the 2023 Guano All Purpose Gift Catalogue

For Dad: A home crystal meth laboratory with 2 pairs Armani Y-fronts.
For Mum: Burberry leather lead-lined hog-slaughtering apron in scarlet or plum.
For Sis: Autographed David Ike mood-swing meditation crystals containing ancient Sanskrit bath salts in lizard-skin presentation case.
For Grandma: Jimmy Choo, spike heeled dominatrix boots with concealed razor attachment.
For Grandpa: Samsonite, Greek cheese-poisoning travel kit (Halloumi or Feta).

RIVAL PIER LATEST
Mystery businessman, Russian emigré Vladimir Nokov, who made his money by cornering Russia’s laundrette market after perestroika, appears to have revised his ambitious plans for the construction of a rival five-kilometre-long pier in Hastings. At a press conference, asked why he planned to re-situate the proposed new pier from the sea front to an area of outstanding natural beauty on the outskirts of Bexhill, he replied, “It’s a no-brainer. Have you seen those waves?”
Nokov, known in Russia as ‘The Laundryman’, is convinced there will be support for his revolutionary landlocked pier.
“Think about it”, he told us
“Point 1: A coastal pier, exposed to the sea all day, and for all I know, all night, will be vulnerable to rising damp. Nobody likes rising damp, which can end up being very costly. With an inland construction, damp-related expenses will be kept to the bare minimum”.
“Point 2: Visitors to the pier will be able to drive up to either end, where they will discover ample multi-level car parking, a small drive-in responsible gambling centre and affordable snacks”.
Nokov explained: “Obviously the pier will now have to be somewhat shorter than my original plan, but by ditching the private jet runway, halving the number of animatronic stampeding elephants and utilizing the water-free lower deck I can squeeze in twice as many family-friendly casinos”.

 

Sausage Life!

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

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

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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BYE, BARRY

And so Edna ends and with her that one person era
That is and was Barry Humphries, comedy’s true
Connoisseur, who supped culture in from craft
And charm’s golden chalice, dribbling as Les,
Or imbibing as Barry once did through drinks curse.

Starting with art and his notorious exhibitions
In Sydney and Melbourne where ‘Pus in Boots’
First stirred outrage from the custard within wellingtons,
To his love of the greats, from Raphael to Picasso,
We see his full fine face smiling proudly before

Its sad framing in the gallery of new skeletons.
But what Humphries did for flesh cannot be forgotten.
He made it vibrate with deep laughter from outright
Innuendo, to the most skilful bon mots. Sex was sly
In the mouth of his Everage alter-ego; which was

Performance Art at its finest as he showed them all
Where to go. From Gilbert and George to Cindy Sherman;
This breathing portrait of ambition and fame damned
Us all, for what we want and expect and of how fame
Itself traps the famous, freeing the fans of its horror,

As even death and children are constructs; bollocks
Crushed as paint say, by Pollock before being thrown
To the wall. Very few knew Sandy Stone, one of Humphries
Greatest creations. A suburban ghost whose sweet
Manifestos advertise a pale past. They contained scented

Words and showed how Barry led language into bright alleys
And tunnels of light lost suns cast. Les Patterson parodied
Every officiate you can think of, as well as Manhood
Which Humphries himself so enhanced. What with his great
Flop of fringe and moonlight eyes; his seductions

And various wives showed that glamour even restrained
Was style’s dance. One of his final shows celebrated
The Weimar, with Humphries as host and singer and alluring
Chanteuse; he encapsulated all art from Schiele
To Bauhaus, making each choice a prized chocolate

That those of any taste might prefer. And now he has gone.
As God or Death now selects him. And the day after
Mark Stewart, a giant of Punk; where’s the plan?
Or is this indiscriminate swoop part of the stork’s
Secret mission; for just as that image delivers,

So it removes each great man. And each great woman.
Or child. Or they we can think of. At 89, one considers
The length of the road, certainly. But it is not age
That’s key here. It is the talent age houses. And Barry
Humphries was talent. He made psychology art,

Skillfully. Watch any interview when he refers to Dame
Edna Everage as separate. Hear how she talks of him.
And you’re laughing just as you are chilled, powerfully.
For while these two people may share the same flesh,
With one a cartoon, one a painting, the space between

Is substantial. This is not an act. This is real. The culmination
With laughs of man’s small-scale evolution: to be somehow
Other, to be the kind of thing that Gods feel. Barry Humphries
Did that. He was no mere entertainer. Barry instead,
Was the trainer for how to escape; art’s true deal.

We are losing so much. I wonder who will replace them.
Bruce, Barry, Barker; the lords of lost laughs are now air.
Pixels perform. You are the scintillating stars kept above us.
Contain in your sparkle these shards of the past.
Retrieve care. Humphries. Bunuel. Newley, Pinter

And Bowie. Welles. Bergman. Lennon. Lemmon
And Newman. Miller, Williams and Monroe. Each name
Still performs, even if on unseen stages. We seek them out
Now in darkness. Stare into it, searching and see what
You can find, possums. Grow.

 

 

                                                        David Erdos 22/4/23

 

 

 

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HOW TO GET BACK



It was clear from Day One that each of them had
A specific point of departure; the wounded craft,
Barely rising; a fattened bird, far from free.

Ironic seen now and indeed a quarter century after
When Lennon’s ghostly piano was re-fleshed with Lynne
And love by the Three. 1994’s Anthology, made 1969

Seem much sooner; then, in a little over ten years,
John’s murder, and then just over twenty for George,
Stabbed by the mad, before the cold knife of cancer

Prised song from sinew, to make the youngest of them
Saint and elder, as Paul and Richie sat with him at the anvil,
Their hands touching gently to shape a life of love

On death’s forge. Get Back is just a TV series of course,
A smooth assemblage of progress towards dissolution
And the semi-sacred paths they would take;

From near feral screams to the farm, to the worlds
Of film, and sedition. To their oncoming war and the anger
Wrenched from the stylus and after the mantra of

and in the end the love you take/is equal to the love you make..
The last lines on the last Beatles album. If you don’t count
The coda of Her Majesty; a throwaway joke in nearly eight hours

Of joking as four pop progressives parade a poor mourning,
Which is quickly matched as McCartney summons his mother
To essay in Let It Be. Michael Lindsay Hogg, Orson’s son

(there is no doubt in my mind as I watch him) in attempting
To film them is more Star than Director as the whine
In his voice dominates. At one point he declares he is a bigger

Fabs fan than Linda, just as his strenuous efforts to extricate
Some sort of plan escalates. This naturally comes to nought
As they move from Arabian amphitheatre to Apple.

The gig on the roof emblematic of their lack of direction
By then. The only way left is not up, or even down
For that matter; in pulling apart prize and promise,

And exceeding potential these mobile Mozarts have stalled
Boyish motion, to stare back starkly as men. And realise
What they want, which for the first time seems different.

John and Paul newly partnered are primed to both advance
And retreat. With George straining hard, his stockpile of songs
Used as ammo, as he passive-agressives McCartney and then

Nonchantly leaves, while they eat. The lads seem to exist
Just on toast, which Jesus born now would have eaten.
Apart from one chocolate muffin, and wine’s easy oil,

It’s just love. Or rather love torn, or all used up,
Rattled, shaken, boiled into cups of tea taken
And chaos caught by the china which contains

The first rumbling of storms from above. Lennon’s first
Meeting with Allen Klein features too, which signals
The fatal and last separation. And a touch unnaturally

We see Yoko sat at John’s side all the time. She kisses him
As he plays, sews and reads a newspaper, and yet
We detect no true tension between her and the Three.

No-one minds. Not that much is exchanged. But McCartney
Does not disparage. Instead he defends their position,
Joined at hip and heart and in bags. They all look worn-out,

As scruffiness supplants Sergeant Pepper. And looking at
Lennon is haunting, when one recalls the occasion
Paul will describe as a ‘drag’ eleven years on.

And there is a surfeit of a similar sort of shock as you
Watch them. As both we and the Beatles bare witness
To the death and decline of their dream. Not one perhaps
That John dreamt, save to resolve his past struggles
And which can be heard in God’s lyric, and in Imagine too:
Nothing’s theme. The start of each day is an end.

These men have worked their way through fame’s wisdom.
In short supply, it is a pose, without purpose, and now
At 26 to 28 its too clear. John’s eyes oracle, being both

Blank and insightful. He makes a masturbatory jest
About standards: ‘they died so we could wank!’ Wit from fear.
For even Beatles can quake, just as they once did in the quarry.

Hidden under rock, souls are rolling, and once you roll souls
The flesh pales. Emptying everything  before the body careens
At the cliff-face. Not even the shards of song can now

Save them. Practised as they are, purpose fails. A dissolute
George Martin attends, looking somewhat muted, demoted.
Before Spector, Glyn Johns engineers and produces,

As Martin mopes, a spare part. His former authority
Spent, due to the new and sudden currency of his charges,
Who in five years surpassed him, and yet his love

For what’s lost shows his heart. It is as if he can smell
The end, too. The tears in his eyes tell that story.
But he is there still as parent, caretaker, while managing

A number of minor details. One can see how potential
Once peeled, will shed the skin set to wither,
As the juice is spilt, every Adam even matched by his Eve

Seeks Christ’s nail. Of course there are no martyrs here yet,
But McCartney carries the can they all drink from.
But as he glugs and drives for direction, each of them

Leave the car. George has bequeathed Pattie Boyd
And slept with Maureen, wife of Ringo. Who also seems
Distant, ransacked, withdrawn; a slowed Starr.

Each of them chase different roads as they leave
The 1960s behind them. Not just at the decade
But as (in a metaphoric sense) an idea. Which these four boys

Defined. And in their wake there was rupture; from the shock
Deaths of Joplin, Morrison, Hendrix, to something bright
Broken; a forced amputation of something fresh long held dear.

And yet they were just a band. They wrote songs.
Of which most are important. Some are not vital.
But some are hymns to new Gods. Anthems for all.

Religions in rhymes and chord changes. Genres invented.
Innocence trained to fetch and run, like a dog.
Watching these films, from gap to gig is instructive.

What are the standards with which we advance?
Did they know? And how do we get them back
With Richard and Paul in their eighties.

As Mick and Keith join them, with Pete and Ray
Set to go. Along with Robert, and Jim, Peter and Phil,
Brian, Roger, David and Ian, Bryan and John, every name.

Whomsoever is yours is also ours. Music moves us.
Not just with emotions, or muscle, but with meaning
Masked in time’s game. All Things Must Pass.

But what now surpasses? The Beatles were pulling apart,
But I held them. For eight hours at least,

                            No change came.

 

 

           

                                                   David Erdos April 21st 2023 

 

 

 

 

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Whose Blue Is This Blue

You don’t mean me
You mean verve translated 
To a latchkey minimally 
Kidding indifference

Memento vivi sitcom
In situ relegated to
Backrow provenance
Whose blue is this blue

Vertex vortex plaything
Girlish accuracy left shelved
Still pounces white on darker 
Background packed with seeds

And reeds give forth 
A sotto shine as if only
Mountains loft their shifting
Hue to mirror what we breathe

 

 

Sheila E Murphy

 

 

 

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A Broken Document

And this is strange. A broken document. An ellipse of configuration while looking at the past, rereading what was written fifteen or sixteen years ago. The seams become crooked, pulled out of line by the constant adjustment of the body and the weather. A wool sweater to cover the skin, allow sun to be absorbed without thinking of any particular gesture towards the spaces beyond this simple contagious daily arena where speech and silence, the matted fury of anticipation and disappointment flow across an undisclosed rectangle or sphere. The exact contours are always unknown. So, the reading of past pages about pre-dawn thunderstorms, periods of withdrawal and sudden illumination, the mythological elements still embedded in the consciousness, Golden Boughs, magical swords, rivers whose waters impede passage or defy entrance, sudden appearances of stags in a late winter woods, brings about this curious uncertainty, the misplacement of fingers on a keyboard stimulates the transposition of certain letters, thus rendering the text comical instead of significant.

Today is more somber than expected. The clouds look pasted onto a slightly curved surface. Somewhere far to the east in the Atlantic ocean, a hurricane is rolling over cold waters, losing its amber-edged rains, its tremendous documentation of devastation. No one records the minutiae of loss, the silken wavering of fall grasses, the strands of someone’s hair kept for decades, the softness of air on a warm night. What is ephemeral does not lose its identity, it disappears. What was constant is now in transition, in an unrecognizable state of flux, witness to its own demise. People perceive the constants of home and place within the context of growing mortality. Human, animal, and plant loss bisect the day; each zone becomes fused with the next logical configuration. A broken roof and a dead bird; a suffering child and the splintered boards of a sailboat. The allowance of arms and hands provides some measure of safety, of comfort. Building becomes all, clearing, cleaning, building. There is no particular solace in information, no real need to understand what meteorological elements produced the cataclysm. Predictability is no longer useful.

In a way, the reading of pages written fifteen or sixteen years ago provides an impetus to turn away from the past. The present is all-absorbing, they say. The blue throbbing along the body is messenger of winter, the vast snowing along the spine of the mind, turning leaves into soil, rocks into sentinels unable to recreate the enclosure. A garden of possibilities is revealed. No paper is really acid free. The air is always present, even between the pages of a closed book. What acts on the paper, however, is the mind, the capricious and all-devouring fire of the mind. It is ice-blue and saturated green, wobbling brown and voluptuous black. The lines running between the letters have another source, perhaps somewhere in the mythological lands cited in innocence, in ignorance of the true force of the allusions. The Golden Bough, the great polished apple, the pitted sword of the lake remain with us even if we no longer seek, see, or comprehend what appears.

My skin is blue now, and not with cold or mortal illness. It is sky blue on a clear day, morning glory blue, sapphire blue. It is sometimes leaf-gold, rising on sudden currents, moving into the sun at some unforgettable speed, the consequence of which is an array of dazzling images, a quickening of the pulse, a reluctance to speak until the soft night returns. No one notices such a phenomenon. No one conceives of such a peculiar turning away from the human. Sapphire blue on a blue day with blue flowering blooming. This is the under-story of imagination, the infinitely thin layer of light under perception. My hair is white-gold, woven into a silken trance, a nesting place for shadows, the presumed source of early snow or the wavering light behind the eyes when sleep impossible disturbs the capacity to dream.

However, these are speculations not unrelated to the first marring of the pages, the unique substitution of q for a, which created an unreadable text, a text so close to the threshold of the absurd as to create panic, withdrawal, the need to erase and discard. Every time letters move about, the mind wonders if it should follow or dismiss these antics as illusion and caprice, the ardent disillusion of overly sensitive minds. So, the pages from April 7, 1999 and April 7, 2000 have created their own sort of dissonance. Pre-dawn thunderstorms bringing in sleet, episodes of wariness and caution, the occlusion of time, a lingering tendency to cast the world in mythological terms, perhaps more easily identifiable, perhaps the most common of displacements. In any event, the magic river remains, the shimmering ripples in the lake have not disappeared, the road to the underworld is still perilous, although they are manifest in other forms. Anyone desiring to watch a solar eclipse does so at his or her own risk. The sun shows no pity and allows no time for reflection. Even the smoked filmstrip cannot remove the intensity of the image projected in calm water. There is no image apart from the body itself, and it burns so far inside time, that one cannot perceive the subtle changes it generates. The life force provides its own double, creates and absorbs its own enemy, and we stand under the green-leaves canopy of eternal illusion.

 

 

 

Andrea Moorhead

 

 

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Baker Takes The Cake

‘You sound too sweet’ said salty Miles
To Chet   –   reportedly
For if he spoke one word per day
Sparsity assigned it extra weight  
And this was half his style

‘Now there’s a white cat on the Coast
Who’s going to eat you up’ said Bird
To Miles the skinny sideman straight
From Juilliard   –   just to keep him on his toes 
Remember nothing ‘here’ is permanent

‘Why are all Rome’s jazz clubs underground?’
Chet opined of Gregory
Corso in the Catacombs
‘When I feel I’m going to die
I hurry to the movies’ answered Gregory

Chet made soundtracks for the Roman screen
‘I gave to him three notes
He hands me back inventions of great beauty   –
But the film they made about him?
That’s not him’

‘Gone Bird’ said Kenny Dorham on the stand
Some remarked he meant ‘Go On!’
New York flip-talk
For ‘take another chorus then another’
Sax hauled out of hock with string and gum
On the street the world connecting
‘Out of Nowhere’ with nothing

Cut flowers in ice-water buckets
Still bloom on the ring road to Rome
‘Little boy blue come blow your horn’
For the last lyric American voices
In Campo di Fiori and for
‘All the Things You Are’

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

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Self-help 

It seems it’s she’s who’s died to heal his private world
and her fingers know the colour of his eyes, lucrative
as they present themselves under a pale sky
as if in apology for being good. She’d found him 

on a bench crying for the life that’d oozed away
in a time once bright and quick, with a good dose
of pretty tipple, self-confidence around the mouth,
a pleasure to be a part of, but she never heard 

or felt him enter, warm as a sunned cat. Acting
was her teenage dream, but can she now play mother
as she reaches in her bag for something for his smoker’s
cough? This musing makes me feel like my lighter self,

she explained, the corners of her mouth trembling.
It’ll still be warm when she returns in the morning,
wet from a night of it, heavy in her black dress.
The cock can tell the weather’s going to change.

 

 

 
Ian Seed

 

 

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RIVEN

RIVEN

I’ve always wanted
to use ‘riven’ in a poem

Now I have

BEDTIME READING

The Observer’s Book of Birds
by The Wright Brothers

I think it’s one of their best

OVEN GLOVES

Why don’t
they also do
oven hats?

BIRTHDAY

It’s not mine
It’s a chap I know

I forgot to send him a card

I’ll send him two
next year

 

 

Eric Eric
Picture Nick Victor

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Uncle Dominic

Hi I’m dominic
fly me i’m among
the best of bosses
a friendly guy in the office
i may appear a bit gruff
but really i’m a pussycat
i’ll always take the staffs’ side
leading gently by the hand
i really am a softie
consider myself a gentleman
i don’t scream or shout
as other bosses might
i’m fair & weighted resourceful
won’t bully out of spite
my door & policy is always open
what else are friends for?

 

 

 

Clive Gresswell

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An England Fit for Billionaires


They say our bombers will be up again tonight.
Last night they dropped 10,000 tons of TNT,
destroying, among other things,
a number of public buildings which,
according to the government, were of little use
and which will be replaced with luxury accommodation.
Work is already underway to clear the bomb-sites.
There were casualties, of course. Most people
made it to the shelters, although many of the elderly and infirm
chose to stay put and take their chance, knowing that
in an England fit for billionaires there’d be no place for them.
We may never know how many didn’t make it.
They’ll be forever in our thoughts.

The Prime Minister made a speech last night.
We all gathered, wrapped in blankets, round our wireless sets.
He told us the war must go on and how our troops
have made fast progress through the villages of the South and how
special forces have blown up a number of bridges
built between communities in the Northern provinces.
They have also laid mines on the beaches
to deter holiday-makers and prevent work-shy foreigners
and unspecified terrorists from entering the country
in rubber dinghies. Plans are afoot to recruit old men and boys
into Local Defence Volunteer Battalions
to patrol the streets, to hunt down woke pacifists,
environmental activists, trade unionists and the like,
to guard the polling-stations and check the papers of the under-50s.
He warned us to take no notice of those who insist
on speaking out and who claim the war to be madness.
They are traitors, Quislings, fifth columnists, he said.
They have no respect for the dead. We must never forget, he said, that
as we once defeated the Nazis, so can we defeat ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 Dick Callum
Picture Nick Victor

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