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
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
.
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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Affairs

Mrs. Sen slipped into an affair
with the husband of the woman
her husband slept with.

None of the four knew anything.
The hive under the porch’s canopy
hummed all day and sometimes
during the night if Mrs. Sen skipped
to turn off the light.

These affairs had some doltish simile
with the knowledge the four did not possess.
All they had was the street their children
bicycled on, their houses occupied two wrinkles
on the plain, in the time. An arrow marked
where to go although if you follow it
you might never leave where you were.

 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

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

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Weird, Quirky and sometimes Wonderful! The Free Republik of Uzupis, in the Old Town, Vilnius, Lithuania

 

Part Two of Alan Dearling’s adventures

This is a little post-Covid adventure story. I was booked to attend the 2020 Uzupis Independence celebrations when the pandemic struck. The events take place around 1st April each year, with a street parade on the 1st and conference (and an extra-ordinary gathering of the Uzupis Ambassadors from around the world the day before). And so it came to pass that I returned to Uzupis for my first post-Covid visit for 25th Birthday celebrations in 2023.

Uzupis started out as an area of edgy, creative poverty. Largely derelict and unloved, abandoned. A place for artists, drinkers, drug-takers, poets, potters, writers. Bohemians. The original inhabitants of the area were in essence ‘squatters’. No-one much else wanted to live or work there. It is often compared with Ruigoord outside of Amsterdam, Nimbin in New South Wales, Christiania in Copenhagen and Montmartre in Paris. But, actually it is pretty much unique. A curiosity.

The area of Uzupis is now much more gentrified even compared with my first trip there in 2016. More cafes, up-market ‘posh’-shops, galleries and eateries. It still has some unusual establishments, like the local bar, ‘Spunka’, but there are more places and spaces geared-up for tourists, such the UMI Arts Incubator complex and post office and the Border Control shop on the main bridge entering the Uzupis area. And I have an ‘official’ role at the Independence celebrations – I have been the Uzupis Ambassador for the Scottish-English borderlands since 2016. And in 2023 my title and role has changed. More about that a little bit later. There is also a recently published, rather lovely book entitled ‘Zymus’ featuring photos by Marius Abramavicius-Neboisia of many significant ‘players’ in the Uzupis’ story.

Here’s what the official Uzupis website says about the place and its history. But first here are links to more about Uzupis on-line:

 

Uzupis: (not a secure site) http://www.uzupiorespublika.com/en/home/

http://uzhupisembassy.eu/

Alis Film: Short but amazing history of the Republic of Užupis 1997-2018 year (10 min in English)

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gn5eqZZgb0I

 

“In 1998, the residents of the area declared the Republic of Užupis, along with its own flag, currency, president, cabinet of ministers, a constitution written by Romas Lileikis and Thomas Cepaitis, an anthem, and an army (originally numbering approximately 11 men, now disbanded). They celebrate this independence annually on Užupis National Day, which falls on April 1st. Artistic endeavours are the main preoccupation of the Republic; the life-long President of the Republic of Užupis, Romas Lileikis, is himself a poet, musician, and film director.”

“It is unclear whether the statehood of the Republic, recognized by no government, is intended to be serious, tongue-in-cheek, or a combination of both. The decision to place Užupis Day on April 1st (April Fools’ Day) may not be coincidental, emphasizing the importance of humor and non-importance of “serious” political decisions.”

“Copies of the 39 articles of the Republic’s constitution and 3 mottos – “Don’t Fight”, “Don’t Win”, “Don’t Surrender” – in thirty eight languages (as to April 2020), can be found affixed to a wall on Paupio street in the area. Some of these articles would be unremarkable in a constitution; for instance, Article 5 simply reads “Man has the right to individuality”. Others are more idiosyncratic; a typical example can be found in Articles 1 (“People have the right to live by the River Vilnelė, while the River Vilnelė has the right to flow past people.”), 12 (“A dog has the right to be a dog”) and 37 (“People have the right to have no rights”), each of which makes an unusual apportionment of rights. There are a number of paired articles, such as Articles 16 (“People have the right to be happy”) and 17 (“People have the right to be unhappy”) which declare people’s right to either do or not do something, or to be or not to be someone, according to their desire.”

However, Uzupis has become a magnet drawing literally thousands of visitors to the Old Town area throughout the year. Visitors have included the Pope Francis in 2018, who blessed the Uzupis constitution, and the 14th Dalai Lama, who first visited the Republic in 2013. He returned in 2018 to plant a tree in the Republik’s ‘Tibet Square’(which features a rather lovely shrine), which marked 100 years since the Council of Lithuania proclaimed the restoration of an independent state of Lithuania.

A solid silver coin was minted in 2023 to celebrate the 25 years of the Uzupis Republik. And personally I was awarded my second Chevalier Silver Garlic of the Republik from Tomas Cepaitis, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and my new Ambassadorial designation as Captain UFO: Ambassador to Aliens was recognised. I rather like the fact that Tomas got the year date wrong! My new home in Todmorden in the Pennines is the self-proclaimed UFO capital of the UK, with regular alien sightings, and, of course, a fair few abductions including the local policeman, Alan Godfrey. All in a day’s plod-work!

 

Here’s the announcement:

“ALAN DEARLING will be rotated from ambassadors at England-Scottish border to ambassadors among UFOnauts at 18:00 in “Spunk AL”

Alan to be awarded the 2nd SILVER GARLIC Order.

6pm in Spunk! Everyone is invited.”

The Independence Day parade was colourful (if rather damp). The theme for the 25th year was ‘For the Angels’. There was also a bitterly cold swim in the river by the Mermaid down by the Kavine (which also serves as the parliament building).

On the 1st April, Uz Euros (worth 4 Euros each) were in use in bars and cafes. Musicians and poets performed around the 2.3 square mile area. I stayed in the Downtown Forest Hostel just outside of Uzupis which was a friendly base (and in the past has provided me with lots of lively musical entertainment – but it was too cold outside the hostel on this visit).

In all, Uzupis is and was really quirky, weird and wonderful. Fun, and a rather lovely mix of reality,frolicsome insanity and artistic anarchy.

(And thanks for some of the pics from Billy and Antonio and the Uzupio Respublika Facebook site)

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Myth and Mystery

Cuddy, Benjamin Myers (404pp, Bloomsbury)

Like most of Benjamin Myers’ work, Cuddy concerns itself with memory, place, relationships and what might be called mystical presence or psychogeography, that is how the past influences and affects the present or future. In his letter to ‘friends and readers’ which prefaces this review copy, Myers says his book is about ‘human connection’ and that for him ‘writing is a form that borders on the magical’; and also goes on to later declare that ‘just because I don’t have religious faith doesn’t mean I don’t have faith in nature and faith in mankind’. So there!

Why the mention of religious faith? Because Cuddy is hung on the stories that surround Saint Cuthbert and his legacy of Durham Cathedral, shaped as a work in four books plus an interlude and a prologue. This prologue uses broken up prose (I don’t read it as poetry) to ventriloquize Cuddy speaking directly to the reader, an act of paranormal fiction, whilst part one opens with a series of quotes from attributed sources which conjure up the geography and mood of North East England, before we are introduced to the group of monks and their servants and hangers-on who are carrying the coffin of their Saint to keep it away from the Viking raiders.

There are visions and signs, info drops, historical scene setting and much incantation and breast-beating before the group arrive at what will become Durham and declare that they will build a great church on this looped bend in the river to house Cuddy. In the final part of Book I we are told ‘The first stone was laid late last August’ and that ‘[t]his is England anew’.

Book II’s ‘England anew’ turns out to be AD 1346 and the late medieval squalor of a town spreading around a cathedral that is still being built. It is a love story but also one of hate, surrounded by lechery and prostitution, sexism and patriarchy. The bullying, violent Fletcher Bullard is away on military duty, and his wife slowly gets to know and then learn to love, the stonemason Francis Rolfe. Meanwhile there are monks secretly bonking in the woods, abusing boys and each other, and revengeful plots and accidents being hatched, until Fletcher Bullard, back from the front, has to run. Eda Bullard, our narrator, seems self-aware, and at times speaks directly to the reader:

   ‘My story and that of Fletcher Ballard, just one story in a
   thousand million stories that combine to define a place’

and, later on

   ‘The stories we tell one another are all that shall remain when
   time dies and even the strongest sculpted stones crumble to
   sand.’

It is this ‘sculpted stone’ that speaks in the brief ‘Interlude’, offering a voiceover commentary on what happens in a brief, ten page script focussing on the imprisonment of 3,000 Scottish soldiers in the cathedral by Oliver Cromwell:

                              ‘Bones become dust. Dust gathers. A spirit
   settles and these brave young lads become ghosts of this
   uncivil war, left to stalk the ancient city that stole them.
   Yet here remains immoveable, watching. Stone of God,
   God of stone. The whole of hell. Sufferance in its totality.
   I remember the names of my new sons. I hold them all
   in my architecture for evermore, for no one else will.

And then we are in 1827 for Book III, where Saint Cuthbert is being exhumed. Professor Forbes Fawcett-Black is our rather refined and self-impressed narrator. He does not like being summoned to the North, does not agree with digging up the body, nor like the fact the is subject to aural hallucinations:

       ‘o Cuddy Cuddy o
        o Lord o God
        o Jesus

      The very sound of this whispered mantra, so dire in its deliv-
   ery, made me want to flee from the room, but I could not move
   for I was frozen stiff with fear.’

And perhaps rightly so. Despite repeated warnings in his mind to ‘Let. History. Lie‘ (later reimagined as ‘Let his story lie’) Cuthbert’s carved and inscribed coffin is raised up and desecrated:

      ‘Time-crumbled wood and soil-soured bones and the damp
   rot of death-earth; all was a mess in this hallowed stone place’

The speaker of the mantra is revealed to be an owl-faced boy we have previously met, who continues to haunt Fawcett-Black, as do others from Cuddy’s past: ‘in dreams and waking nightmares I hear the chanting of the saint’s tortured acolytes’. Despite his complicity, the Professor refuses to engage with or reveal what happened next:

   ‘I know not what became of the remains of the Saint Cuthbert.
   And I shall neither write nor speak of the matter again.’

So he shuts his notebook, unaware that our future eyes will read his journal, unaware that he is one strand of Myers’ fiction woven around Cuddy.

Myers tells us he ‘grew up close to Durham Cathedral […]which has always been something of a personal obsession’, and this may have helped inform the more naturalist and contemporary Book IV, which is set in 2019. Here, Michael is struggling to keep both his dying mother and himself warm and fed, travelling miles, often on foot, to casual labouring jobs, courtesy of an agency which pockets a large percentage of his take home pay. He is a grafter, though, and gets noticed by a foreman who eventually directs him to Durham Cathedral to work for a colleague. Nearer to home, working alongside a team of masons and archaeologists who do not abuse, ignore or bully him, Michael comes under the spell of the cathedral as well as Evie, a female student working in the cafe where he collects the lunches to deliver up the tower. Although no love affair with Evie ensues, and Michael and his mother both gently exit the book on the final page, it is an exquisite study in ‘human connection’ across time, class divides and generations.

As indeed the whole book is. Since Myers himself uses the word ‘magic’, I don’t mind saying this is a brutal, enchanted, magical fiction, working on so many levels and in so many genres. Cuddy is folk story, history, romantic fiction, historical fiction, creative non-fiction, truth, memory and lie. Perhaps Michael says it best, as he talks to Saint Cuthbert (or himself), so I’ll leave the end of this review to him:

      ‘Do you believe in me?
      I believe there was once a man called Cuthbert who they
   reckon tended sheep as a boy, and became a monk who lived on
   a rock, and his body was sometimes kept in a cave and then, when
   the Vikings came, carried all about the place. And then, later,
   when the folk who carried him got tired or saw a cow and
   received a sign, depending on what you believe, they built first
   a church to house his body, then a bigger church and then the
   cathedral, and Durham was born. And there his bones lie today,
   sealed beneath stone, where Japanese tourists kneel and the cafe
   sells scones the size of your fist. And he is you.
      But what do you believe, Michael?
      I don’t know.
      It’s OK not to know. Only the arrogant and the ignorant are certain.
   Everything else is myth and mystery. Untold history.

 

Rupert Loydell

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Helter Skelter…The Beatles

Step away from the hysteria of Charles Manson’s misinterpretations and acid-fried murders, and the chaos of The White Album, and listen to ‘Helter Skelter’ as it started out, a much longer song. Engineer Brian Gibson, in The Beatles Recording Sessions, briefly describes a 27 minute version that was recorded as the song was being worked on: ‘One of the versions of “Helter Skelter” developed into a jam which went into and then back out of a somewhat bizarre version of “Blue Moon”.’ Here’s a 12 minute version, since that legendary longer version has never been released, officially or otherwise:


When I get to the bottom
I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
‘Til I get to the bottom and I see you again
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ha-ha-ha!

Well do you, don’t you want me to love you?
I’m coming down fast, but I’m miles above you
Tell me, tell me, tell me, come on tell me the answer
Well, you may be a lover, but you ain’t no dancer

Now, helter-skelter
Helter-skelter
Helter-skelter
Yeah
Ooh!

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The Worst of Times

 

Lamps are guttering and the nooks and alcoves fill with orphans and oddballs. Dickens is man of the moment: frock coat brushed, beard trimmed, and marital infidelities brushed under the Victorian dresser whenever he appears on daytime chat shows. No one reads the novels, of course, but you can’t move for memes, movies, and musical adaptations, and the most popular names for new-born kids are Charles, Oliver, Nancy, and Nell, with the occasional Sloppy and Tattycoram from parents who’ve scrolled through Wikipedia. The latter will be bullied when they reach school age but that’s what you get for ideas above your station. Stations, incidentally, are rammed like Frith’s teeming panoramas, with men in brushed frock coats with trimmed beards and marital infidelities prickling on their sweaty brows as they wait for trains that will never arrive. There are, inevitably, unsightly deaths of orphans and oddballs hunched in nooks and alcoves, but the PM, lost in his vast cravat like an extra rat from The Muppet Christmas Carol, assures us that negotiations with unions are going well and that they’ll all have exactly what they don’t want until they get tired of coming. Lamps are guttering but darkness, he assures us, is cheap.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick

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ABSTRACTION AND REACTION

 

It is no longer enough to think in terms of changing the world through the arts anymore.
The arts are a form of prurient entertainment. – J G Ballard

 

 

Just for one fleeting moment accept a common view of art history; a scheme which asserts that Abstract Art was the ‘progressive’ evolutionary culmination of the avant-garde.

Now, it is possible to articulate a disturbing observation.

Perhaps this ‘progress’ – from Realism via Impressionism and Fauvism, to the ‘pure’ Abstraction of De Stijl and Suprematism – perhaps this was, in fact, a progressive retreat: a reactionary retreat from reality. One might suggest that avant-garde-ism is ‘progressive’ in the same way that some diseases are ‘progressive’ – and of course, because progress is often uneven, the patient may experience a relapse, or an illness may go into remission. Brancusi tried to forestall this suggestion of progress when he denigrated as “imbeciles” all those who “call my work abstract”. For him Abstraction was an attempt to capture the essence of things, to capture ‘the idea’; and the Idea was ultimate reality. This way he tried to define his aesthetic as ‘more real’ than the Realists, yet it is tempting see such explanations as confirming our proposal.

There is no law to prevent us defining Brancusi’s aesthetic as regressive, as retrograde as a cultural relapse, a return to ancient philosophical conceptions – namely a re-affirmation of that pernicious Platonist belief in a perfect, changeless, supernal, ‘higher’ world; a world ‘beyond’ or ‘above’ mundane appearances.

Wyndham Lewis was probably correct when he asserted that ‘anti-natural’ art movements faced an impasse in the early decades of the twentieth century. He observed how ‘pure’ abstraction contained within it the seeds of its own demise. Modern Painting now appears a dead-end development, a completed project – a ‘head-in-the-clouds adventure’, or, more charitably, an exhausted phase of a wider Modernism.

Even so, it is instructive to ponder the dynamics of escapism and to reflect upon the cultural significance of unreality. How is it that ideas of, or beliefs in, ‘ultimate reality’ are the most unreal ideas of all? In fact such phenomena are not really ideas as such, but phantoms of wish-fulfilment, or, and this is more likely, symptoms of a common malaise – delirium’s fevered imaginings masquerading as profound thoughts. The antique provenance of such thoughts ensures the reverence of subsequent generations who, out of sheer cowardice, always like to think that a viewpoint sanctified by longevity is preferable to conclusions derived from unmediated experience.

Remember, any art that is not therapy or entertainment is propaganda.

.

 

A.C. Evans

 

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 HOLI JOLLY!

Colors and joy in the air,
Holi, the festival beyond compare,
A time of merriment and cheer,
When friends and family come near.

The sun shines bright in the sky,
As we sing, dance and fly,
Our worries and sorrows left behind,
As we celebrate with a free mind.

Red, yellow, green, blue
Colours mixed, old and new,
In every heart, the spirit of Holi,
Fills us with love, pure and jolly.

The colours of Holi are like a rainbow,
Bright and beautiful, a sight to behold,
They fill the air with a sense of delight,
A wondrous spectacle that’s a pure sight.

So let’s celebrate Holi with all our might,
Let’s spread love and joy and make things right,
Let’s embrace the colours that surround us so,
And cherish the beauty of this vibrant rainbow.

 

Monalisa Parida

 

 

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 published in 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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Night And Fog (Chatham)

The corporate buses ghost around the clock
Whisper null and white in the elsewhere
Display a bright river as their destination
Quieter than other vehicles they do not announce themselves
If you know you know as you wait mutely for your shift
under the cast satsuma light of a winter evening

The big lad who stands outside his house in his tiny yard
puffs out sweet air laced with coconut vanilla
that hangs and binds with the estuary climate
People come to see him in ones and twos to chat for a while
and get a little something for the long zero hours in-between calls

The grief stone rises on the lines wreathed in feathers
No-faced spirit that drifts down to the hight street
when the clocks go back sucking at plastic opium till it can get no whiter
Without its black gates bright nylon shivers in the trees
where hood muscle sleeps off a long day of having to

Orange labels shine from sparse beige shelves in the shop on the corner
Bright as possum eyes they guide uncertain hands to old eggs and soft fruit
Sifting for broken biscuits in the eternal Tuesday of the potless mind
Gathering at eight o’ clock for penny pastries a secret society
nod their wordless greetings and fumble for some kind of  change

All black dogs are grey in the headlights of delivery vans passing through
We are the thrown shadows of the people we might have been
before the decree was made official by a dead hand signature
It is easy to be invisible when seeing is selective
We exist in the somewhere, condemned to the status of night and fog

 

 

Barry Fentiman Hall

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“GORST” – Anxious Landscape

Max Reeves made man and photograph taker extordinary presents his latest book,,,,,,,

“GORST” – Anxious Landscape, is a collection of mostly Landscape Photographs taken immediately prior to, and during the Covid Pandemic. From a series of Day Trips from London as the Covid Regulations allowed and explorations of the Edgelands of the Capital these photographs look at a Land that is steeped in Myth and Anxiety through a side filter of Folk Horror and Psychogeography with a touch of Hauntology.”

Available to get here:

https://www.entropypress.co.uk/books/p/gorst

and the launch

GORST
Book Launch
Anxious Landscape 2019 – 2023
Photographs by Max Reeves

Tuesday 18th April 2023
6pm onwards

Upstairs at The Bell Pub. 50 Middlesex Street. London E1 7EX

Accustic Music from A Dead Forest Index, The Accustic Musicians of Bremen
Elspeth Anne and Ben Edge.
Poetry from Steve Micalef

Suggested donation of £1 (Pub charge)

And of course the Book will be on sale

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WILD BARD:

Found fragments reassembled in Nature’s pressing cause


“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”
(Troilus and Cressida)

 

He was brow-bound with the oak.1
His delights were dolphin-like.2
He was a thing of blood.1

I did hear him groan, 3
the sobbing deer: 4
a poor sequester’d stag,
that from the hunter’s aim
had ta’en a hurt,
and did come to languish.4

He heav’d forth such groans
that their discharge
did stretch his leathern coat
almost to bursting,
and the big round tears
cours’d one another
down his innocent nose
in piteous chase.4

“In what have I offended you?
What cause hath my behaviour
given to your displeasure,
that thus you should proceed?5
Have I not strove to love? 5
…You would not do me violence?”6

To commit such slaughter7
as makes the angels weep!8

O cursed be the hand
that made these holes, 9
that have gored
the gentle bosom of peace
with pillage and robbery,
that have born life away;10
cursed the blood
that let this blood from hence,
cursed the heart
that had the heart to do it!9

Whoever shoots at him,
I set him there! 11
To weep there.12

Do not touch! 11

Upon a raw and gusty day3
a wretched creature
must bend his body!3 

Our Britain’s harts die flying! 7

We were as twinned lambs
that did frisk i’th’sun,
and bleat the one at th’other.13 

We knew not the doctrine of ill-doing,
nor dreamed that any did.13

Do all men kill the things they do not love? 14

This is no answer,
thou unfeeling man,
to excuse the current of thy cruelty.14

How shalt thou hope for mercy,
rend’ring none?14
That nothing do
but meditate on blood!15

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
thou art not so unkind
as man’s ingratitude.16

Full many a glorious morning have I seen17
with golden face the meadows green,17
when the sweet wind did gently
kiss the trees.18

Now o’er the one half-world
Nature seems dead.19

Love and constancy is dead! 20

The fold stands empty
in the drowned field
…filled up with mud. 21

In the deep bosom
of the ocean buried. 22

Their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are! 23

Daily swallowed
by men’s eyes…
heard, not regarded…
being with his presence
glutted, gorged!24

Still cupboarding the viand. 25 

Roasted crabs hiss in the bowl.26

Your most grave belly! 25

Thou feed on Death,
(that feeds on men.)27

All those legs and arms
and heads chopped off
…shall join together
at the latter day,
and cry all,
‘We died at such a place.’ 28

Blood is their argument! 28

This piece of ruthless butchery; 29
lolling the tongue with slaught’ring!6

O, the most piteous cries of the poor souls! 30

Th’unkindest beast more kinder
than mankind!31

Their heavy burdens…
the sad-eyed ‘justice’!32

The laws you curb and whip! 33

Th’oppressors wrong,
the law’s delay,
the insolence of office,
and the spurns!34

Profound conceit,
as who should say:
I am Sir Oracle,
and when I ope my lips,
let no dog bark!’35

Are you not moved,
when all the sway of earth
shakes like a thing infirm?36

The seasons alter:
hoary-headed frosts fall
in the fresh lap
of the crimson rose…
The spring, the summer,
the chiding autumn, angry winter
change their wonted liveries,
and the mazed world
by their increase now,
knows not which is which! 21

The even mead –
that erst brought sweetly forth
the freckled cowslip,
burnet and green clover –
rank. Nothing teems…
losing both beauty and utility.15

Devouring pestilence hangs in our air.37

I have seen th’ambitious ocean swell and rage; 36
a tempest dropping fire! 36

Let not men say
‘These are their reasons,’
‘they are natural,’
for I believe they are portentous things
unto the climate
that they point upon!36

I have of late
…lost all my mirth.38

Nature is a paradise, 39
this breathing world! 22

Are not these woods
more free from peril
than the envious court?4

The evil that men do lives after them.

We are the makers of manners!
Repair those violent harms!

This is the flower, that smiles on everyone!

We are mere usurpers, tyrants
and what’s worse,
to fright the animals
and to kill them up
in their assign’d and native
dwelling place! 4

The wretched animals, 4
rising and cawing at the gun’s report,
sever themselves and madly sweep the sky!40

A tortoise hung,
an alligator stuffed,
and other skins
of ill-shaped fishes…bladders,
whose sale is present death.41

We make trifles of terrors
when we should submit ourselves!42

An egg is full of meat! 43
The tender horns of cockled snails! 44
There’s a special providence
in the fall of a sparrow. 45
For beauty lives with kindness.46

On your imaginary forces work!
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder! 47

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.47
The salt flood…the turbulent surge shall cover! 48 

“Good sir, do not assist the storm.” 49

I am the cygnet
to this pale, faint swan
who chants a doleful hymn. 50

Fetch me that flower;
the herb I showed thee once.
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
will make or man or woman madly dote
upon the next live creature that it sees.

Fetch me this herb,
and be thou here again
ere the leviathan can swim a league.21 

Bless this place. 51
With this field-dew consecrate; 51
from this day to the ending of the world.52

His liberal eye doth give to everyone. 53

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.54

This blessed plot, this earth.55 

Newts and blindworms do no wrong.56
Worm nor snail do no offence, 56
the crows and choughs
that wing the midway air. 57

The poor beetle
that we tread upon
in corporal sufferance
finds a pang as great
as when a giant dies! 39 

They that have power to hurt
and will do none…
They most do show…
they rightly do inherit
heaven’s graces. 58 

His fears, out of doubt,
be of the same relish as ours are! 28

The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain.
It is twice blest:
it blesseth him that gives,
and him that takes; 14
finds tongues in trees,
books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones,
and good in everything.4

Nourish all the world,
else none at all in aught
proves excellent.44

For wisdom’s sake,
for love’s sake.44

 

Hope Epilogue

 

To see his face
the lion walked along
behind some hedge,
because he would not fear him.59

The tiger would be tame,
and gently hear him. 59

When he beheld his shadow in the brook,
the fishes spread on it their golden gills. 59

When he was by,
the birds such pleasure took
that some would sing,
some other in their bills
would bring him mulberries
and ripe-red cherries. 59

And nuzzling in his flank,
the loving swine. 59

Make tigers tame,
and huge leviathans
forsake unsounded deeps
to dance on sands! 60

O spirit of love,
how quick and fresh art thou.61

I dreamt a dream tonight.23

 

 

Heidi Stephenson
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

From Shakespeare’s original verses:

1Coriolanus, Act 2, Scene 2

2 Anthony and Cleopatra, Act 5, Scene 2

3 Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2

4As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 1

5 Henry VIII, Act 2, Scene 4

6 Pericles, Act 2, Scene 21

7 Cymbeline, Act 5, Scene 5

8 Measure for Measure, Act 2, Scene 2

9 Richard III, Act 1, Scene 2

10 Henry V, Act 4, Scene 1

11 All’s Well That Ends Well, Act 3, Scene 2

12 Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 4

13 The Winter’s Tale, Act 1, Scene 2

14 The Merchant of Venice, Act 4, Scene 1

15 Henry V, Act 5, Scene 2

16 As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7

17 Sonnet 33

18 The Merchant of Venice, Act 5, Scene 1

19 Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 1

20 The Phoenix and the Turtle

21 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 2, Scene 1

22 Richard III, Act 1, Scene 1 (See also the sinking of the Gulf ‘Livestock’
1: https://uk.news.yahoo.com/cargo-ship-43-crew-6-074132477.html)

23 Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 4

24 Henry IV, Act 3, Scene 2

25 Coriolanus, Act 1, Scene 1

26 Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act 5, Scene 2

27 Sonnet 146

28 Henry V, Act 4, Scene 1

29 Richard III, Act 4, Scene 3

30 The Winter’s Tale, Act 3, Scene 3

31 Timon of Athens, Act 4, Scene 1

32 Henry V, Act 1, Scene 2

33 Timon of Athens, Act 4, Scene 3

34 Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1

35 The Merchant of Venice, Act 1, Scene 1

36 Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 3

37 Richard II, Act 1, Scene 3

38 Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2

39 Measure for Measure, Act 3, Scene 1

40 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 3, Scene 2

41 Romeo and Juliet, Act 5, Scene 1

42 All’s Well That Ends Well, Act 2, Scene 3

43 Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 1

44 Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act 4, Scene 3

45 Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 2

46 The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 4, Scene 2

47 Henry V, Prologue to Act 1

48 Timon of Athens, Act 5, Scene 2

49 Pericles, Act 2, Scene 11

50 King John, Act 5, Scene 7

51 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 5, Scene 2

52 Henry V, Act 4, Scene 3

53 Henry V, Prologue to Act 4

54 Troilus and Cressida, Act 3, Verse 3

55 Richard II, Act 2, Scene 1

56 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 2, Scene 2

57 King Lear, Act 4, Scene 5

58 Sonnet 94

59 Venus and Adonis

60 The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 3, Scene 2 (A vision of The Peaceable Kingdom Restored: “on earth, as it is in heaven”)

61Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene 1

 

 

 

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A lover’s death

 

Kate and Daniel grew up in the same estate, but they didn’t officially meet until one Friday night at a local recreational centre ran by Christians.

All the kids were running about the centre playing pool and darts and washing all the fun down with juice and biscuits.

Daniel was in the TV room listening to all the late Nineties music on Top of the Pops like Cher and Mambo Number 5.

He wasn’t easily persuaded from the TV at this time. It was the only reason he came. But it was also a chance to take his sister out. But, then it happened.

Kate walked into the room. He felt a presence and he looked around. He knew nothing of angels. He was only a 7 year old kid. But in that instance… he knew!

She was a quiet girl. She didn’t curse or any other obscenities, but he was the opposite and he wanted to kiss her so bad.

He started kissing pretty early in his life. He already had two years of experience because he hung out with older girls.

He decided to be hilarious and pull out a funny joke to get her attention. As the music played he whipped down his trousers and the back of his boxers doing a thing called The Bum Dance.

Everyone was in stitches and even she laughed quietly, but he knew he got her attention finally. He walked over and politely asked her if she would like to go for a walk. He put out his hand like a gentleman and she lifted hers and they went.

He got her some juice and biscuits and they went out to the very back of the centre and sat down. She had a little spaghetti juice on the side of her mouth, but he thought it was cute.

He asked her where she lived in the estate and what she liked to do when she was outta school. After they talked for a while she said to him: “my birthday is in a couple of days and I’m having a party, if you’d like to come?”… He said he would be delighted.

They walked back into the centre and she picked up her sister and he picked up his. They walked to the local shop and parted ways. He told himself and she told herself to not look back, but they did and smiled.

He knew it was only a few days away to her birthday and he would see her again. He was excited and she was thinking the same thing as she walked home.

Finally… it was her birthday and Daniel was excited. He goes to leave and his mum stops him. He tells her he is going to Kate’s birthday party. She tells him: “you can’t go without a present.” He didn’t think about that because he was so overwhelmed.

She hands him £10 and he goes to the local shop. He runs in rapidly looking around for something. He sees a huge teddy bear and asks how much it is. The shop assistant tells him it is £10 exactly. He buys it and makes his way to her party.

He ran down a back alley that went straight to her back garden where the party was being held. The party was in full swing and he jumped up on the back fence and watched what was going on. She was blowing out her candles and they were all singing happy birthday. Daniel was smiling at the celebrations.

Then… he saw another kid he didn’t know and he was handing Kate a present. He kissed her childishly but with the same intent he had. He dropped down from the fence and sat on the pavement with his back to the fence. He sat there for a while and everyone started to go inside. He jumped over the fence and placed the teddy bear beside her birthday cake without any wrapping, no card and no name. Kate came out again because she forgot her drink. She saw the gift and lifted it and looked up to the sky, because she knew who it was from.

He was so damaged by seeing her kiss another guy at her birthday party. He became quite cold towards her for the rest of their childhood. She never quite understood why he was so cold towards her.

When he walk passed her he wouldn’t speak or look at her. Even when he was with friends she knew as well. They would stop and talk with her and he would either stand there waiting or just walk on. She always asked them why he was like that. They would say: “he is just like that but just give him time to overcome whatever shit he is holding onto.”

By the time they were teenagers she had taken up with a high school sweetheart and Daniel had started hanging out with a local skate crew.

She still held him in high regard but he was going through women like midnight chocolate and experimenting with weed and practicing his skating skills. But every time he heard the song Last Christmas by Wham he would crumble.

They would see each other at a local teenage disco but she was always with her boyfriend and he would be fingering whoever he could and getting hand-jobs under little skirts. He would even hold the palm of his hand over their pussy just in case they got pregnant by accident when he ejaculated.

They were fifteen and she had just broken up with her boyfriend. Her friends were telling her to get out there again and enjoy other guys. She was so dishevelled about her break up, but her girls encouraged her to go to the disco.

She walked about the disco with loud music about love and break ups stinging her ears and heart. Then… she saw Daniel chatting with his skate crew friends and carrying on and being the life of the party like the way he was when they first met. Daniel looked around and caught her eye. He knew she had broken up with her guy. He said to his buds that he would have to go for a minute.

He walked towards her. They were both standing at the bar at a distance. He looked at her and bowed and she smiled with her hand to her mouth slightly laughing. He walked towards her and placed his hand out and said “shall we talk?” she took his hand and they went into a small booth and talked.

She told him that she still sleeps with the teddy he got her for her birthday. He asked “how did you know that was from me?” she said “no other guy I know would leave a present secretly and without it being wrapped.”

They laughed for a while catching up and he apologised for being a cunt over the years. But he told her the truth about seeing that boy kiss her and it hurt him. She said “I know I am just fresh out of a relationship but, I have wanted to kiss and be with you all this time.”

She climbed on top of him with her little skirt. They kissed passionately and he asked her while they were panting “can I?” she said “YES.” He put his fingers up her and within a few minutes she started to vibrate as she came.

They both got up and there he was… her ex-boyfriend was looking straight at them while standing with his friends at a table built on a pillar on the walkway. She got so upset she took off running and Daniel went back to his friends. But all he could think about was her and if she was OK. He got her number off a friend and rang her numerous times but she never answered. He text her at midnight and said he was sorry and if she’d like to go for a walk as friends up to their local country park he would be honoured to listen to what she needed to talk about. He signed it “love D”…

A few days later she texts back and said she would like that. He meets her at her front door and they go for a beautiful walk in their country park. She explains as they sit in between trees with the sunlight coming through. “We cannot see each other, even though I do love you, I believe I love him more.” He tells her to go for it and be happy. He leaves her back home and hugs her firmly because you can’t count on tomorrow.

They forget about each other for a few years until they were eighteen. She contacts him from the same number he used to text from hoping it was still his number. When he gets the text, he is with a friend and they drive to her new family home in the country. They pick her up and they go for a drive around the back roads and talk about things. She tells him her relationship with the other guy was so up and down and on and off since they haven’t spoke, but it is definitely over. She tells him she still has that teddy and she still sleeps with it in her bed.

When they leave her off he gets out of the car. The moon was shining down on her pyjamas and she was realistically beautiful. He doesn’t know whether to kiss her or not. He went over and said goodbye and gets back into the car. She walks back into her house and couldn’t understand why he didn’t kiss her. He was talking to his friend and couldn’t understand why he didn’t go for that. But they were 18 years old now. They were a young man and a young woman, but Daniel knew things were about to change drastically as he looked out the car door window under this new night sky.

From that god-like epiphany and revelation he was right. She moved away to England and became a famous designer and he became a famous poet throughout their twenties, but they were never far off each other’s minds.

They were back in their hometown for their thirtieth birthday party and they were out with old friends from back home. But they never bumped into each other but their friends were filling each of them into what each of them have done and achieved.

She got married and had children. He never married nor had children. She would read his books and listen to him on radio or watch him being interviewed on TV. She knew a lot of his poems and stories were based on her. She seen him on TV one time and he looked like shite, but she knew it was his lifestyle of drink and drugs and women and madness. Shortly after she turned 50 she got a phone call from a friend and it was confirmed: HE WAS DEAD. She cried quietly in her marital bedroom.

She went to the funeral and saw the respect he had from his family and friends and ladies and respected artists in the field of writers and painters and actors and filmmakers. At the end of the funeral the priest said, “This song is for Her.” Then, Last Christmas came on as they ended the service.

When she flew back home to England she was weeping with a scrunched up face and holding her tightened fists. When she got in home she said hello to her husband and her kids and her grandchildren. She told them she was going to her room for a lie down.

When she opened the door she looked at her bed intently and… there it was… the teddy bear that has been a part of her life for nearly fifty years. Her husband never knew who it was from and he never asked.

She lifted it lightly and held it tightly to her chest and she remembered him like it was a lifetime in those few seconds.

She lay down and promised him that when she walked or talked she would walk and talk in memory, as any person who loved another will always do. Even when they don’t discuss that particular person, the song is always there.

She closed her eyes seeing nothing but him and feeling the fluffiness of the teddy bear in her hands. She smiled like an angel because she knew: true love never leaves you here or where you are about to go.

And she never woke up.

 

 

Paul Butterfield Jr

 

 

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A Somewhat Delayed Update

 

Slowly crawling out of my rut and putting pen and paint on paper again.

 

I LOVE DEMOCRACY ME

All those years of urgent screeching by centrists about being ‘politically homeless’ and they finally got what they wanted, the left crushed out of political life, and all three major parties offering nothing more than moderately different flavours of the exact the same thing: neoliberalism, crackdowns, more cops, fewer nurses, ongoing-austerity and constant boot-licked fealty to the worst and cruellest opinions bellowed out daily by the Mail and Sun.

But this is, at the heart of it, what neoliberalism and the post-WW2 ‘Washington Consensus’ is about. Defanging democracy, making it palatable to capital and removing the big questions from the public altogether. No ideology except the dominant ideology. The plebs can’t vote for the wrong thing if it’s never allowed on the ballot.

That’s a big part of the reason Brexit was such a shock and why so many people voted against their own best interests because, outside of Scotland and N.Ireland, we hadn’t been offered a decision that could actually really change anything for decades.

I know a few people, like my Dad, who voted Leave precisely because of that, because fuck every living prime minister who all lined up telling him to vote Remain. It’s hard not to sympathise with that sentiment. It’s also grim to think where we might end up down the line if the centrist plan to make sure that poitics stays like this forever pans out. They can try and hold the gas in, but there will be burps, like Brexit, and Trump, that shake the foundations of society and maybe bring the entire thing down on top of us.

So thanks to politics getting back to normal you can have your Tory party with added lemon or with no added sugar, but whatever you choose, or don’t choose, you’re still getting 2 litres of carbonated full-fat Tory.

Prints of this available in my shop

 

GOD WILL NOT SAVE THE KING

 

 

Finally got the proper version of these God Will Not Save the King commemorative coins in time for the coronation. All the preorders went out already, but if anyone else wants one you can order here.

Still got some of the misprinted coins with a beheaded king on one side and ‘God Will Not Save the Queen’ on the other, they’re on a special coronation discount and available from the link above.

 

 

 

THE BIG ONE – 21ST-24TH APRIL

For the last few weeks I’ve been in the process of designing another Shell/Hell-based vehicle for an activist group who will be attending The Big One, a four day mass protest outside Westminster from 21st-24th April demanding urgent action on global warming.

The aim is to get 100,000 people to the protest, so I guess I’ll see you there!

 

COPS

 

                                                                                  

The ACAB stickers I designed in 2021 are still getting about. Also available as an enamel badge, an embroidered patch and on t-shirts, including a new black tee version. All profits from the stickers and badges go towards the brilliant folk at Netpol: The Police Monitoring Network.

The ACAB stickers I designed in 2021 are still getting about. Also available as an enamel badge, an embroidered patch and on t-shirts, including a new black tee version. All profits from the stickers and badges go towards the brilliant folk at Netpol: The Police Monitoring Network.

 

DIGITAL BILLBOARD ENERGY EFFICIENCY STICKERS

 

Following on from the smaller stickers I made for double-sided digital ad spaces I made some extra large energy efficiency stickers for digital billboards. Obviously these are for research purposes only and I could never endorse anyone sticking these on digital billboards, but if you do see any stuck up in public please send me a photo (also for research purposes, I just love research!). Available here

 

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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Bill Eyden

Bill Edyn Keith Reid Gary Brooker 
Keith West and David Bowie 
are all a whiter shade of now

(cf David Erdos)

Somehow I always knew Bill Eyden played drums
on Whiter Shade of Pale
I knew his work as a jazz drummer and the last time
I heard him play live was with a pick-up(?) quartet
at a pub in New Southgate North London,.
There were about 20 people in the audience.

When I first heard ‘WSOP’ (1967) on the radio
the drum track struck me immediately – it was clearly
not the work of a run-of-the-mill rock drummer
and it lifted this terrific song.

I thought Procul Harum were an excellent band
and when I heard them live
at what was (then) Hatfield Polytechnic)
Keith Reid was sitting up on the lighting-rig scaffold.

In i967 ‘Excerpt from a teenage opera’ was released
with lyrics by Mark Wirtz and Keith West and its hook-line
’Grocer Jack Grocer Jack get off your back
go into town don’t let them down oh no no’
is the only one I can remember.
David Bowie name-checked
‘K West‘ on one of his album covers though’

 

 

 

 

Jeff Cloves

 

 

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DESOLATE DUSK!

 

Where the great winds convene

their dreams to realise

In a world of snow mountains

cold and dazzling white

Hard as the piercing rays

searing the hour

of a winter sunrise.

Daylight begins to fade

and the dilapidated remains

of a desolate dusk

Begin to perish

in the silence of a crepuscular firmament

While the vernal skies

weep myriad flakes of snow

in a shower of lachrymose lament

That dapple the spectral breath

of an early morning mist

As it turns to a crisp gauze

brittle as a hibernal morn

and blankets the dormant land

In the frosted shroud of silent desolation.

 

 

 

 

 

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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THE SPACES THAT SEPARATE

‘We live in a system that manufactures sorrow,
spilling it out of its mill, the waters of sorrow,
ocean, storm, and we drown down, dead, too
soon… uprising is the reversal of the system,
and revolution is the turning of tides.’
     – Julian Beck

Poverty is the worst form of violence.’
     – Mahatma Gandhi

Is it a crime to be poor? Yes, because
crime doesn’t pay and you can’t either.
Poverty is used to put or keep people
in jail, the criminal justice system
has flaws that disproportionately
punish the poor and reward the rich.
But poverty is fine, don’t worry about it.
It’s not causing crime; you can just look
at those folks and see their criminality,
they inhabit areas plagued by violence.

Between one pause and another,
between one hearing and another,
between one meal and the next,
between aspiration and income.

Criminalisation of poverty is costly,
economically and socially, and poverty
causes crime. People can argue but
hundreds of people are sentenced
each year for begging or sleeping rough.
It is hard to live on the street like this,
with no stability or quality of life and it
is hard on poor children to understand
why they are often treated like criminals;
poor people live their entire lives in fear.

Between one pause and another,
between one hearing and another,
between one meal and the next,
between aspiration and income.

Time in prison creates significant barriers
for people to find a home or employment;
being poor is being a victim of crime and
being part of the criminal system itself.
Poverty-stricken people are encouraged to
plead guilty to crimes they did not commit
and kept in confinement. Deprivation
causes inequality, marginalisation and
subcultures, significant causes of crime.
People are richer and poverty is a crime.

Between one pause and another,
between one hearing and another,
between one meal and the next,
between aspiration and income.

 

 

 


   © Rupert M Loydell

 

 

 

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Pre-War

 

We who have little, we respect the little that we and others have. They who have everything and they who have nothing, they have respect for nothing and contempt for everything. Whoever I am, wherever I am, history has condemned me pre-birth. Victim or aggressor we are one. Done for. Left with each our own private hell. The composer Darius Milhaud said this of his life prior to the onset of World War Two: “There was one’s work to be done, one shut oneself up in it; what else was there to do in a world that had gone mad?”

 

 

Sam Smith

Painting: Despair by Edvard Munch

 

 

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Parties

plastic blood congeals
at the exits
at the entrances
the hobnail truth
plummets from the murmurations
escaped from backward wars
& the gilt of ages passed
the treadmill of ancient meanderings
past the jerry-built houses
those that kissed & melted
to the ire of inconstant moons
& the memory slipped those hunt budgets
rained mournfully into the splish splash
the governmental ravages that thoughts
transpired into breath-held savages
the pitter-patter in shafts such golden reign 
into the gaps & homeless teeth
sinking in mundane mudflaps & such merriment

 

 

Clive Gresswell

 

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now here’s a funny thing:

Percy married Harriet and Mary

why he did it bothers me
legitimised by Church and State
what the hell got into him?
teenagers both and Mary’s mother dead
he should have known better
hey – get me moralising
I too should know
there’s always a gap
between what we believe
and how we behave
if he slipped through it
like most men do
when sex is on offer
well that’s easy enough to understand
except that Mary’s mother wrote
A VINDICATION OF
THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN
so did he cover his eyes?
close his ears?
baffle his brain?

still happy birthday Percy Byshe
and my sincere condolences
to suicide Harriet 
and The Widow Shelley
how could they have known
it’s so hard for a rich kid
to be true
and no doubt he claimed
like that Cheeky Chappie Max Miller
used to during his hey day
‘I had a go ladies – I had a go’

 

 

Jeff Cloves

 

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Diplomacy

War is so cold
Brutal and barbaric, hardly civilized
Why on earth diplomacy fails
Doesn’t anybody have any sense
Same as it’s ever been
Well at least most of us
Had the sense not to be drawn and join in
Boots on the ground
Body bags
We can win, they said
They started it first, said somebody else
All else fails
Is it getting better
Sure as Hell often doesn’t look like it
Thought we were past all that
The nuclear button
Just not a full deterrent
Still entirely capable
Of destroying whole cities by familiar means
Setting refugees to escape and run
I mean this is going to be with us
For years
Unsolvable problems
The right to self determination
He wanted to control me, us
Who does he think he is
Well it ain’t Nazi mass psychology
It’s territory grabbing
As they say
If you can take that hill by any means feasible
It becomes your’s
A blow to the face
Is a fine way to end a conversation

 

Clark Allison

 

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bedman

i can hear you through the walls, asking – who is this bedman of yours?

quite simply put it, bedman is not what i grasp or claim as my own, instead, everything i strive to be. he is utterly

            unreachable within the milky way, hidden                        

            underneath the bed with his family of dust bunnies.

bedman is all the metaphors i cannot speak, for i am too afraid of

            understanding the intrinsic, gaining all that self-awareness… to whose benefit, for what  

            use?

metaphors are not needed in the afterlife; they do not follow you into heaven.

the minute you grab the lop eared creature, squeeze him in your fingers till he bursts out the sides like a squashed nectarine, that is the exquisite moment he ceases to be bedman anymore, meaning; ceases to be the muddy water.

occam’s razor suggests i define him as solipsism, but even that creates questions and raw, clean, spotless puddles. the difference between mirror and water becomes blurred and far too close to differentiate them anymore, which is only as dangerous as identical twins understand it to be.

bedman is absolute negation of reachability; everything i shun, pushed and stuffed into sentience. if you can process human scepticism into tangible actions, you will have created your very own bedman.

i warn you though, he cannot love.

             utterly incapable of      devotion.

do not expect frank hands, backs, shoulders. do not expect absence of misery.

a butcher holds his paint splattered knife, causing both grief and fullness, complacency and excitement – without which, we would both starve, bedman and i.

lost him for quite a while – decades even. he ran away without saying goodbye.

            spotting

                                    his curious form,

            picking

                                    him up with fingertips from the road side grey,

i tucked him into my breast pocket right beside my beating fish.

bedman watched me write every single evening, yearning to win my cold heart over. but, i never gave in.

i never.

gave     in.

 

 

monday

if the bell is working – why not ring it? if perfect is in the wardrobe dear, lets just close the door. ultimately, if we wake and it is a monday, we leave our holy blinds shut tight. people outside only remind me of snails, trailing around in the wake of their own sleepy gaze. you are new here bedman, you do not understand things like me.

without realising it, my teeth clamped shut and veins rose to the surface, releasing poisonous fumes, heat, nonsense into the atmosphere. slaughtering all those hard-working snails. the sun, heaving itself over warmer houses behind mine, lugging the great coat of white, began to slow down. by this point of late morning, i could step into the absence of bitter darkness, bailing out the stripes i placed myself behind, and into the sclerotic kitchen.

bedman reached out across the breakfast table to tamper with my conscience, forgetting i could be awake without having language. did i ever truly love you, before you went away? wince.

sipping mud up through congealed milk, decided today is not a day for menial labour or tricky thinking – instead, a day for inhabiting both sides of the war. bedman always hated that stinking war. thought best do something with goodness in it; planted nine bean rows out back. no hive for the honey bee, no peace drops to be found, but did dig around the soil for a while – searched for my missing expression. growing bored, planned a meeting with the saplings not quite up to scratch. we talked for six, seven hours, eight years – about ecological biomass. grew a beard, shaved it off. went inside.

orbiting around the circumference, i desired to walk to the pharmacy, naked doctor, restaurant toilet, park bench, oak newspaper rack, empty cafe floor. i looked to the wall for a front door, gasped when it wasnt there. adult teeth have all but erupted, no way to escape. noticed everyone carrying flowers outside, chose to carry a lemon inside and bumped into the bullets bedman left behind.

nothing but a yellow fruit to defend myself; feeble artillery or peace making masochism?

bedman tried to snatch the lemon but i had a very tight grip. knew i had to run away from this new, free, weeping thing in my home. he was present and frightening to me and sang songs so melancholic that i felt empty across the room. we could not be together any more. claiming loneliness as my only possession, i packed everything into a hemp seed bag and planned my getaway.

remembered that bedman was a retired pianist who bought a lighthouse to live in across the land, left solely with his grand piano. beautiful sonata’s could be heard from all the foreign cargo ships and sweating men on the docks; started as a novelty but within a week became as common as the wood pigeon’s coo. his death was the urban acupuncture storm to a deaf child. striped lighthouse soon rotted inside out, generations of dock men passed away wearing corduroy pants and bulging chests, buried with bedman memories. what i mean is, my retired pianist was forgotten. no – what i mean is, if he can run away with nothing but a piano, i can run away with all my clock tower loneliness. why did he come back to me, was he scared of the skirting board society? what could be worse than me?

started stuffing, but, couldn’t fit everything in my bag. plan slipped down the gutter. no escape.

the line between bedman and pianist swelled, all taut with emotion and tonic water. decided to go outside for a fresh cigarette, rain drove me back. spent the left overs of the afternoon painting self portraits using lots of different colours until everything blended into mud brown and it all made sense. carpal tunnel syndrome, pastry crumbs on lap, hat all crooked and moth bitten, painting unfinished, framed, sold to local butcher, bought a first hand edition of flaubert with money and shook hands with the devil. didn’t manage to conquer rome, do dishes, run away, try on new hat – nor feed the dog. slept a passionless, blank slate sleep.

ate a cold sausage at two in the morning and watched cars roll past the window.

tuesday

woke alone, spoke to the radio about current affairs, fondly contemplated the difference between solitude and isolation (one is designed to drive you insane), went for a swim in a grey pool where feet don’t touch floors, gasped for cold air but didn’t want it when it arrived. suffered… enormously.

tried to do my morning routine just right, bedman unsettled things ever so much.

bed for breakfast, peanut butter scoop on toast – better than a bowl of cello concerto. decided i do not want my dreams to arrive, because what on this holy earth will i have to think about after? caught bedman stealing my underwear. was going to punish him but remembered he is only a version of myself, and what would be the point in that? learned a lesson in autogenic relaxation.

silence of the homeward journey threw me out the house, second time around, hopefully better than the shocking first – into a spot reserved for half decent observers. bedman didn’t follow but didn’t expect him to, not even worth mentioning his absence. school register showed broken mouthed stallion. naturally, bought a cuban espresso from man (sweet tiny robin), read a book without fullstops and rewrote lots of old poems in my head. considered what they sounded like to the untrained ear – thought it would be scattered marbles falling on wooden planks. retired my old self onto a bench in  brown park to finish a half decent novel i’m inclined to read, partly because it was written by a fully decent man and partly because i’m always willing to finish what i begin (proof in the empty mug).

sat adjacent slightly off centre on a bench surrounded by voices.

two men had a conversation about scarves beside me, and i, reading – not taking it in, barely able to turn the page because my fingers were blue, owing to the fact i’d been sat still smoking my final cigarette six times, smiling at my severe inability to quit, (sure i went cold turkey last week, evidently didn’t), looked at the cotton men with total power. majestical.

bought another hand warmer; coffee tasted like a cathedral – one of those large lofty ones with the departure of birds upon human arrival and jesus christ chained to a wall, unable to leave. willow tree and its proud, restraining roots. saw a film about sea life and polluted family relationships, realised everyone’s bedman is unhappy, began thinking about an ants cochlea, if they have three tiny bones or if they even have ears.                   

                                                to do: buy a microscope.

walk home was even more silent than i thought it would be, even with trickles of nonsense i feigned interest in. fell asleep with restless, wrinkled bed sheet dreams and bedman watching me.

fell out of bed at three and retired to the cruel floor. realised i’m only an ant, saw the world in pixelated black and white and forgot to dream in colour. slept through all the way till six like a good girl. mother bragged about my decent habits to the other mums at nursery meanwhile i was tiny and giving up lunch money to the older kids, who humiliated me for having such a devoted moddy coddling mother. she grabbed my sweaty hand and looked glumly at my starving, empty stomach. mother is bedman, disappointed at my impotence and what a plain, unloveable creature i am. baby is coming home on the next train, tucked inside a box of apples. easy to miss.

                                                to do: collect fruit from station.

slept a different version of the same old, boring me; just as vulnerable in death as life.

every sleep brings me closer to the truth. felt grateful to be closer to god, despite shivers and aching back.

 

wednesday

humph. my new self peeled off the adhesive floor, flushed a neuron down the toilet then flicked the switch of the over filled kettle. overshared thoughts with spaces between book pages, thought the more they knew the more they would like me – regretted this and tried to hide my embarrassment in breast pockets. bedman took up all the room, couldn’t stuff anything else in. frustrated and alone, slid burned something or other down my throat, turned the aching radio up to drown out the barking mad next door. sank a cod liver oil for rotting bones.

radios shouldn’t feel bad about their naked self and dogs shouldnt own bungalows, but they both do. the world is diabolical but cautiously circular so no one gets cut or scraped or poked or grazed or left behind. bedman said nothing whilst i put a plaster over the sledge hammer gaps in my body. gasped with pain. grabbed my pen. ready to fight. weight of lead was replaced with a much lighter, comparably darker, ink. poked a hole in the paper, learned my lesson. wont write my love letter to the postman on the carpet again.

il write my eulogy instead.

radio man told me restraint is just an underrepresented form of liberation so i restrained from putting my left eyeball in. squinted right down to the station for malum, which means both ‘apple’ and ‘evil’. tried to pick this apart but the fall of man stopped me, tobacco seller screamed atrocities at the non existent gnome by his. thought i knew better than to acquaint myself with the barking mad, man’s expulsion from paradise explained everything. evil malum of my right eye.

not my fault i live beside the lunatic asylum, grocers, zoo, wood pigeon nesting ground and, also – bedman and the whale. spent the whole time on platform conjuring images of delicious bible smells at home, and all my wooden traits littered like a waste disposal site. also, bedman, waiting for my riddles. couldn’t decide where to sit, didn’t sit anywhere at all. forgot about apples.

ran home to watch bedman extract drugs from a tupperware and inhale the scent of his own fingers. ran home to watch him swallow heartburn, pride, cholesterol, one bucket of magnesium and three packs of dementia control. he sucked on something too, couldn’t work out what.

i, myself, swallowed something of the sleeping pill kind. watched a documentary about middle eastern politics with closed eyes, frightened myself silly i did. tempted by cold dinner, decided against world war two boiled onions and insisted upon plating up fine spiced meats and expensive cheeses and wholegrain foods that keep those enzymes thick and ticking away. sleeping pills started to kick in meaning i sliced off both my thumbs and danced at what a good cook i am. the world became hazy, salty and salivary; dizziness grabbed me and refused to give up.

a hundred and forty seven mirrors hid in plain sight but only one showed my true self. couldn’t find the true self, felt afraid. (yawn) black cat stalked past with no capacity for self recognition, only competition. cats become more brave or more frightened on approach to mirror, gordon gallup would surely give me the boot. yawning yawn yawny. tiredness was driving off a perpetual road – the problem being, i couldn’t stop dreaming up miles of concrete with white dashes down middle.

nasty thing that head of mine. yawn. the feeling of exhaustion is so marvellous when you are safe and warm but an all encompassing terror when stood naked before frightening stimuli such as ‘yourself ’ in the toaster reflection.

decided it was the end of the world and hired a crane to lift my up by the ears and drop me into bed. tipped them in hopes they’d pull the covers over me. didnt.

slept beneath a fleet of shitting wood pigeon. dreamt it was snowing outside, noiseless and secretive.

 

thursday

glorious day! oh bliss, oh harmony! woke a different shade of optimistic today, perhaps deluded on ammonia fumes and ample sleep but eager to get the wide old day started.

swam in lake, watched fish laugh at me then float to the surface one by one by one, waded toward tea van, scalded tongue on england, naked in nothing but a tea towel, nibbled on warm buttery teacake deliciousness, endured heart failure wheeze, ran all the way home to hide my shame in a bottle of whisky. didnt fit.

drank the gurgling poison down to make more room inside the bottle. kept drinking – eventually, simply to make less of that room in me. celebrated paradise with the wood pigeons, realised they hold everything i need to know and everything i need to know holds the pigeon.

an optimistic pessimist knocked on front door to deliver a package or parcel or letter or message not entirely sure, hoped it wasn’t a telegram  – but even if it was, wouldn’t be able to translate it. postman had eyes like rotten oranges, my love for him stretched out on the carpet by the fire; yawning, a soppy tabby kitten with tummy full of white milk.

hoped no one i loved was dying as i paced around kitchen. eros took pity on me and sent a kite, knew i was unbelievably ravenous for attention. glad to be noticed by something, held kite firmly. green thoughts hit walls and got thrown back to me, bedman was the lobster elite number 1 tennis ball machine. awarded circular, soft bruises all over my body for my clever equisitie thinking.

urban outgrowth felt jaded, uncomfortable, incorrect. stuck to sitting under the tree for morning meditation. watched perpetual mini explosions stutter out chimney, not one but all the catholic bells praised the violent work of kitsch. watched bombs go off again and again and again, air smelt like purple love songs. meditated on this, let my mind be the last wandering baird. cleared space in the attic of self by holding my nose and blowing really hard, released kite. whoops.

couldnt stop for long before the inherent ‘i hope’ ‘if only’ ‘what ifs’ broke inside. marched into bedroom with arms swinging, dual nationality. sat on bed with bedman. asked if we could move the mattress to the stairs and pretend to sleep on a hill. refusal was the verdict. stared into space for a while, could have been four minutes could have been six hours. needed the toilet to pour all my unrequited love down but couldn’t go upstairs. something rectangular and white with springs in the way.

four walls of the castle began closing in, slipped through the gap into the kitchen. sun broke into home with a crowbar, cracked a deep yellow egg on the floor and tight trousers waltzed around. bedman smiled at my seductive moves, his grin… the berlin wall. opened the fridge of domestic violence, tennis ball whizzed past my face but i was too slow to catch it. who can rightfully possess rest? bit my knuckles with watery eyes, wished there was a plank of air under my feet. wished i was either on a horse or a bike. felt disturb internally, tightened taps on the sink of honesty.

gap to the bedroom became so small i couldnt squeeze back in. sent a mouse to retrieve my duvet, was willing to caress and stroke and hold him with cursive desire, hiding under moonlit covers together. stinking rodent never returned to my arms. felt loneliness, betrayal, heartbreak – all in one go and slammed car door on the finger of love. slept with the carrots and single aubergine, thought i participated a lot that night to the conversations. had to sign a sheet to say i wouldnt spill the beans.

froze myself into an ice box sleep, tricked myself into believing the world around me was expanding. dreamt of tiny letterboxes covering a large red door and managed to wriggle myself inside one whilst looking for bedman.

got stuck, woke up squished. woke up, a telegram of flesh.

 

friday

think this morning was a friday, arised as near to the percolator as possible – score!

listened intently to the dawn chorus out the slightly closed back door, heard drains slotting in and out of their beds. cod liver oil sat next to the coffee beans as the ‘only two things i’ll ever need’, choked on both pills at once. bedman coughed phlegm onto my naked feet, sent him packing.

watched next doors child steal a pack of cigarettes off the counter and a gallon of milk from the milk stream. called the police by myself, officers arrived every so promptly, felt proud of my civil servants. soon enough, three paper weight boys stood in my kitchen, let themselves in, bedman hitched a ride.

officer, the crime is brown drink and red bacon and tendor cigarette smoke.

officer, have you read this brilliant book im reading – leaf storm?

officer, will you go to bed with me tonight?

cold milk dripped down a hairy chin, watched white rain head to the gutter of lust. all three decided there was no use for legalities in my kitchen, also, to my invitation; got no reply. didn’t let it bother me. old enough to handle rejection now. old enough to touch myself.

the officers stole both the bag of beans and cod liver pills on their way out and all three died of mercury overdose. bedman decided it was me who killed them, not him.

couldnt drink my coffee; there was a frog in the bottom, shard of glass in the middle and deep fog on top. motorbike slipped around the sides of my mug with a rapidly declining tank of gas. wasnt sure how he would escape. watched him accept death like the arthritic, gout filled, tumoured, senile german shepherd under the willow tree, moaning ever so slightly.

wonder if the biker came from the swamp below or clouds above.

tried to enjoy the feeling of loneliness, realised it is dire and will never be fun. someone recommended i eat less acidic foods, thought of them as i peeled my orange. someone else said i should read happier books, thought of them as i wept over flowers for algenon. kept receiving advice from someone’s, stored it all in the tiny metal tin that sat on the mantelpiece. bedman took them straight out and ripped them up; some kind of childish revolution, but he was the king of youth.

sipped and puffed and wrote my way into the afternoon, all whilst lying down. horizontal authors are neat and tidy and special. broke for a gulp of fresh air and mug of cold water at half three, read an article on hematopoietic stem cell transplants. thought it would be about poetry but wasn’t, switched it off and fell asleep writing. napped on the wrong side of the clouds. met the motorbiker in thready dreams.

rose with coagulated thoughts willing a stroke to paralyse metade, woke up in the biggest bed of all time. personal desires lay down with four pig heads in the slaughterhouse, god bless their souls their trotters their curly tails which aren’t that sweet but should be. hairy pipecleaner. left the arms of crazy and fixed myself with grated carrot soup, tasted orange.

decided not to apply for a grant or pay rent or dance myself silly, instead sit and sipped soup with radio murmuring newspaper warnings. worked on the oldest novel. worked on the mirror walking down the road. listened to nothing but the seagulls crying because they missed the ocean. realised i hadn’t seen bedman all afternoon, infedility crawled into bed beside me at some point.

            dreamt in zeros and iced finger buns.

saturday

woke up and acknowledged the audience. asked them where all the bedroom audacity came from, asked them if i can take it all, or at least, just some of it? saw huge dog and tiny dog on way to get saturday paper, brewed thoughts of futile birthplace inside my living room corner shop. decided birth place is subjective anyway, no conclusion reached in the courtroom. birthed bedman on the rug.

was the tiny dog born on the same day as me? felt a connection with her that i didn’t want to over indulge, enjoyed her diamond englazed pink collar with the violet bow. licked my lips when owner looked at me, accidently protruded my pink fleshy muscle over thin lips whilst your woman looked at me, honey. contemplated ways to take my tiny princess home, worried about a criminal record and how bedman would take it – that is, if i ever survive this unrequited-love break-up party. scampered home a squirrel up a tree. held a heel of bread in my palm, caressed it softly, clock kept time. grew sick and tired and emetic with rotten lonliness. game of life was making me ever so bitter. bedman, oh concrete companion, put your cardigan on and make love to me?

tired simply because i was awake, faced midday with stale bread and cold feet. sun hit my eyes, became excited at the prospect of growing taller. refused to be bad company for myself anymore, began a list of things i could do with new found tallness – consisted vaguely of shaking hands with the lamppost and having to shop around for a new helmet.

stepped out the sun and into the dark room. light felt too hopeful anyway. sat for a slaughter. shhh.

took my camera to the shore, created black sorrow out of a living memory. cut it squarely out the sea and restrained, stuffed, handcuffed the view into my box. cinema lives on as the biggest boredom destroyer, but at least it can dance and has culture. cinema is the biggest victim and biggest perpetuator of solitude – didnt you know? docks reminded me of flute players.

cameras are yoghurt and yeast and tripping over awkward feet, ceasing to think properly of proprioception and public liability insurance, exposing things like cracked lips and amorous train rides – and red, glowing ulcers placed on mortified strangers.

bought a gold frame for the inevitable photo of paradise. cut it squarely out the metal.

went home to pour water from a metal jug into a metal jar, then into a plastic cup, drank the words with cold slipping down or an eel, im not sure. bedman was in my room reading tabucchino’s ‘requiem’, rocking to and fro like a grieving teenager. like a wave in turmoil. scoffed at him.

needed to keep up my strength with all this poetry left to write – had a glass of milk, orange juice, tonic water, then a stern green apple. felt good to have so many colours onboard, multimodal pain approach. stared at the wall, gods window, saw so many things you wouldn’t believe, dreamt of a different universe where walls are always doorways into bedrooms.

got into cramped bed, carbon dioxide reminded me to breathe throughout the tumultuous night. sealed the evening off with a wax seal, coffee stain, fake name anagram.

bedman slipped in beside me, first time he’s done that in a while. slept in same bed but countries apart. drank myself silly to celebrate. lymph nodes started pounding to get out, movement kept me alive. pancreas twitched all night, rancorous organ that doesn’t know left from right.

dreamt i gave birth to a large cabbage head, sold it at the farmers market and bought a log burner with the money. wished it was true, the evenings would be far warmer. had three or four more cognacs to celebrate, also a sniff of privilege.

coughed up my colon, fell into a far deeper sleep.

sunday

sunday mornings, bedman – are a wide open mouth that cannot speak. perpetual yawn of infidelity, a man is always being cheated on on a sunday – and why on earth should miserly wives not go out and find themselves a younger, better looking thing for one day a week. that is to say, a man fears both caffeine and sleep on a sunday, particularly when his wife claims to go dance the tango/ coffee with friend/  run walk swim fuck/ suck another mans tendon.

empty theatre with no actors or seaters. horizontal ladder, knocked over on a friday night. big breakfasts, cold breakfasts, skipped breakfasts. pigeons breakfasting with each other just to feel aspiration. woke up beside a cold, naked back. silver needles slipped into kind warm loving tubes that were eager and begged to be penetrated. sundays. supplied both warmth and fear and pleasure and melancholy, supplied the sleep that is both vital and permanently frightening. swallowed vitamins, minerals, painkillers, restored soft osmotic potential. merry go round skulls began to creak. kitchen echoed outward; porcelain mugs tapped together. hot soapy water in sink, hair on end, silky yawn, faded dressing gown exposed mid week bad habits. sundays.

dog needed a walk, no one would walk him. cats had full roam of the streets, ginger things on their wooden throne looking curiously at peasants groaning in bed. cigarette on the balcony but dont smoke anymore; instead, breathed in someone else’s cigarette on the balcony. wet coats slumped on dirty floor from night before, blood stained whisky glasses rocked themselves off the end of the world. sundays.

clean concrete, dirty concrete, wet concrete. not even cafes want to chat. camels lazily blundered into the greengrocers, bought evil apples and tiny dogs to feast on in peace.

children coloured in at the kitchen table, legs swinging and bellies full of only things within sticky reach – dry pasta from the bottom drawer, broccoli, mayonnaise, forgotten muesli bar. bedman grabbed my wrist, not with violence, but paternal reasoning. dont leave.

what actually happened? beside low and thready pulses, liver struggling with last nights overdose and the imaginary dog needing a walk, not a whole bunch of bananas. i have to leave.

sundays are the least altruistic day of all; creativity surpasses me. cornflake leaves sat, wet in the white cereal bowl and bedman called out my name. i didn’t even glance in the right direction. lackless lovers stringing up pearls of desire with stern generosity. bedman pined to be touched. sunday. mundane needs and grey passions – things like eating, shitting, love making, going for damp walk with cold hands. that is what embarrassed me most, so i tied them to the wall and shut the door when flushing last nights passionate affair down the loo. bedman pleaded me not to leave.

the absolute fantasticness of reinstalling an old lover took over my sunday morning. how could i ever dream of leaving? the bread rose alongside my swelling feelings for metaphors.

will you be mine again, after all the time apart? it was all such a rotten mistake. we know the problems will bubble up like yeast and reattach; malignancies growing throughout my ribcage, mornings will be filled with retching and heaving into the toilet roll of infatuation. we didn’t care an ounce. we were in love.

my guts no longer belonged to me but who governed this decision? and, what if they are replaced by a coil of red ribbon, who would ever know? spent the day as an exhausted blocked toilet, bedman kept flushing but i just spilled out, chronically regurgitating. unable to swallow. throat tightly shut and a man in desperate need for a shit. closed my eyes and fell asleep.

awoke as the worm in adams apple, awoke in bedmans utter absence.

 

 

Blossom Hibbert

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Welcome the Spring

– Ah! Spring! Season of snowdrops and girls in frocks.
– The sun might do my rheumatism some good.
– You’d have to go out in it.
– There’s always a snag.
– But out in it is where the damsels are, and frolicking lambs, and probably a few bods on a picket line getting a bit of a tan.
– There’s not many frolicking lambs in the Market Square.
– But there are frocks! And perhaps even smocks!
– Go and have a cold shower. And then go on a course.
– Pshaw! It’s Spring! The joys of! Daffodillies! Easter! New life! The resurrection etcetera!
– Whatever. I’m not sure if what I’ve got is rheumatism or arthritis.
– Is there a difference?
– I’m not sure. We could Google it.
– I use Bing.
– Nobody in their right mind uses Bing.
– Bing in Spring! Damsels in dresses! Old men still grumbling!
– I think I may have said this before: you are an idiot.

 

 

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

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Psychedelic Circus

Steam Stock
 

Tracklist:
Harry Nilsson – Jump into the Fire
Sly and the Family Stone – Trip to Your Heart
Pugh Rogefeldt – Love Love Love
The Doors – Peace Frog
Messengers – In the Jungle
Fifty Foot Hose – Rose
Frank Zappa & the Mothers of Invention – My Guitar Wants To Kill Your Mama
Jefferson Airplane – Somebody to Love
Julie Driscoll, Brian Auger and the Trinity – Indian Rope Man

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SAUSAGE Life 266

“Sure there’s nothing the horses like better than to be whipped into jumping fences three times their own height by short angry men in silk pyjamas who left school when they were nine, so it is”
Shameless O’Hooligan, Pedigree Chum Ltd

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that believes in pan-dimensional ambiguity even though there is no such thing

READER: I can’t get into my computer!
MYSELF: That must be awful for you, although I must say, a relief for the rest of us.
READER: No, really, I forgot my password.
MYSELF: Passwords are notoriously difficult to remember. I’m always forgetting mine, so I’ve had it tattooed on my forehead.
READER: Surely that would…
MYSELF: (interrupting): Backwards of course. I’m not stupid!

TALKING BALLS
An open letter to The Times signed by 75 doctors, health experts and academics has recommended that tackling should be eliminated from rugby football, and quite right too.
I have a few sporting health and safety suggestions myself; for instance, boxing in its present form is known to contribute to bruised ribs, broken noses and chronic conditions like cauliflower ear and artichoke heart. It’s perfectly obvious that the elimination of punching will make the noble art much less hazerdous. Similarly, the ski jump would be nowhere near as dangerous if the angle of the slope was reduced from its present level to say, five degrees. As far as The Grand National is concerned, if the equestrian element was entirely removed and it was run with jockeys only, the risk to horses would be considerably lowered.

CENTRE CAUGHT
Sylvanian Tennis idol Molotova Gettamov made a tearful appearance at a televised press conference recently, after admitting she had used a performance-enhancing substance, recently banned by the Tennis Association. Dressed in a fetching maid’s outfit with a revealing blouse, the grand-slam winner revealed to panting journalists that she has been prescribed the drug, marketed under several names including Rapidomate and Velocitas, for over ten years as legitimate medication for her numerous tennis-related conditions including Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy, Chronic Hypertension, Crohn’s Disease and Screaming.

ASK WENDY
Erroneous advice from our fully unqualified agony aunt
Whilst I love hearing from my American readers, frankly this is just the type of letter I try to discourage.Dear Wendy,
I live in Hope.
Sincerely,
Quentin Snack,
Hope, Indiana

And then there’s this:

Dear Wendy,
a). Are there such things as ghosts?
b). If so, where can I get one?
Marjorie Daw,
Paranoia, Texas

Dear Marjorie,
a). Yes, there are.
b). The Paranoia Retail Afterlife Centre 3500 Coconino Highway, (Route 666) .

DUE TO LACK OF SPACE, THE EDITOR HAS REQUESTED I ANSWER THE REST OF MY MAILBAG WITH THESE BRIEFLY PLIES

To Mrs Cynthia Dreller of Hydrogen, Kent
Yes you will go to the ball, but don’t forget to be home by midnight. A pumpkin can be very vulnerable in a collision.

To ”Worried”, the anxious father who wrote asking advice about his wayward son who has begun to smoke maijuana, drink heavily and steal cars.
Dear Worried,
thank you for your letter. “With whom he associates” is, I suspect, what you meant to write. Let us not allow our inherent sense of morality to override the rules of good grammar. We are not beasts of the field.

WHOOSH, ZAP!
The notorious gang known as The Foley Boys are on the run, having escaped from their own radio show, along with psychotic sound effects man Harry “Clip-Clop” Clemson, (The Coconut Kid). They are thought to be armed with hilariously funny scripts and police have warned members of the public not to approach them.
Hastings’ chief of police Hydra Gorgon told us, “These men are cruel ruthless criminals, who, in their relentless pursuit of cheap laughs show no regard for the safety of innocent bystanders. If spotted, do not engage with them, particularly Clemson, a known arsonist, ventriloquist and kidnapper. He has been known to tie his victims to a chair, blindfold them, light some newspaper in a bucket and scrunch up sheets of cellophane, causing them to think they are in a burning building. I can also reveal that he has a string of convictions, including throwing his voice in the “talking book” section of the library, and causing panic by impersonating a mongoose in a men’s sauna.”

DICTIONARY CORNER:
Disposition (n) the position assumed by the opposers of datposition.
Bathyscape (n) The consequence of forgetting to put the plug in properly.

SAUSAGE NIGHT
I would like to personally thank everyone who attended the star-studded event at The Angry Dolphin, Little Cockmarlin the other night in honour of legendary Hastings inventor Gordon Thinktank. Although a wonderful time was had by all, Professor Thinktank has asked me to appeal to anyone in attendance who may have accidentally picked up his prototype machine for diagnosing schizophrenia in tortoises. The electronic device, we have been informed, could be inadvertently mistaken for a hair dryer, with potentially catastrophic results.

POETRY NOW 
Fr. Randolph Pollock is a Roman Catholic priest, author and professor of biscuits at  Quornmince College, Upper Dicker. His work includes The Laundry Maid’s Verruca, A Question of Milk and No Pants For Douglas.

MY CAT
by Fr. 
Randolph Pollock. 

My cat is yellow
and very very
slippery.
We built a flap on the door
for him to ooze in an out of.
Which is why we call him Pus.

THEY CAME FROM OUTER SPICE
The Spice Girls are reforming and Silly Spice, official spokesperson for the national pop treasures, has granted us an exclusive interview. Wearing a Union Jack slaughterman’s apron and chain smoking untipped Gauloise, Silly told us: “This reunion comes just in the nick of time – Girl Power is going to reunite the UK after all this fucking Brexit bollocks, pardon my French. As you know, me and the other Spices, Sneezy, Happy and Skinty, have always been like well political and what with gender fluidity and LBGQ stuff, we feel the time has come to jump on the bandwagon and make some dosh out of it. Homeless Secretary Cruella Braverman – who self identifies as a woman by the way – has already asked us to write a new album commemorating this great leap forward, and Bob, the guy who does all our songwriting, is on it like a Shakespeare sonnet!”
When we asked whether Nasty Spice, the footballer’s wife who always looks as though she is having a selfie, will be joining the girls on tour despite rumoured artistic and personal differences, she laughed manically, stubbed her cigarette out on her arm and lit up another.
“Hahaha,” she said unconvincingly. “Of course we’re still friendsbut Nasty is far too busy promoting VeeDee, her shitty perfume which smells like cat poo, and having herself tattooed with pictures of her stupid husband Ron Statue, the golden-balled airhead.  If you want to know if the miserable cow is going to appear, you’ll just have to buy a ticket.” adding “If there are any left!”
Taking his cue, a pair of complimentary tickets and an Access All Areas backstage pass, our reporter made his excuses and left.

 

 

 

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

Classic 2Os German Expressionist film about a strange spanner-worshipping cult

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

 



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The Last Resort

 

We sit at the watering hole, scratching our arses and dealing out equality. What’s ours is ours and what’s yours is over there and not worth thinking about. Scratch that. What’s yours is ours, whatever it’s worth: for better or worse; for richer; for richer; for stinking rich. Which is how it should be, all things being equal. Just look at us, tutting at the sinkhole, dabbing crocodile tears as shacks slip out of sight and crocs snap limbs from thin torsos as readily as fat cats. Subject or object: there are equal opportunities for opportunists and – following the money – there’s always a wallet in equality and a profit is honoured everywhere. It’s the whole truth, the whole world over, the golden rule of thumbing coked noses as the crocs stretch out on the five-star loungers with their cocktails and canapes, burning straw houses for the hell of it and pissing upstream. You’re welcome at the watering hole, but it stinks.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

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Some notes from Lithuania: Thinking out loud about Russia and Ukraine

 

Alan Dearling has just spent a couple of weeks in Vilnius, capital of Lithuania. Here’s Part One of three reports from his trip.

Memories of occupation are still very much alive in the Baltic state of Lithuania. Lithuania only gained its independence back from the USSR in 1990. Now, the spectre of Putin’s Russia and the war in Ukraine are seen hovering above the country in a variety of ways. Flags of Ukraine, the European Union, NATO and Lithuania are draped on buildings, and on flagpoles outside hundreds of buildings throughout Vilnius, the state capital.  Events are being held almost daily to display solidarity with Ukraine and to honour the victims that died in the earlier war of occupation, including the 14 who died and hundreds who were injured in Vilnius on January 13, 1991. On that day, Soviet troops still stationed in the country attempted to overthrow the Lithuanian government. The attack took place as Lithuanians defended the TV tower and the Radio and Television Committee building. Many had been members the ‘Freedom League’.

The 2023 anniversary took place against the backdrop of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. At it, the Lithuanian President Gitanas Nausėda said that Lithuania’s triumph is one of “light against evil”, offering an inspiration for Ukrainians today, as they fight on after a year of conflict to preserve their independence.

Video report: https://www.voanews.com/a/in-year-two-of-russia-s-war-on-ukraine-lithuanians-on-guard/7006148.html

During my visit, Finland joined NATO. Celebrations were held across the city of Vilnius and NATO troops called into bars, cafes and restaurants handing out balloons and flags. For the Baltic states, the addition of Finland provides extra leverage against Russia and very significant additional border protection from potential invasion. In conversations I had with locals, Russia and the conflict in Ukraine are often topics of extreme passion, worry, and at times contradictory opinions and viewpoints.

 Currently, according to a NATO exhibition in the recently renovated Bastion in the old town of Vilnius, there are approximately 1,600 NATO troops in Lithuania. And this is part of the backdrop to the Lithuanian parliament, Seimas, where during my visit, it unanimously adopted a resolution for the upcoming NATO summit, the first to be held in Vilnius, to offer an official invitation for Ukraine to join the NATO alliance. According to the Lithuanian resolution, submitted by representatives of various political groups in the parliamentary Committees on Foreign Affairs and National Security and Defence, this would be a strategic decision by NATO in pursuit of peace in Ukraine and Europe.

To put this in a rather different context, here are excerpts from Joshua Askew’s report from Euronews on line: “Russia’s military invasion of Ukraine has drawn fierce condemnation from across Europe. But not in all quarters. In many countries neighbouring Russia, especially those that once formed part of the USSR, a small minority of mostly Russian speakers have come out in support of the invasion and defended Putin’s aims. One example is the small Baltic state of Lithuania, which borders the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad. Russian speakers are the second-largest minority in Lithuania.”

However, the loudest and most dominant topic of debate in Lithuania, concerns ‘what comes next’ if Ukraine loses its war with Russia. SkyNews has reported on the risk of Russia attacking Lithuania if Ukraine falls: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NmsoQ3cUUjE

 

‘We must be prepared’ – is the stark warning from many in Lithuania as Russian aggression linked to the war in Ukraine builds on the border with Belarus. This south-western border of Lithuania has often-time been called, ‘NATO’s Achilles’ heel’ and ‘the most dangerous place on earth’. A major defeat in Ukraine by Russia, could lead to the Baltic nations being attacked by Russia, or, its ally Belarus.

 

Here’s an informative account from Karolis Vyšniauskas on-line in The Wall Street Journal: Dateline: February 16th 2023.

“My generation was the one to finally break free. We were EU citizens, protected by NATO and increasingly cosmopolitan. Then came the Russian invasion of Ukraine. As a Lithuanian friend put it to me, “Only after the war started did I properly look at the map. I mean, I looked at it.”

                                                             

We had always known that Lithuania occupied an unfortunate geographical position on the frontier of the EU, with Russia’s enclave of Kaliningrad to the west and Belarus to the east. In all its history, Lithuania had been an independent republic for less than six decades. But growing up after the collapse of the Soviet Union, we somehow took peace and independence for granted.

Unlike Ukraine, Lithuania can claim the protection of NATO’s Article 5, which says that an attack “against one” NATO country is an attack “against them all.” In September, President Biden reaffirmed that commitment, saying that the U.S. and NATO would defend “every single inch of NATO territory.” And yet, some in Lithuania have been preparing for the worst. In the first month after Russia invaded Ukraine, requests for permission to purchase a weapon in Lithuania quadrupled. When Russia took control of the Chernobyl nuclear plant last February, iodide pills to protect against radiation leapt from the shelves of Lithuanian pharmacies. Nuclear fears, in particular, loom very large in the Baltics. What if a cornered Vladimir Putin decides to unleash his arsenal?

“Then we will all die,” one friend in Vilnius told me. “But I cannot live a life paralyzed by something I cannot control.”

Last month, I returned to Vilnius with a master’s degree, but with little appetite for celebration. The city experienced a total of 5 hours of sun in the whole month of January—the fewest in recorded history. The mood is gloomy. My journalism colleagues are tired. A colleague went to report from Kherson. I worry about him. I am slowly coming to a realization that the country I left before my studies no longer exists. Our society is in a limbo between war and peace, calm on the outside, burning on the inside.

Absent is a strong counter movement inside Russia itself, the Kremlin’s imperial ambitions will continue to threaten the people living within Russia’s “sphere of influence”—what a heartless, colonial term that is. Perhaps losing in Ukraine will at last ignite an anti-colonial movement in Russia, as happened in Germany after its defeat in World War II. Or maybe the Ukrainians are just buying the rest of us more time.”

Worrying times in Lithuania and the Baltic States should be worrying times for all the nations in the Free World. There are plenty of smiling faces in Lithuania, but they are sometimes darkened by deeper frowns.

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Progress Flux of Pink Indians

I don’t want your progress
it tries to kill
me

you don’t want these trees
you only want towns and cities
you don’t want me
’cause I oppose them
you want me to leave
all i want to do is breathe
you want to devastate
homes that aren’t yours

I don’t want your progress
it tries to kill
me

I don’t want your progress
it pretends that it wants me
it doesn’t want me for myself
it only wants my money
this is just a wood to you
but this is my home
it may not resemble your house
so you’re right and I’m wrong

I don’t want your progress
it tries to kill
me
me
you
we

I don’t want your progress
it tries to kill
me

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Weep and Roll

Beneath the halo
Of the moonlight
I recite my stars
Of uncounted feelings.
One sky I have to make mine.
One rainbow to paint the plight.
A drop of harmony
To break the shackles of sorrow
And drop a bead of art.
I see the wonders
To smile and live.
Coming from a tough life
Where stretch marks win
And the game is lost to be seen.
Progress is a miracle
One art speaks of deviation
But the other art accepts.
Consolation of the wheel
Stops when aims and aspirations
Weep and roll.
A forward march is
More important than a victory march.

 

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal

Photo Nick Victor

 

 

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I stay

I stay
in the shadow
of the sunflowers.
I try to become
on of them,
the keepers of the horyzon.

I have almost
learnt
to breath
with the color of the sun.

 

 

 

Dessy Tsvetkova
Picture Nick Victor

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The Flying Desert

The Flying Desert is a collection of over 20 full color paintings and accompanying poems by David Chorlton, whose poems and art often appear in it.

“I have come to believe that there is less of a division between the natural world and our urban one than we often think. At least in the corner of Phoenix where I live I count myself lucky to be within walking distance of a huge desert park that runs for 20,000 acres through the city and able to watch for several species of birds. Arizona is a great state as a whole for seeing birds, and their presence tells us much about the greater global concerns. That said, there is much to be gained from simply looking out of the window and keeping a keen eye when out walking. Repeated exposure to birds opens up new ways of seeing them and relating their lives to ours.”

David Chorlton was born in Austria and grew up in Manchester, England. In 1971 he moved from the rainy industrial city to the cultural city of Vienna and stayed seven years before moving to Phoenix, where he began to invest more time in his writing. Arizona’s landscape and wildlife gradually infiltrated his work, where he can show his affection for them even while acknowledging that he remains, quite contentedly, unassimilated. That is a circumstance to which he owes much of his poetry.

David has been actively involved in the small press scene since the 1970’s and has had over 30 books and chapbooks published by various presses through the years.

Copies of the book can be ordered at https://www.chollaneedles.com/

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THERE ARE MANY ROADS TO SPACE

 

 

i.m. William S. Burroughs 1914-1997

Now we are left with the career
novelists. – J G Ballard

 

Burroughs began writing much later than Kerouac and Ginsberg.

“I had no choice except to write my way out…”, he said. It is necessary to travel, it is not necessary to live. Two interlocked projectors turn out ‘flat’ copy, side-by-side, anamorphic.

“However there are many roads to space.”

So, tell me about it? I looked at the man in the grey suit, but before he could speak we were transported to a pizza joint on the other side of town. There was a pile of books on the dirty table:

Cities of the Red Night, The Place of Dead Roads, My Education, Ghost of Chance… he was a ‘map-maker’, an explorer of psychic areas, a ‘cosmo­naut of inner space’. The message was resistance:

“Our troops operate in the area of dream and myth under guerrilla conditions… the enemy is a noncreative. parasite.”

If we are to have a future we must catch up with the past even though headlight design occupies the brightest minds – the colour is almost identical – gleaming leather ‘wild boy’ sex appeal, pure velvet, born in St Louis, Missouri. And I was not alone. Boring rituals. Record-breaking results. Many roads. Many spaces. Fluent conversation.

Interviewer: Wright Morris called Naked Lunch a hemorrhage of the imagination. Would you take that as a compliment?

Burroughs: I frankly wouldn’t know how to take it.

Edit. Delete. Rearrange. Rumours circulate endlessly – but most of these leads result in dead ends — left and right images overprinted – filters are not necessary, to live is not necessary. We entered the 1951 Telekinema, it’s bloody and gross and shot in 3D. The screenplay squirts green, hallucinatory gunk at its victims. He was one of the strangest monsters of filmdom with an extensive archive and a diversity of activities. A unique talent, hot property – have they put rat poison in the pasta? The man from El Dorado shuddered as an alien waif stumbled in through the door.

By this time Burroughs had moved further out… The trail had gone cold.

Not for him the dark sadness of amour fou.

Look at what is in front of you in silence – in hieroglyphic silence – the key is beauty and deliriously intense flashbacks. This is how an exponent of English Dada can capture the news. You don’t need subvocal speech to write about it (“I could look at the end of my shoe for eight hours”). I looked out of the window: beyond the village green were angels and devils from Sicily in the 1860s. Yesterday becomes tomorrow. Easy lessons in hieroglyphic silence rendered by excellent pre-computer animation techniques and a lock of Lolita’s hair. He works with the precision of a master chess player.

Interviewer: Therefore, you’re not upset by the fact that a chimpanzee can do an abstract painting?

Burroughs: If he does a good one, no.

Now, the seedy manservant gains the upper hand in the updated film version discussing montage with Kathy Acker. It was an ascesis, a withdrawal.

Sometime Burroughs character, Academy 23 graduate Yen Lee, materialised and said “All dead poets and writers can be reincarnate in different hosts. Vivare no es necesse…” Lee made a victory V sign hovering three or four feet from the table-top. I looked at his cold, hard eyes. According to ‘Pages from Chaos’ he had been carefully selected ‘for a high level of intuitive adjustment’. Training was carried out in the context of reality. Known as El Hombre Invisible he had had several addresses in various cities: Duke Street, St James’s, London, 1972; Rue Delacroix, Tangier, l964; 210, Center Street, New York, 1965; Villa Muniria, Tangier, 1961; rue Git le Coeur, Paris, 1960. He had The Look, The Big Break, The Star Quality…even the wind can’t resist it. Distant recording of Peggy Lee singing Fly me to the Moon (In Other Words)… I just love it here in London where less is always more. Humorous neon years of exposure.

Interviewer: Do you work while you’re travelling on trains or boats?

Burroughs: There is one example of a train trip in which I tried typing, incorporating what I saw in the passing stations…

The expedition to see Celine was organised in 1958 by Allen Ginsberg – walked for half a mile in this rundown neighbourhood… what’s new? A small but significant detail was missing. Celine, a qualified doctor you know, nailed Edith Sitwell’s nose to the lavatory door. Personally I prefer Chanel No 5. Like many artistic revolutionaries Yen Lee became a cultural icon late in life, mixing science fiction, the western, the travel book, the dream journal and other genres. But to travel you have to leave all the verbal gar­bage behind. “God talk, country talk, mother talk, love talk, party talk.” You have to make a distinction between the sea in summer and the sea in winter – a blessed relief and a good hangover cure – cut-ups have been used in films for years. That tired and heavy feeling is eliminated.

The man in the neat, grey suit was sitting at a cafe table next to a sign that read ‘Beautify your legs’. By now his glamorous and exotic life had descended into literary madness – a gaunt figure in sneakers and sunglasses, a dank world of privilege and tragedy. It was 10:23am and, after an antiwar march in Rome, 1969, five hundred guests swept down the world-famous red carpet, a battleground of plastic weaponry. Next morning we check out. According to J G Ballard “when Burroughs talked about Time Magazine’s conspiracy to take over the world he meant it literally”.

The first full-length feature had distinctive architectural design, it opened up fresh corners of an idiosyncratic visual style, a language of old service newsreels, popular documentary films and extreme experimentation – fantasy and cinema verite in equal measure. Dead home movies roll on. Old red stars fade over Hollywood.

Dream and myth, sir, dream and myth.

Interviewer: Your books are rarely obscure or hard to understand.

Burroughs: We think of the past as being there unchangeable. There’s nothing between them and the image. A lot of old junkies used to do this.

Edit. Delete. Rearrange.

I looked up and saw a face I thought I knew – it was – er…

Count Alfred Korzybski, author of Science and Sanity.

Count Alfred said, “Anyone who prays in space is not there.”

Then he vanished. Rats might take over the Earth.

The man from El Dorado came home to write like a master chess-player, mapmaker and explorer. Bleeding bodies swept up in a sense of satire. Trendsetter burns out over Colorado. Conspiracy within the industry. What we call ‘love’ is a fraud perpetrated by the female sex.

There had been an exorcism ceremony to evict The Ugly Spirit, not too late. To achieve complete freedom from past conditioning is “to be in space.” Take trip, a step, into regions literally unthinkable in verbal terms… addiction is a disease of exposure, and an algebra of need. Don’t believe anything they say, people feel they have already seen it on TV.

I look at my watch. It’s still 10:23am and I think of a passage from The Necronomicon translated by Herr Doktor Kurt Unruh von Steinplatz, Benway Publications (1961):

‘Knowing we know not. Techniques exist. The message is resistance…’

Explain the subtle details.

The Herr Doktor crumples into dust. There is a cold shriek on a distant wind, old folded photos exert a morbid fascination, a hemorrhage of the imagination. But the extreme edge of art, as of life, was the only place to be. The texts record ancient nightmare parasites and plagues. Human combustion becomes an everyday reality. Pure anamorphic velvet, two interlocked projectors and Boom! Rumours circulate endlessly – no call – no answer. Always the Third walks beside you – always.

City fellas demand train comes on time and with a fully stocked licensed bar. The biggest avalanche in history just missed us by inches. Stay in or opt out, it’s all the same.

Edit. Delete. Rearrange.

His roommate expectorated for about 40mins. I never take a camera.

Dream and myth, travel and money.

Accelerated history, side-by-side, a psycho-fold-in, no scissors used – I quote James Grauerholz:

“He surely had travels to tell, and yet the five-hour ride back to the City was mostly silent, as together we concentrated on the darkening highway and our own thoughts.”

I observed that, for Rilke, Death was “a bluish distillate/in a cup without a saucer…”

The man in the grey suit, in the pizza joint on the other side of town, flashed me a telepathic message:

There are many roads to space –

There are many –

There are –

Now we are left with the career novelists.

The rats take over the Earth. Recall those seismic shocks in 1921…?

Navigare necesse es. Vivare no es necesse.

 

 

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Blood Gold and Oil

 
 

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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SAUSAGE Life 265

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
Th
e column which is less than the sum of its parts

READER: Have you been following the golf?
MYSELF: I have not been following the golf, nor have I been pursued by it. Why the sudden interest in golf?
READER: It’s The Masters. And anyway I’ve always loved golf.
MYSELF: Golf? You? But you couldn’t hit a barn door with a medicine ball.
READER: You don’t have to play the game to love it. It’s the drama, the pressure, the
lifestyle, the ejaculating champagne.
MYSELF: The enormous amounts of money?
READER: Don’t be so cynical. No doubt you’ll be moaning on about the Grand National next, another great sporting institution.
MYSELF: Ah yes of course I forgot, the great horse bullying jockey-fest is coming up soonalong with the London Marathon. They’re my two favourite events. Apparently due to budgetary restraints caused by the war in Ukraine, certain Grand National rules will now have to be shared with The Marathon.
READER: Is that so? Such as?
MYSELF: This year, any horse or person falling over will be shot, and nursery rhyme characters and pantomime horses will be excluded from both events to avoid alarming children. Also, they are both are going to be sponsored by Pets in a Pickle
READER: The veterinary insurance company?
MYSELF: No the condiment manufacturers
READER: Condiment manufacturers?
MYSELF: Yes, you know. Pets in a Pickle, the perfect accompaniment to that vegan meal you are eating to impress your carnivorous friends. It spices up anything.
READER: Really? What’s in it?
MYSELF: Pets in a Pickle contains vinegar, onion, garlic, tamarind, monosodium glutamate, hamster, goldfish, tortoise, bunny rabbit, baby moo-cow and kitten.
READER: You’re a monster.

THEATRE NEWS
The ambitious stage production of Fitzcarraldo, at the Upper Dicker Playhouse by locally based Irish playwright Finnigan Swake has been cancelled. The story of Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald, the Irish condom manufacturer who transports a three-decked paddle steamer over a small mountain in order to exploit the Peruvian rubber industry is to be postponed indefinitely after it was discovered that the boat was far too big to get in the theatre door.
“It’s a feckin tragedy” said the sweary dramatist, “We just spent 3 months building the set, a scale model of the Amazon Basin with a huge 30 degree hill which the  vessel has to negotiate, and then this banjax. The feckwits who supplied the boat told me it was a 1/3rd scale model but it was full feckin size when it turned up on a giant feckin articulated truck. I’m feckin furious.” A spokesperson from Upper Dicker Borough Council told us that the huge paddle steamer will now be used as a floating casino in Rye Harbour where it will also house two hundred illegal immigrants.

 

SAUSAGE LIFE EASTER SPECIAL:
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF HOLMES & WATSON
With a more than respectful nod to Myles NaGopaleen’s creation Keats & Chapman
No 29: The strange case of the irreversible palindrome 

It was Easter and Holmes and Watson were enjoying a lunch of Guinness and oysters at the bar of O’Rourkes, a delightful pub in Poltroon, County Mayo. The detective and his faithful companion were visiting the Emerald Isle disguised as Catholic priests, as part of a joint undercover investigation between Scotland Yard and The Garda, the Irish constabulary.

Back in London, a suspected smuggling ring involving the profitable Easter egg export industry had left the Metropolitan police completely baffled, and detective inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard had reluctantly requested the famous Sleuth’s assistance. The trail led the pair to the west coast of Ireland, where Holmes had deduced that the flourishing illicit Easter egg trade owed its success to the prohibitive influence of the Roman Catholic Church concerning birth control. The hollow bonbons, he concluded, had been successfully utilised by the criminal gangs to smuggle banned contraceptives into the country.

The pair’s priestly disguises were most convincing and Watson, ever the thespian, was rather beginning to enjoy his role. He had already taken confession from a well-known Irish actress, and Holmes had observed him blessing beggars, and on one occasion, attempting to baptise a baby. During this lunchtime sojourn, as the black ale gradually permeated his brain, Watson began to philosophize.

“Did you know Holmes, that Easter was named after the pagan fertility goddess Oestre?”

Holmes mentally fastened his safety harness as the intoxicated doctor slurred on.

“Does it not strike you as extraordinarily ironic Holmes, that a form of,” – after a brief glance around the bar he hissed the dread word from the corner of his mouth – “birth control, should be smuggled into Ireland in this way? Has it occurred to you that the object in which they have been concealed is an edible representation of the very thing it is designed to obstruct the fertilization of?  These are confectionaries remember, whose consumption not only coincides with the celebration of Christ’s resurrection, but which are aimed primarily at children”.
I mean”, he pleaded “how many pregnancies do you suppose have been thwarted by the prophylactics illegally imported in these hollow, chocolate ovoids?

Holmes, a committed secularist and advocate of the separation of church and state, had up to this point, unlike his theatrically-obsessed companion, seemed mildly uncomfortable in his ecclesiastic guise. Suddenly, however, the detective’s visage assumed a pink, beatific, almost priestly expression as he took a sip from his glass of stout. The famous sleuth’s beetling eyebrows appeared to indicate a forensic perusal of the facts as he pondered Watson’s philosophical conundrum for several minutes.

Eventually, placing the half-drained pint back on the mahogany bar he cleared his throat and spoke; “That would be an egg numerical matter” he stated with an authority bordering on the Papal.

Watson, through a blurred, Guinnessy haze, could only gape like a stranded goldfish. Deciding that a quick exit was his only option, he hopped off his barstool, caught his toe in the metal foot-rail and caromed head-first into the overflowing spittoon.

 

 

Sausage Life!

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

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

 



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They’re Not Talking

I don’t want to alarm you
Or cause you too much consternation but
Don’t believe the devil
Don’t believe his book
Don’t believe in sin, originary or not
Why consider Adam and Eve sinful
Two wrongs don’t make a right
Just might believe in Heaven and Hell after all
Because I think we just don’t understand that one at all
There’s still a right and wrong
But it’s more fluent than rigidity
Hardly anything seems to have a solution
That is not more particular than universalistic
Don’t believe the ten commandments: read them!
On the other hand
We do need law
And politics
And arguments and disputes
What do you need to know?
Pay attention and respond appropriately
That’s a start
Respect local customs
Of course they’re quite possibly not like your’s
Trying to bring together
Ways of doing that are just so intrinsically different and apart
Is just not going to work
Hell those two
Couldn’t stay five minutes together in the same room
If they could deem
To talk to each other at all
Winners and losers
And don’t get caught on the wrong side of that line
You’ve got to know what’s good for you
What’s going to make it better
I might have to change this
Or some of it anyway
There just may be no way around it

 

 

 

Clark Allison

 

 

 

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MARION/MARTHA

 
MARION

The buzzards in that tree don’t think I’m dying —
they just want to rest before more flying
 
and I’m not at all keen on becoming carrion
I’d rather leave that to my so-called ‘friend’ Marion
 
who overdoses on envy and spite —
the birds will find him a putrid delight.
 
 
 
MARTHA
 
Martha’s mama was a seamstress
and employed full-time, more or less –
 
the tedium could not make her grovel
because while sewing she planned a novel –
 
from what I hear it seems it was about stress,
the stress that comes from being a seamstress.

 

 
 
Copyright © Mark Halliday & Martin Stannard, 2023

 

 

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It’s Not Us This Time


 
hastily packing the car to the scent of smoke,
hoping for a change of wind
as we stare through the rearview.
 
It’s not us,
scanning the field desolated by drought,
recalling bountiful yields of years gone by.
 
It’s not us,
picking through shards of rubble with cracked hands,
mouths dry with anticipation of loss.
 
It’s not us,
our homes swept like debris across the beach,
clothes clinging to wet skin, wondering where we’ll sleep.
 
It’s not us,
wearied with the wearing-on of war,
huddled in cold dark, the boom of bombs our lullaby.
 
It’s not us.
And so we watch TV. Turn the tap and take for granted
everything we have. Perhaps we’ll send a check,
 
mouth a prayer,
or curse the corporations for their greed.
What else can we do while waiting for our turn?

 

 

Alfred Fournier

 

 

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Tattooing the Sun

Tattooing the sun is an arduous task; shifting the neurons to interact with the sun’s plasma requires vigilance and the illogical agreement of imagination and matter. There isn’t any way around the sun when neurons flicker and the plasma forks over the corona. Impossible, illogical, and inaccurate. But who can believe all that? Who can really believe that when we are at the bottom of the lake, swimming farther and farther away from the sun, moving horizontally with ease, pushing to go deeper as our lungs resist, become a form of frozen waves; deny defy refute whatever had already been said at the surface.

 

Andrea Moorhead

 

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‘Fantasty Tales’: Journeys into the Macabre with the Magazine of the Weird & the Unusual

 

 

by

ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

Review of:
‘PHANTASMAGORIA MAGAZINE
SPECIAL EDITION SERIES no.7 PRESENTS
‘FANTASY TALES: 45th ANNIVERSARY TRIBUTE!’
Editor: Trevor Kennedy.
Editorial Consultants: Stephen Jones & David A Sutton
December 2022 by TK Pulp, 364pp, ISBN 9798366-681926

Spidery red lettering on a yellow shield background form the distinctive ‘Fantasy Tales’ cover logo. There were twenty-four issues strung out between Summer 1977 to Winter 1991, and just leafing through this hefty anthology is ‘sensing the folds of history gathered about the place,’ as with the character in the Adrian Cole story. The first half of the seventies formed a strange interregnum in British SF & Fantasy publishing. The titles that had defined the two previous decades had disappeared, and publishers were thrashing about in their attempts to devise a new viable format. David A Sutton sets the scene in his splendid essay ‘A Short History Of British Horror & Fantasy Fanzines (1970-1979)’ recalling the names of many neglected and sometimes short-lived projects that preceded ‘Fantasy Tales’, most notably ‘Shadow’ and ‘Dark Horizons’, but also taking in ‘Arc’ with its broader scope of fantasy-related themes, as well as Dave Britton’s off-trail ‘Crucified Toad’ with its Jim Cawthorn art, Jon M Harvey’s ‘Balthus’ with Jim Pitts gargoyle cover art and the lavish ‘Anduril: Magazine Of Fantasy’ ‘one of the finest looking small press magazines that has ever been published in Britain.’ All of them had their own quirky uniqueness, I remember each of them with a varying sense of affectionate nostalgia. But after delving into this rich anthology, that ‘Fantasy Tales’ raised the bar must be a truth universally acknowledged.

Here there be ‘forgotten lands of time-lost lore’ as in Brian Lumley’s acrostic poem that spells out the magazine title (in issue no.3). Early in the anthology there’s a reproduction launch-flier announcing the first issue, spelling out the magazine’s concise manifesto that ‘it’s aim is to recreate the looks and entertainment value of the pulp magazines of the 1930s and forties.’ With dramatic Jim Pitts cover-art, that first issue includes adverts for ‘The British Fantasy Society’, for the Harlesden ‘Fantasy Centre’ bookshop, for the ‘Spectre Press’ edition of Adrian Cole’s ‘The Coming Of The Voidal’ and for the second issue of ‘Phantasy Digest.’ And the advertising pages and box-fillers will continue to add teasing time-tasters in constellations of lost worlds. But fictionwise, the lead story – ‘Naked As A Sword’ by Ken Bulmer is an early Game of Thrones. Poet Steve Sneyd’s post-apocalypse ‘Milk Of Kindness’ has Draco Fern-owl discovering the still-living body of a female vampire in the radiation-glow ruins of the Before. While ‘The Stone Thing’ is a self-satirising humour piece by Michael Moorcock (first published in ‘Troide’ October 1974) in which the creator of ‘Elric’ sends up all the clichés that served him so well in his own swords-&-sorcery sagas. The story itself was lavishly illustrated by Russ Nicholson, and is also the first piece of fiction to be reclaimed for this anthology. After all, Moorcock is an attention-grabbing name to blurb across the magazine-cover, and also for the credits listed on the anthology back-page, for even light throwaway tongue-in-cheek Moorcock is collectable.

Using the old ‘Weird Tales’ magazine as a template, editor and co-creator Stephen Jones explains how the early issues were literally cut-&-paste jobs, laying-out little pieces of cut-up paper with pungent tubes of Uhu glue, on his Mother’s kitchen table. He happened to be working in a Soho TV-&-video company which allowed him sufficient downtime to furtively take advantage of their IBM Selectric golfball typewriters, with their facility for bold, italic, variable fonts and font-sizes.

Adrian Cole’s ‘Scars’, is lifted from the second issue, and has an unsettling atmospheric ‘The Wicker Man’ feel, as Daniel visits girlfriend Vivienne’s home village of Puddlebarrow in the heart of rural Dorset, only to discover themselves becoming part of an ancient pagan festival commemorating the burning of Satanist Thomas Carston. There’s a slight temporal anomaly here when it refers to the time of Cromwell’s execution – Tudor statesman Thomas Cromwell was beheaded in 1540, but Oliver Cromwell died in his sickbed in 1658. Unless it refers to the Lord Protector’s subsequent exhumation and posthumous execution in 1661? Nevertheless, the tension builds as Vi is marked as one of the three intended victims of Carston’s curse. Daniel succeeds in smuggling Vi out of the village to the safety of his aunt’s home in Yeovil, but – as is the way with demonic curses, he becomes its casualty in her place.

‘The Story Of The Brown Man’ by Darrell Schweitzer, with its charmingly ornate frontpiece-art by Randy Broecker, is an elegiac last summer of childhood story taken from issue no.6. It steps back into the mythological realm once populated for ‘Science Fantasy’ magazine by the wonderful Thomas Burnett Swann. The Brown Man – ‘my people have no names,’ is a part-human part-goat faun, akin to the Greek satyr, who a bored Roman boy meets and befriends in an overgrown graveyard close by the estate of his Uncle Septimius, five days journey from Naples. He accepts the magical transfigurations and the flight to the gods that the Brown Man gifts him just as he accepts eunuch tutors and slaves. In a beautifully evocative paean to ‘wondrous dreams’ he witnesses the twilight of the old gods in the advent of the new monotheistic religion of the cross. ‘I remember it (‘Fantasy Tales’) very fondly’ recalls Darrell, ‘and was proud to be a part of it.’

Peter Tremayne (alias of Peter Berresford Ellis) appears with ‘Reflections On A Dark Eye’ from no.7 – with a reference to the Woolworth’s store to provide indication that the issue is now over forty years in the past. At the time, advances in transplant surgery provided a rash of stories and slasher-movies concerning past-life memories retained by transplanted body-parts. In Tremayne’s clever variant on the theme John’s cornea grafts lead to a series of vivid images of dreary 1930s tenement houses where cornea-donor Laszlo Szyrmy had murdered his prostitute girlfriend – she ‘aspired to membership of the world’s oldest profession’ as he phrases it, and leaves John with the malignant compulsion to butcher his unfaithful wife with the bread knife.

Leaping ahead to no.9, Thomas Ligotti’s ‘The Frolic’ features disenchanted prison psychologist Dr David Munck unsettled by his interviews with a child-killer known only as Joe Doe. The nuanced story is told through a static marital conversation with Munck’s wife Leslie, who also has her reasons for wanting to leave their affluent lifestyle in Nolgate. Concepts of good and evil, truth and beauty collide when Doe – who poetically refers to his atrocities as ‘frolicking’, is seen to be an artist of genius responsible for sculpting the head of one of his child victims. Then their daughter, Norleen, is snatched from her bedroom, leaving only a note signed ‘Jonathan Doe’.

Brian Lumley’s ‘The Strange Years’, with creepy bug-art by Dave Carson, is also taken from issue no.9. and is a startlingly good chronology of then-future disasters to afflict not only human life on the planet but a series of extinction-level events as Gaia strikes back. The last man lies face-down on the primal beach, reading a narrative he has written, telling about the 1976 drought, Ukrainian eco-disaster in 1977, oil slicks, locusts, a rampant mutant strain of beriberi, the Mediterranean draining away, a Martian space-bug, meteoric debris and new killer-cancers. Finally, into the 1990s, there’s a plague of hallucinogenic chameleon super-lice, until ‘three hairy sacks with pincer feet, big as footballs almost, and heavy with his blood, crawled slowly away from him along the beach….’ Yet despite Brian’s direst prognostications we still survive to be both chilled and amused by his story all over again in its new incarnation.

Swords & Sorcery was a continuity from the launch issue, and ‘At The Mouth Of Time’ by Joe R Lansdale – from no.11, opens with the traditional tavern brawl provoked by the beautiful girl. But the rakish Gobel is not the regular hero, a rather foppish swordsman adventure beguiled into a problem ‘as mind-boggling as the laces on a courtesan’s corset,’ when he journeys to supposedly liberate a prince trapped in the phallic Tower of Time, only to discover that the supposed bad-guy Merlyn stands between continuums against the encroachment of the Elder Dark ‘gods that Gobel disbelieved in.’ It’s a slick well-told tale that promises more adventures to come.

‘The Generation Waltz’ by Charles L Grant – from no.13, is a more sensitive conversation piece with the Logan family gathered as deceased Grandmother ‘Gram’ lies in her coffin on a bier in the living room, they’re haunted by guilt, recriminations and memories, the rain falls, Gram’s ‘favourite’ grandchild Sean had been a child-killer shot to death by the police, yet he visits her.

Ramsey Campbell was a prolific contributor, with nine appearances. Chosen for the anthology, ‘The Sneering’, taken from no.14, is a hard urban study trapped in the harsh orange streetlight-glow of a hostile city wasteland. It effectively demonstrates that the greatest horror is not zombies, vampires or were-beasts, the greater horror is that we who were once young grow to become old, our faculties crumble, and this world is longer ours. A childless couple, Jack’s wife Emily has Alzheimers, they struggle to survive amid regret and remorse, the hostile subway’s threat, speeding traffic and the feral council estate kids. In a related interview he reveals that the story ‘was suggested by the construction of the Liverpool end of the M62 in the midst of a suburb, and by thoughts of how this might affect residents.’

David A Riley’s ‘After Nightfall’ – from no.15, adopts an effectively formal prose-style in order the capture the genuinely Lovecraftian horror of antiquarian Elliot Wilderman trapped in the isolated village of Heron where the locals lock and bolt their doors at dusk for fear of the bestial creatures that emerge from the wood. Also from no.15 Samantha Lee’s brief Bebop flash-fiction ‘Take Five’ finds a jazzman who thinks he’s in heaven – only to discover that’s he’s in hell. Originally a spoken-word piece broadcast on Capitol Radio – read by Valentine Dyall, at just a thousand words it ‘also fit the page of ‘Fantasy Tales’.’ Dennis Etchison’s ‘The Olympic Runner’ is from no.16, a sensitive enigmatic post-divorce mother (Casey) -daughter (bratty Lori) bonding car journey set around the time of the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. Then Richard Christian Matheson’s brief tragic child-death ‘Red’ from the same issue.

With the title relaunched in a paperback format through a new publishing hook-up with Robinson, David J Schow’s ‘The Embracing’ was in the third issue of the reconfigured series. ‘The change from ‘semi-’ to ‘pro-’ came with a small price tag’ as GW Thomas points out in his feature, ‘fewer Sword & Sorcery and more a focus on horror,’ and this gratuitous ‘Splatterpunk’ exercise is a case in point. Tillyard and Althea, art-rebels who defy the regime of Adjudicators and their mutant Stockboy enforcers, are drugged and cast into the monster-infested labyrinth where their fight for survival reduces them to barbarism. The balance corrected in no.4 with Kim Newman’s clever fan-satire ‘The Man Who Collected Barker’, with a fanatical collector of cult fantasy finding space for knowing references to Arkham House titles and obscure writers Seabury Quinn, Arthur Leo Zagat and Otis Adelbert Kline before playful references to contemporary Ramsey Campbell and Clive Barker. Then Steve Rasnic Tem’s ‘In The Trees’ from no.4, in which climbing a tree becomes a thoughtful metaphor about a confident child exceeding the timidity of its parent.

The startling ‘Foreign Parts’ by Neil Gaiman, from no.6, has a disturbing Cronenberg body-horror quality in that its subject is a kind of venereal disease – NSU: Non-Specific Urethritis, visited upon solitary compulsive masturbator Simon Powers, despite his not having sex with anyone other than his own hand for three years. Open and painfully explicit it veers quite deliberately into the territory of the movie ‘Invasion Of The Body Snatchers’ (1956) as the infection takes him over, casting him into a new more decisive identity.

Kathryn Ptacek’s ‘Living To The End’ – with art by Peter Coleborn, is a morbid meditation on an old man’s hospitalised dying moments. While finally – also from no.7, Garry Kilworth’s ‘Island With The Stink Of Ghosts’ from his collection ‘In The Hollow Of The Deep-Sea Wave’ (1989, The Bodley Head), uses the idea of a floating island breaking away from its natural moorings off the Malaysian coast and drifting into shipping lanes, as a setting for Ralph Leeman’s haunted memories of his dead brother, and his guilt for allowing the importation of the heroin that killed him. The cemetery island’s shifting hallucinatory ‘sweet, cloying scent’ of putrefaction creates an atmospheric sense of unease.

Of course, this anthology simply dips into the extensive archive of stories. There’s a wealth of others. And as befits this magnificent anthology’s celebratory role as an ‘Anniversary Tribute’ there are also interviews with activists – not only David A Sutton and Stephen Jones, but Ramsey Campbell, David J Schow and Jim Pitts, art portfolios (Jim Pitts, David Lloyd, Dave Carson), period photographs and verse telling the magazine’s full eventful story. I only ever had a story in one issue of ‘Fantasy Tales’ – and it has not been selected for inclusion in this anthology, but I’m proud to be a part of the wonderful history of this magazine.

 

(1) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.1 no.1, Summer 1977, 60p/$2, 48pp), editors Stephen Jones (also publisher) & David A Sutton. 52pp. Jim Pitts cover art for feature-story Ken Bulmer (cover-story ‘Naked As A Sword’, Jim Pitts inner art), Michael Moorcock (‘The Stone Thing’, Russell Nicholson art), Ramsey Campbell (‘A Madness From The Vaults’, Alan Hunter art), Eddy C Bertin (‘The Price To Pay’, David Lloyd art), Brian Lumley (‘Mylakhrion The Immortal’, Jim Pitts art), Brian Mooney (‘The Dream Shop’, David Lloyd art), Steve Sneyd (‘Milk Of Kindness’, Christopher Tomms art), plus verse by Gordon Larkin (‘Fog Upon Ynth’) and John Grandfield (‘Morvenna’). Advert for ‘Phantasy Digest no.2’ magazine, Spectre Press edition of Adrian Cole’s ‘The Coming Of The Voidal’, The British Fantasy Society, ‘G Ken Chapman’ bookseller and Harlesden’s ‘Fantasy Centre’ shop. Charming John Grandfield back-page art.

(2) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.1 no.2, Winter 1977) with cover-story Adrian Cole (‘Scars’), William Thomas Webb (a veteran of ‘Nebula SF’, ‘Science Fantasy’ and ‘New Worlds’, with ‘The Hypnocosm’), Ramsey Campbell (‘Accident Zone’), Karl Edward Wagner (‘The Last Wolf’ plus a letter), Sydney J Bounds (‘Borden Wood’), Fred C Adams (‘The Feast Of Argatha’), plus verse by Brian Lumley (‘City Out Of Time’) and Brian Mooney (‘Undead’). Art by Alan Hunter, Jim Pitts, Russell Nicholson. ‘The Cauldron’ letters to the editor. Advert for ‘Garth’ book by Frank Bellamy, for ‘Dark They Were & Golden Eyed’ shop, ‘Spectre Press’, the BSFA

(3) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.2 no.3, Summer 1978) with cover-story ‘The Lean Wolves Wait’ by John Wysocki (cover-art by Stephen E Fabian), plus Patrick Connelly (‘At The End Of The Road’), Marion Pitman (‘A Sonnet For Insanity’), Denys Val Baker (‘The Inheritance’ taken from his 1971 Arkham House collection ‘The Face In The Mirror’), Peter Coleborn (‘The Exhumation’) and Andrew Darlington (‘The Last Sleeping God Of Mars’ with Alan Hunter artwork). Poems by Pat McIntosh (‘Berúthiel’) and Brian Lumley (‘Fantasy Tales’). Advert for Spectre Press ‘Cthulhu Tales’, and Cauldron letters from Jon M Harvey, Alan Hunter & Sydney J Bounds. Art by David Lloyd, Sylvia Starshine, Simon Horsfall etc

(4) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.2 no.4, Spring 1979, 60p) with Jim Pitts cover-art for Adrian Cole (‘First Make Them Mad’ – Voidal tale), Ken Dickson (‘The Chinese Box’ with Alan Hunter art), Joe R Schifino (‘Bloodhold’), AJ Silvonius (‘At Last The Arcana Revealed’), Karl Edward Wagner (‘Mourning Of The Following Day’). Verse by H Warner Munn (‘Love Philtre’), Gordon Larkin (‘Mausoleum’ with Hannes Bok art), Steve Eng (‘Tomb-Time’). Adverts for ‘History Of Fantasy Crossroads’, ‘Omniumgathem’ and ‘Dreams Of A Darker Hue’ (Bertin & Alex Kernaghan’). ‘The Cauldron’ letters from Cyril Simsa, Alan Hunter, Adrian Cole.

(5) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.3 no.5, Winter 1979), first saddle-stapled issue with David Lloyd’s art for HP Lovecraft & Brian Lumley’s featured tale ‘The Thing In The Moonlight’, plus Cyril Simsa (‘Extension 201’), Brian Mooney’s (‘For The Life Everlasting’), Frances Garfield (‘Don’t Open That Door’), Randall Garrett (‘Just Another Vampire Story’) plus verse by Gordon Larkin (‘An Agonising Choice’), H Warner Munn (‘The Exiles’), Simon Ounsley (‘The SeaFarers’) and Steve Eng (‘Morsel’). Ads for ‘Dark They Were And Golden Eyed’, Birmingham’s ‘Andromeda’ bookshop, and ‘Fandom Unlimited’ magazine

(6) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.3 no.6, Summer 1980) with black+white Jim FitzPatrick cover-art from ‘The Book Of Conquests’, fiction by Manly Wade Wellman (‘Ever The Faith Endures’), JR Schifino (‘Lair Of The White Wolf’), H Warmer Munn (‘Dreams May Come’), Frances Garfield (‘The Elementals’), Dave Reeder (‘The Last Trick’), Darrell Schweitzer (‘The Story Of The Brown Man’), plus verse by Brian Lumley (‘The Wind-Walker’), Don Herron (‘The Blades Of Hell’), Steve Eng (‘Bone-Yowl’). Back-page art by Jim Pitts ‘After Hannes Bok’. Ads for ‘Forbidden Planet’, the ‘British Fantasy Society’ and ‘Gothic’ magazine.

(7) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.4 no.7, Spring 1981), Jim Pitts cover-art illustrates Karl Edward Wagner’s featured story ‘The Other One’, with Peter Tremayne (‘Reflections On A Dark Eye’, art by David Lloyd), CA Cador (‘Payment In Kind’ – originally featured in ‘Gnostica’ August 1975, Alan Hunter art), Ramsey Campbell (‘Wrapped Up’, Randy Broecker art), Robert A Cook (‘The Woodcarver’s Son’, Russell Nicholson art), Darrell Schweitzer (‘The Last Horror Out Of Arkham’, Dave Carson art), plus verse by Steven E ‘Stephen Edward’ McDonald (‘The Wedding Guest’), Marion Pitman (‘A Death Song For Gondath’), H Warner Munn (‘Limbo’, reprinted from the 1976 ‘Omniumgathum’ anthology), David ‘Dave Ward’ Greygoose (‘Bleak December’). ‘The Cauldron’ features letters from Alan Hunter, Brian Lumley, Steve Eng and Brian Mooney.

(8) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.4 no.8, Summer 1981), Dave Carson cover-art illustrates featured Hugh B Cave story ‘A Place Of No Return’), with Dennis Etchison (‘The Dark Country’ – a Jack Martin story, with David Lloyd art), Brian Mooney (‘The Elevation Of Theosophus Goatgrime’, John Grandfield art), James Glenn (‘The Legacy’, Jim Pitts art), Mike Chinn (‘Sic Transit’, Russell Nicholson art), Mark Clarke (‘Shadows From The Past’, David Lloyd art), Michael D Toman (‘Weirwood’, Alan Hunter art), with verse by Brian Lumley (‘Swamp Call’) and The Cauldron (logo by John Grandfield) letters from Brian Lumley, Alan Hunter, Dave Morris, Brian Mooney.

(9) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.5 no.9, Spring 1982), Jim Pitts wrap-around cover-art illustrates featured David Malpass story (‘The Grey Horde’), with Adam Nichols novelette (‘Dead Birds Singing In The Black Of Night’, Russ Nicholson art), Thomas Ligotti (‘The Frolic’, David Lloyd art), Lin Carter (‘The Laughter Of Han’, Alan Hunter art), Brian Lumley (‘The Strange Years’, Dave Carson art), Phillip C Heath (‘October Treat’, Allen Koszowski art), and verse by H Warner Munn (‘The Changling’), Steve Eng (‘In Lieu Of Applause’) and George A McIntyre (‘Initiation’). ‘Weird Tales’ artist Lee Brown Coye obituary by Karl Edward Wagner. The Cauldron letters from Peter Bayliss, Ramsey Campbll, David A Riley, Andrew J Wilson.

(10) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.5 no.10, Summer 1982, 75p/$2.50) black+white David Lloyd cover-art illustrating featured story Ramsey Campbell’s  ‘The Voice Of The Beach’, plus Manly Wade Wellman (‘A Witch For All Seasons’), Mike Chinn (‘But The Stones Will Stand’), James Anderson (‘Thatcher’s Bluff’), Peter G Shilston (‘The Gardens’), Scott E Green (‘The Motel Room’), plus verse by Charlotte Dean (‘Death Wish’), ‘The Cauldron’ reader’s letters and Dave Carson back-page art. Ads for New York’s ‘The Science Fiction Shop’, London ‘Fantasy Centre’ and the Birmingham ‘Andromeda Bookshop., the ‘Threshold Of Fantasy’ magazine of fantastic literature, for Tanith Lee’s ‘Prince On A White Horse’ novel

(11) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.6 no.11, Winter 1982), Jim Pitts cover-art illustrating featured H Warner Munn story ‘A Sprig Of Rosemary’ (from 1933), with Peter Tremayne (‘The Storm Devil Of Lan-Kern’, Alan Hunter art), C Bruce Hunter (‘To Welcome One Of Their Own’, Allen Koszowski art), Allen Ashley as ‘Allen A Lucas’ (‘Dead To The World’, Dave Carson art), Joe R Lansdale (‘At The Mouth Of Time’, John Stewart art), Peter Bayliss (‘Legacy Of Evil’, David Lloyd art), Kenneth Bulmer as by ‘Dray Prescot’ originally published in 1982 as by ‘Alan Burt Akers’ (‘The Story Of Lallia The Slave Girl’, Russ Nicholson art), plus verse by Robert E Howard (‘Seven Kings’), Jo Fletcher as ‘Charlotte Dean’ (‘A Lady’s Retribution’, Alan Hunter art), and Joel Lane (‘The Worm’). The Cauldron letters from Nic Howard, Brian Lumley, Dave Reeder, Peter Coleborn, Peter Bayliss.

(12) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.6 no.12, Winter 1983), David Lloyd cover-art illustrating featured Robert Bloch story ‘A Question Of Identity’ (1939) inner art by John Stewart, with Dennis Etchison (‘You Can Go Now’, Randy Broecker art), Darrell Schweitzer (‘The Stones Would Weep’, Allen Koszowski art), Peter A Hough (‘The Summer House Party’, David Lloyd art), Simon R Green (‘In The Labyrinth’, Jim Pitts art), Kelvin I Jones (‘The Green Man’, Dave Carson art), Jessica Amanda Salmonson (‘A Rock That Loved’, Alan Hunter art), C Bruce Hunter (‘Pharaoh’s Revenge’), plus verse by Robert E Howard (‘The Zulu Lord’, Stephen Fabian art) and Marise Morland (‘Ballad’). The Cauldron letters from Nic Howard and Peter Coleborn.

(13) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.7 no.13, Winter 1984, 90p/$3.00) with Stephen E Fabian colour front and back cover-art, fiction by Robert Bloch (‘The Sorcerer’s Jewel’, Dave Carson art), William F Nolan (‘Of Time And Kathy Benedict’, Wendy All art), Charles L Grant (‘The Generation Waltz’, Andrew Smith art), Steve Rasnic Tem (‘The Bad People’, Jim Pitts art), Mike Grace (‘Tongue In Cheek’, Mark Dunn art), Gary William Crawford (‘Vigilance’, Alan Hunter art), plus verse by Steve Eng (‘The Last Guest’). Ads for ‘Your Science Fantasy Bookshop… In The Mail’, the ‘Fantasy Centre’, ‘Andromeda Bookshop’, Scream Press, and ‘Fantasy Tales’ T-shirt offer.

(14) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.7 no.14, Summer 1985), Jim Pitts cover-art illustrates featured Ramsey Campbell story ‘The Sneering’, plus Ardath Mayhar (‘The Pushover’, Mark Dunn art), Chris Naylor (‘The Castle At World’s End’, Stephen E Fabian art), Jeffrey Goddin (‘House Of Ill-Repute’, Alan Hunter art), Clive Barker (‘The Forbidden’, John Stewart art), C Bruce Hunter (‘The Other Side’, Allen Koszowski art), and verse by ‘David Cowperthwaite’ aka John Gale (‘Yuggoth’, Allen Koszowski art). The Cauldron letters from Nic Howard, John Pelan, Peter A Hough.

(15) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.8 no.15, Winter 1985, 90p/$3) with Tom Campbell cover-art illustrating Fritz Leiber’s fiction ‘In The X-Ray’ Tom Campbell inner art), plus Frances Garfield (‘Amorous Of The Far’, Alan Hunter art), Kim Newman (‘The Terminus’, Jim Pitts art), Charles L Grant (‘Long Walk Home’, Craig Forrester art), Malcolm Furnass (‘Down By The Sea’, Mark Dunn art), Adrian Cole (‘The Exile Of Earthendale’, Jim Pitts art), David Riley (‘After Nightfall’, Allen Koszowski art), Samantha Lee (‘Take Five’, Jim Pitts art) plus verse by Joel Lane (‘Book Of The Dead’), Phil Emery (‘Shadrezzar’), and Jon Bye (‘The Farthing Lord’). L Ron Hubbard four-page pull-out. Ads for ‘Andromeda Bookshop’, Robert & Phyllis Weinberg Books, British Fantasy Society. Back-page ad for Corgi Books Science Fantasy.

(16) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.8 no.16, Winter 1986, 90p/$3, 54pp) ‘Eyeteeth’ JK Potter cover-art. ‘Fantasy Tales’ back-issues. With Dennis Etchison (‘The Olympic Runner’, Rodger Gerberding art), Richard Christian Matheson (‘Red’, Allen Koszowski art),  Peter Tremayne (‘The Singing Stone’, Alan Hunter), Hugh B Cave (‘After The Funeral’, Jim Pitts art), David Case (‘Twins’, Andrew Smith art), Josepha Sherman (‘Zerail’, Jim Pitts art), George A McIntyre (‘Our Christmas Spirit’, Sue Simpson art) and Samantha Lee (‘Bon Appetit’, Dallas Goffin art), verse by Manly Wade Wellman (‘The White Road’), Christina Kiplinger (‘Eradication’s Rise’). Ads for ‘Fantasy Review’ and ‘Shock Xpress’ magazines, L Ron Hubbard’s Mission Earth series, and ‘Fantasy Centre’ bookshop. A Tribute to recently deceased Many Wade Wellman by Karl Edward Wagner.

(17) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.9 no.17, Summer 1987, 60pp), billed as the ‘Tenth Anniversary Issue!’ with Stephen E Fabian topless girl colour cover-art with William F Nolan (‘The Dandelion Chronicles’, with Jim Pitts art), Ramsey Campbell (‘Writer’s Curse’, Alfred R Klosterman art), Michael Moorcock (‘The Last Call’, Russ Nicholson art), C Bruce Hunter (‘The Travelling Salesman And The Farmer’s Daughter’, Alan Hunter art), Brian Lumley (‘Hell Is A Personal Place’, Dave Carson art), Mike Chinn (‘The Hollywood Mandate’, a Damian Paladin variant of ‘You Ought To Be In Pictures’, Martin McKenna art), William Thomas Webb (‘The Ghoul Of The Four Winds’, Allen Koszowski art), and verse by Steve Eng (‘North Sea Lament’, John Grandfield art),  Leilah Wendell (‘Ebony Rose’, Sue Simpson art), Robert E Howard (‘An Outworn Story’, JK Potter art), Clive Barker (‘Six Commonplaces’ from Weaveworld’, with his own artwork). The Cauldron letters from Ian Mundell and Peter Bayliss.

(18) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.10 no.1, Autumn 1988, 99p, 104pp), first issue published through Robinson, ‘A Paperback Magazine of Fantasy & Terror’. Fiction by Charles L Grant (‘Now And Again In Summer’, Lynne Taylor art), Lin Carter (‘The Thievery Of Yish’, Russ Nicholson art), Guy N Smith (‘Vampire Village’, Andrew Smith art), C Bruce Hunter (‘The Farmer And The Travelling Salesman’s Daughter’, Alan Hunter art), JN Williamson (‘Fancy That’, Allen Koszowski art), Chris Morgan (‘Touching’, Steve Berridge art), Darrell Schweitzer (‘A Vision Of Rembathene’, Martin McKenna art), David Riley (‘Writer’s Cramp’ Jim Pitts art), verse by Chris Naylor (‘The Cloven Cross’) and Robert E Howard (‘Memories’). Ads for ‘Forbidden Planet’, Stephen King (‘The Dark Tower’), Terry Pratchett (‘Mort’ Discworld novels), Raymond E Feist (‘Faerie Tale’), Unwin Hyman books including ‘Other Edens 2’ anthology, British Fantasy Society, Forgotten Realms books, Headline books, Iain M Banks (‘The Player Of Games’), The Sheffield Space Centre, Fantasy Centre bookshop, ‘Interzone’ magazine. The Cauldron letters

(19) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.10 no.2, Spring 1989, 99p, 104pp) cover-art and artist-profile of Les Edwards, with Ken Bulmer (‘Ice And Fire’, Russ Nicholson art), William F Nolan (‘The Cure’, Martin McKenna art), Joel Lane (‘The Dispossessed’, Dave Carson art), Brian Lumley (‘The Man Who Felt Pain’, Jim Pitts art), Will Johnson (‘Stepping Out’, Dallas Goffin art) and verse by Neil Gaiman (‘Vampire Sestina’). Advert for Tim White’s book ‘Chiaroscuro’, David Eddings, Peter James (‘Possession’), Grafton Books, Forbidden Planet, Fantasy Centre, Forgotten Realms & Dragonlance books. 1989 Fantasy Calendar. Mike Ashley’s ‘Future Fantasy’ news column. The Cauldron.

(20) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.11 no.3, Autumn 1989), includes Angus McKie artist-profile who provides robot musician cover-art, with Ramsey Campbell (‘The Sustenance Of Hoak’, art by Jeff Salmon), Stephen Gresham (‘The One Left Behind’, John Stewart art), Jessica Amanda Salmonson (‘John And The Magic Skillet’, Jim Pitts art), David J Schow (‘The Embracing’, Allen Koszowski art), Alan W Lear (‘Fatal Bellman’, Harry O Morris art) and verse by Jon Bye (‘Wayland’s Smithy’, Dallas Goffin art) and Charles Whateley (‘Worms’), plus The Cauldron, and Mike Ashley’s ‘Future Fantasy’ brief reviews. Ads for Dragonlance Books, Forbidden Planet, Fantasy Centre, Stephen King (‘The Dark Tower 2’), Shaun Hutson & Richard Laymon books, William Gibson (‘Mona Lisa Overdrive’) and Raymond E Feist, Adrian Cole (‘Thief Of Dreams’), Geoff Ryman and Gill Alderman, Thomas Ligotti (‘Songs Of A Dead Dreamer’) plus 1989/90 Fantasy Calendar.

(21) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.11 no.4, Spring 1990) with JK Potter cover art and profile, with Stephen Gallagher (‘The Drain’), Charles L Grant (‘Alice Smiling’), Darrell Schweitzer (‘Into The Dark Land’ from his ‘Julian’ series), Kim Newman (‘The Man Who Collected Clive Barker’), Don Webb (‘Initiation’), Steve Rasnic Tem (‘In The Trees’), C Bruce Hunter (‘The Death & Afterlife Of Sam McKay’). Poem by Steve Eng (‘Sea Reverie’), and ‘Future Fantasy’ reviews by Brian Lumley and Mike Ashley.

(22) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.12 no.5, Autumn 1990) with JK Potter cover art, Roberta Lannes (‘Invisible Boy’), Ramsey Campbell (‘The Changer Of Names’, part of his ‘Ryre’ series), David J Schow (‘Night Bloomer’), Jean-Daniel Brèque (‘On The Wing’), Elsa Beckett (‘Family Ties’ with Dallas Goffin art), Nik Morton (‘Dead On Time’ with Alan Hunter art), JN Williamson (‘The Bridge People’ with Jim Pitts art), Randall D Larson (‘The Gnarl’), Samantha Lee (‘Scoop’), Gary William Crawford (‘The Cabinets’), Lee Barwood (‘Honour Bright’), Garry Kilworth (‘Networks’) Poem by Jessica Amanda Salmonson (‘Black The Water’).

(23) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.12 no.6, Spring 1991), surreal cover by JK Potter, with Neil Gaiman (‘Foreign Parts’), R Chetwynd-Hayes (‘The Monster’ reprinted from ‘The Fifth Fontana Book Of Great Horror Stories’, 1970), Janet Fox (‘How Jaquerel Made War In Bel Azhurra’), Kim Newman (‘Mother Hen’), Thomas Ligotti (‘The Spectacles In The Drawer’), Marvin Kaye (‘Happy Hour’), Thomas D Toman (‘The Old Laughing Lady’), Mike Chinn (‘Days Of The Dark Men’), William F Nolan (‘Gobble, Gobble!’). Poems by Shawn Ramsey (‘The Revenant’) and Darrell Schweitzer (‘The Sorcerer To His Long-Lost Love’).

(24) ‘Fantasy Tales’ (Vol.13 no.7, Winter 1991 £3.99p, 186pp), ‘in this fabulous fantastical issue of Fantasy Tales you will discover Ramsey Campbell (‘The Pit Of Wings’), Thomas F Monteleone (‘Rehearsals’), Thomas Ligotti (‘The Medusa’), Kathryn Ptacek (‘Living To The End’), Adrian Cole (‘Only Human’), Paul Collins & Trevor Donohue (‘Unnamed’), Phillip C Heath (‘Bag Of Bones’), Garry Kilworth (‘Island With The Stink Of Ghosts’), Samantha Lee (‘Jelly Roll Blues’). Plus poems by Edward Darton (‘Rejuvenation’) and Evelyn K Martin (‘Nirvana’). Peter James ‘FT Forum: The Supernatural – Fact & Fiction’ asks ‘Have we lived before?’ Art by Martin McKenna, Alan Hunter, Allen Koszowski, Dave Carson, David Benham, Dreyfus, R Rawling, Jim Pitts, Dallas ‘Golfin’ Goffin.

 

 

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BOIL, BUNNY

 

 

On Zapo De Ray’s THE EASTER BUNNY CHOCOLATE ELEVATOR

 

 

I

 

I hear:

An instant cathedral of sound; reverberant, monumental.
Complete with the sense of steel bracing, as melody becomes animal,
Arching up in strange air, as the bunny breaks through the burrow
To run through mad meadows soundtracked by this musical minimal.

For there is soul and sword in this sound, to soothe then slice
Through the fissure of both flight and of futures that we may yet
Recognise, and there is also the sense of ascension’s symphonic,
As whatever Christ was at Easter manifests as dreams die.

Zapo De Ray’s fifth EP promises ambience for a lifetime,
As sonic ambulance chasers, we are the wounds these songs heal.
Sometimes they are songs with one note, sometimes collections
Of chords which soon cluster, congealing like blood in a bottle;

As we taste the technique the throat feels
What it means to mutate, and where it is that taste takes us.
We hear song-snakes twisting for us, as this harmonic refrain
Takes the lead. Zapo conjures the shades cast as apocalyptic cloud

Cuts land masses, just as he stirs the poison on which the galactic pigs
Will soon feed. This is air inside air. This is a wordless, unending verse
Turned to vapour. This is dark chocolate and its closely kept tang
As taste’s oil.  Why, on Christ’s return does the rabbit run madly?

Was Jesus renewed in the warren, gaining wonderland fur under soil?
This twelve minute track colours this while offering us further transport.
Along the rails the grass blisters, trees become scars. Bunny, boil.
And as it does the steam will gleam beneath darkness. Set on a low light

This mixture is the lift to the dark where stars toil. 

 

 

Ii

 

The Chocolate Elevator itself is the rush of air passed through angels.
It is the sound of what separates them from the token template
Of our flesh. But Angels are more likely to be aliens, so if God is in the stars

Then surely the form of their flights are not orbits, but vertical passage
From the base of time itself through space mesh. And on through the maze
Of what we take to be vision. Here then is angel’s passage through spacecraft
And void, ever on. As we join with them in an eight minute trek through star

Pathways, the cruise calm and graceful. The dare to the dark our dream song.
Write your own words. Hear an alien instrument playing. Catch a comet’s tail
And burn blindly as it courses on stripping steel which can be sucked
From the sky as every element entertains you and you die by degrees

Laughing wildly as spaceship and skin start to peel. Energise. Elevate.
Shimmer yourself into pieces. The song is now Star-Lord of all it surveys.
Conquer space. For you are the Skywalker now. You are your own
Silver Surfer. Like Norrin Radd you carve visions of which we can only dream

In night’s place. But as with snow in the hand as the elevator ascends
Its warm water, cooling again to make islands on which each traveller
Will remain. This music evaporates into the effects of ascension
Before your molecules are re-orodered and you evolve at last from past pain.

 

 

                                       David Erdos April 7th 2023    

 

https://zapoderay.bandcamp.com/album/the-easter-bunny-chocolate-elevator

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Gene Drive Film

Gene Drive organisms are perhaps the most dangerous application of genetic engineering yet developed: With the help of the so-called CRISPR/Cas process, animals and plants that reproduce sexually are to be manipulated in such a way that they pass on a new features to all their offspring – even if this is harmful to them. In the process, the natural rules of evolution are overridden. This mechanism is then repeated independently in each new generation: a genetic chain reaction. Genes drive organisms are designed to replace or even eradicate their conspecifics in nature. Their release can have unpredictable consequences for ecosystems and food webs. It cannot be reversed. In the worst case, it could lead to further species extinction and the collapse of entire ecosystems, as well as threatening human health and nutrition.

Save Our Seeds demands a global moratorium on the release of Gene Drive organisms in Germany, Europe and worldwide!

Help us to stop Gene Drives and sign our petition: https://www.stop-genedrives.eu/petition/

* This action is over. Thanks to the 28035 people who signed-up!

Produced by SOS in cooperation with ENSSER, VDW and CSS. Subtitles are available in English, Slovak, French, Japanese and Greek.

The government is pushing GMO deregulation at breakneck speed

 

‘The science is still far too uncertain, and what we know has not been properly considered or understood, by the government, or by parliament.’

If you want a case study for how our current political system, dating mostly back to the 19th and early 20th centuries, with plenty of medieval remnants, is incapable of grappling with the issues of the 21st, the Genetic Technology (Precision Breeding) Bill is it. This is the Bill that aims to strip regulatory safeguards from whole classes of genetically modified organisms (GMOs), the technology that has let loose fish with genes from sea anemones and jellyfish into vulnerable environments.

It’s what corporate agriculture – the owners of the giant factory farms, the multinational food manufacturers wanting uniform grains to go into tasteless ultraprocessed pap, desire. And what they want, they get.

The Bill raced through the Commons with scant serious challenge (despite the best efforts of Green MP Caroline Lucas and a handful of others), and almost no engagement with the fast-changing science of genetics. In the Lords, the debate, several experts have said to me, was far more informed and engaged (see day one and day two here and here).

But we still find ourselves likely on Wednesday evening to, at best, have made minor changes to a Bill that has cutting-edge scientists deeply worried, and that might – quite possibly – be entirely useless for the industry that has been pushing it (although not possibly for people who want to import gene-edited products from the US, where gene-edited pigs might be approved for production next year).

The problem starts with the title “Precision Breeding” – oh no it isn’t. This is a marketing slogan, not a technical or legal term, which means it should have no place in the title of the Bill or future Act.

Proponents would have you think that the methods they’re using to change the genome of an organism are like precision engineering a machine and mimic what may happen naturally. But they’re not.

Genomes (the complete genetic material of an organism) are biological entities, with complexities of which we still have very limited understanding. Just like when you are trying to train a dog, sometimes it will react in the ways you’re hoping, and sometimes it will very definitely decide that it won’t.

We still hear claims that the only elements of the genome that matter are the genes that code for proteins, but that’s grounded in now entirely discredited science. When I was taught genetics at university, we were told anything that didn’t create a protein was “junk DNA”, just there by historical accident. Yet now we know that it has multiple, varying effects on the behaviour of the coding proteins, and much more, a crucial part of the adaptation of an animal, plant or fungi to its changing environment.

An alternative claim from proponents for gene editing is that “oh well, nature is doing this all the time anyway” – mutations are just a part of life, present in every living thing. But there are mutations and mutations.

The most crucial areas of the genome are relatively protected from “natural” mutation. (And also from mutations induced by radioactivity.) And are better at repairing themselves (i.e. undoing, or attempting to undo, the mutation, whether manmade or natural). And the mutations that occur in nature are biased towards “experimenting” with characteristics of the organism that might help it survive – they’re practical.

This “unnaturalness” of gene editing is where this Bill quite potentially falls into a trap of total uselessness. The test the government is trying to apply to make a plant, animal or fungi fit under this bill is that it could have been produced by so-called “traditional processes” – (some of which are of very recent origin).

If the gene editing techniques are getting into parts of the genome not usually affected by natural mutations, then they are not like traditional methods. In addition, the large scale on which gene-edited and other GM organisms could be released into the environment – all containing their own range of unintended mutations – means that the risk posed by these uncontrolled GMOs will be far greater than anything that could happen in nature. I foresee in the future lots of highly paid lawyers spending lots of billing hours trying to understand the finer points of still deeply uncertain and contested science.

The difficulty of this is reflected in the fact that even at this late stage of the Bill, Report in the Lords, after it has been through all of its Commons stages, the government is still tabling multiple amendments to fiddle with its definitions. That’s never a sign of fully worked-through, competent law.

The problems only grow with the simplistic explanation of the Bill that is being given out by government and industry. This means only genes from the same species. Oh no it doesn’t.

When pushed, even the keenest proponents of the technology will acknowledge that there are, with all current technologies, remnants of other organisms’ DNA used in the process of gene engineering become inadvertently inserted into the engineered organism’s genome. “Oh, but it is only small fragments, and it doesn’t really matter.” First, the fragments of unintended inserted foreign DNA need not necessarily be small but large enough to contain whole new genes. And second, whether insertion of this foreign DNA matters may or may not be true (scientists don’t know for sure), but is certainly not what the public is being told. If the government and industry wants trust, this is not the way to go about it.

Despite all of this, the amendments being put forward by the Labour opposition and likely to be put to the vote are extraordinarily modest. One is to put a timetable delaying when animals can be covered under the Bill – which the government says it plans anyway. The other is to strengthen marginally provisions that demand welfare be considered in approving gene-edited animals.

I’ve tabled more substantive amendments. But without front bench opposition backing, they won’t go far.

Calling votes you know you are going to lose is unpopular in the House of Lords. And I’m going to have to weigh on Wednesday whether doing that will put at risk the extremely modest changes being proposed by the larger opposition parties at risk.

The reality remains, this is a Bill that should not be going forward. The science is still far too uncertain, and what we know has not been properly considered or understood, by the government, or by parliament. That we are where we are today is just one more demonstration – and a very serious one – about the inadequacy of our current outdated, dysfunctional constitution.

Natalie Bennett is a former leader of the Green Party of England and Wales and now sits in the House of Lords

 

https://leftfootforward.org/author/natalie-bennett/

Gene Drive – a genetic chain reaction modifies natural species

„The bottom line is that making a standard, self-propagating CRISPR-based gene drive system is likely equivalent to creating a new, highly invasive species: both will likely spread to any ecosystem in which they are viable, possibly causing ecological change*.“

This is how Kevin Esvelt, US researcher at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in Boston, describes a discovery in which he played a major role. With the help of the so-called “genetic scissors” CRISPR-Cas, organisms can be produced that can pass on certain genetic characteristics to 100 percent of their offspring. They are not only implanted with a genetically modified DNA sequence, as was the case with GMOs developed this far, but also with the blueprint for a CRISPR system that independently repeats this genetic manipulation in all subsequent generations. When such a gene drive organism is released into the environment, it triggers a genetic chain reaction that can change the genome of an entire species globally. Because this also allows the spread of traits preventing further reproduction, gene drives can also be used to permanently eradicate plant and animal species.

The case for a global moratorium

Along with more than 200 organizations worldwide we call for a global moratorium on all releases, import and commercial cultivation of gene drive organisms, as well as strict safety standards for gene drive research laboratories.
The hazards and risks associated with gene drive technology are undisputed and are acknowledged likewise by the developers of this technology. Gene drive developers hope, however, to minimise the risks by limiting the global spread of the technology. But should humanity even take such a risk? Once released, gene drive organisms – and whatever develops from them in the further course of their man-made evolution – would be non-retrievable. The genetic chain reaction would run its global course.

The deployment of gene drive technology thus requires international agreements and rules. For a while this has been discussed within the framework of the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD). However, the State Parties to the Convention have not yet been able to agree on a common position. Will the international community of states finally outlaw the release of gene drive organisms until further notice, at the 15th Conference of the Parties to the CBD, in China in autumn 2022, before it is too late?

Save Our Seeds calls on the German Federal Government and the European Union to support a global moratorium on the environmental release of gene drive organisms, in line with the precautionary principle, and to comply with the European Parliament’s call of January 2020 in this regard.

https://www.stop-genedrives.eu/en/gene-drives/

https://www.facebook.com/ziarnoswiadomosci/videos/6059942784089429

 

 

 

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YOUR LAST HUG!

 

I wanted to show you

Every aspect of self

So you could understand

I was perfectly

Made for you

My love.

 

My heart danced

Like a daffodil

In the tranquil breeze of your love

And now;

It became a leafless tree

Of late winter.

 

Your love injured me

With a sharp knife;

There blooms a red rose

With each cut

To give a feeling

Of painless hurt.

 

You have

Always been enough

I hope

My dear

Which made you

Understand it.

 

But I still remember

Your last hug;

Which feelings were

Like a thrill of a winter night

To cover my heart

With icy dust.

 

Now;

I am picking up

A handful ash

From the bottom of my heart

That reflects the bare image

Of your love.

 

 

 

 

 

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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The Genesis Error

 

You wander about in the snakes. The snappers and squeezers are wrapped in their patterns, sound asleep in the noonday sun, though there’s no denying the danger from such reckless behaviour. But the beauty is dazzling when you weigh up the scales and the coils call you in to possibilities you haven’t entertained since you were a child, and you’re sure that, for every Kaa with magnetic eyes and a split and lilting tongue, there was a Slippy or Twist who would help you out of scrapes. So, you curl up in the serpents’ lair with a Thermos of strong tea and a packet of Bourbons, the hint of a breeze hissing through whispering grass, assuring you that you will not die, and that your eyes will be opened like an angry God.

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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The Silent Majority, Eugene McDaniels

Eugene McDaniels was an American singer and songwriter who initially had success with jazz soul. From the late 1960s, however, McDaniels turned his attention to a more black consciousness form of music. Soul combined with funk and even proto-hiphop was overlaid with radical politics and social commentary.

‘Under conditions of national emergency, like now, there are only two kinds of people – those who work for freedom and those who do not… the good guys and the bad guys.’ – McD

Check out the albums Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse, Outlaw, Natural Juices as well as Universal Jones Vol. 1, a band recording.

THE SILENT MAJORITY

The silent majority
Is calling out to you and me
I said the silent
Yeah, yeah, yeah majority
Is calling out to you and me

Silent majority
Is calling out loud to you and me
From Arlington Cemetery
To stand up tall for humanity
To heed the call to democracy, yea

Silent majority
Gathering around the hanging tree
Negative voices in unity
Creating souls of immunity
Ignoring the call to humanity

Silent majority
Stuffing their faces with pastry
Children are dying in poverty
Fear lives in the land of liberty
And justice is a phrase of fantasy

Silent majority
Lining their feelings with currency
Capital gains remains a mystery
Ask them if they care and they laugh at me
Where is your love for humanity

Silent majority
With a lifestyle tempo of one and three
Two and four lives for my friends and me
When your mind is open then your body is free
Two and four against one and three now

Silent majority
Not so silent far as I can see
War in, war out, they peddle Christmas trees
Gaggin’ on their own hypocrisies
Death comes round, you find them on their knees, yeah

Vocal minority
Heeding the lessons of history
Knowing the logical choice to be
To stand up tall for democracy
To heed the call to humanity
Yeah, yeah, yeah

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Something is Always News to Someone

 


There are attics so small 
stepping into them is like putting on a hat.

The best poems are written using words
between larva and lava, valve and vulva, volcano and vole.

Islands like an overnight rash grew on the face of the sea.

In some countries it is impolite to say “va va va voom”
in response to a poem.

Among other things bones grow in an egg.
Shadows commune with the center of the sun.
Only vinegar smells like vinegar. 

Skunks get ulcers. It takes longer to sever
the umbilical cords of infants born under bomabardment.
The faces of the dead puff like crackers in the rain.

Quiz.  Bird or plane?

tiny sky-tyrant, slam eagle, horned screamer,
fairey hamble baby, sad flycatcher, noisy pitta, delta dart,
hoary pufflegs, fighting falcon, perplexing scrubwrens  . . .

Your guess is as good as a gasp.

 

 

 

Peter Yovu
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

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Mucho weirdness with Bob Log III

Alan Dearling describes the Bob Log III Experience

Arriving (perhaps and probably) from a low flying UFO above the Pennine Tops… Bob Log III is definitely a Blues Alien. A chaos, a cacophony of weirdness, eccentricity, blues noise, Bucks Fizz. And, of course, equipped with a rubber duck (his tour manager), an inflatable boat and lots of burnt toast.

This was a heck of a lot of fun, frolics and insatiable performance idiocy. It was pantomime, a spectacular spectacle. The packed audience upstairs at the Golden Lion in West Yorkshire loved it. And lapped it up – literally. In fact, Bob poured his bottle of Bucks Fizz into the rubber duck and passed it out into the crowd to lick and slobber it up. Annually, Bob Log III apparently plays upwards of 150 gigs across and beyond the known and un-known universes. He is from Tucson, Arizona, a one-man blues-legend. He sings from within a microphone equipped helmet, beats up drums and percussion instruments with his feet, along with pedals and switches to add even more warped distortion into the proceedings.

Earlier in the show, at the end of a searing slide guitar blues, Bob handed out a big pack of balloons into the audience for the folk to blow up. Then Our Blues Hero jumped on them! He plugged his toaster into a socket on stage and instructed the audience to make toast and hand it out around to the jostling throng. Amidst clouds of smoke and pink and blue lights, burning toast was the flavour of the night! Bob Log III told the audience that if he got to the end of a particular blues-tune without messing up, he wanted every single one in the audience to buy him a drink… minutes later, a small ocean of strange drinks surrounded Alien Bob. And Bob told them that he loved them all and that they were now all living in a special place high up above the City of TOD-MORE-DAN! Here’s a video of ‘Log Bomb’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3xaGeTEAkF8

Over an hour later, and the finale: Crowd members (obviously including Golden Lion’s Mistress of Ceremonies, Gig) took turns to perch on Bob Log’s knee and crunch their toast… A justifiably bonkers evening. Bob Log III is well worth ‘experiencing’.

Bob Log describes his on-stage setup in the song, ‘One Man Band Boom’, introducing himself to the audience as, “Bob Log the third, one-man band, Heyeeeh! Lemme introduce the band to ya. On cymbals, left foot. Over here on the bass drum we got right foot. Shut up! This is my left hand that does all the slide work, right hand does the pickin’. My mouth hole does most of the talkin’. And you’re looking at my finger. My finger is an asshole.”

Mid-evening, there was a support slot from Edgar Jones, formerly of The Stairs, who provided a selection of solo versions of slightly off-kilter songs from his next as yet un-released album, including the rather touching song, ‘What comes after love?’ Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jb6XcqmULhw

Plus, Edgar played an oddball version of Charlie Mingus, ‘Freedom’, I think. He has recorded at least six albums including the ‘Way it is: 25 years of solo adventures’.

A bit earlier, the incendiary ‘Hot Soles’ duo from Sheffield helped the venue burst its aural seams… the ultimate in thrashed-out Rock-Metal-Noise. It seemed to well-please the Golden Lion punters. Phew!!!!

Live from the Snug Sessions: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVZtF2EJefw

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Words

Words are my companion
They tell my story.
A poetic captivity
Is my freedom song
Where words dance in tune.
My meanings,
My virtue,
A quality of expression.
I was born in a rusty cage
And I spoke first
About a key to unlock
The rusted door.
I can be me
When you read me.
I can be you
When you read me.
Everywhere a voice
Speaks about the sail.
I cross the seven seas
In my ocean of words.

 

 

© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal

 

 

 

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The Violinist  

It’s raining
underwater-
pressing my old strings
music in my mind
they lend me
a new dress
so, I bent on
my fingers-
to reach the climax,
to create the lively notes
that knit together
a diasporic tune within.

 

 

 

Monobina Nath

 

Bio:

Monobina Nath is a poetess, who writes about maidenhood, women’s rights, psychology, mythology and history. She has a keen interest in different cultures and their cuisines. She recently launched her YouTube channel (Monobina Nath) and has a strong passion for both photography and painting. Her instragram id – @monobinanath

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The Black Rain

“… the vision was as if someone was tearing a hole in the … sky … and luminous cylinders began forming in the ripped patch. These cylinders seemed to be interconnected, revolving slowly at first but then accelerating. Black marks appeared on the cylinders which disappeared and a trickle of fat black drops began falling out of the blue sky, a few at first but then in a quickening torrent. The black rain

… That vision of the black rain says very clearly, to me at least, that we live in a world where most of our artists, writers and communicators are obsessed with perversion, crime and violence and this obsession is, in itself, leading the world into a growing disorder.”

(Tom Davies, Testament)

 

It was in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Eight that I was caught up to the seventh heaven and burdened with a vision of our calamitous present. This vision was seared on my memory and has guided my actions ever since. I recount it, now that the battle has been fought and the danger has ebbed, as a warning to future generations.

I was flicking through the digital channels one evening when my plasma screen suddenly multiplied to fill every wall, ceiling and floor in the room with myriad images from the programmes showing simultaneously on a hundred plus separate channels.

The angel that was to become my spiritual guide, Gogol Tomasiah, whispered a question in my ear as I sat stunned by the suddenness of this image multiplication and overwhelmed with the mass of information presented. “What is there in common across all of the programmes and images you can now view?” he asked and immediately I possessed the ability to process multiple images and a memory that became photographic.

I scanned the screens viewing soaps, news, comedies, sports, plays, documentaries, reality shows, games, music videos, cartoons and films searching for commonality among the diversity of genres. In a matter of seconds I laughed, shed tears, mourned, experienced thrills, fear, elation and boredom seeing family arguments, drunken fights, martial arts, torture techniques, abusive language, sexual predators, demonic possession, terrorist atrocities, murder investigations, football hooliganism, child soldiers, rioting protestors, police aggression, self-harming, drug abuse, automobile accidents, plane crashes, knife crime, insults and mockery. I spoke the answer before I knew it.

“Violence.”

Immediately I was raised by Tomasiah to look down from a height on the multiple screens forming my room. The cables from each screen sub-divided like tree roots and connected screen to screen in a vast web of wiring which generated a everlasting relaying of images from screen to screen to screen. The beating of a pensioner in a soap instantly triggered an image of youths attacking an elderly woman on the news which was closely followed by a documentary with fly-on-the-wall images of the actions of those attacking the elderly. Their rooms were seen to be littered with posters of action heroes and when not on the streets they were to be found shooting up and beating up when game playing online. Images chased one another from screen to screen constantly triggering new images in an ever-changing spiral of violence which never yet issued in orgiastic release.

Tomasiah raised me still higher until I could see that the entire web of wiring emanated from a common source. Each cable was ultimately hard-wired into a gigantic, monstrous head throbbing with ideas and images telepathically transmitted through the web of wiring to be blazoned on screen; each idea and image triggering a thousand and one reactions and responses across the interconnecting screens.

Tomasiah was whispering in my ear once again. “This is the head of the romantic Nietzschian superself, humanity come of age in violent self obsession, self absorption and self interest.”

As I watched black marks began to form on the surface of each screen oozing and coalescing into fat black drops which fell from the screens as black rain. These drops rapidly pooled, with the pool growing in size until it became a stream, then a river and then a torrent flooding from the room into the wider world.

I saw this flood sweep over the prayers of the righteous, the preaching of protestants, the writings of theologians and I heard a voice from heaven saying, “Whom shall I send and who will go for me?”

I answered, “Every word I have spoken is tainted and unclean and those among whom I live use words that corrupt and desecrate.”

Tomasiah held a book in his hand and said, “Let me teach you how to speak.” As he opened the book I saw the story of Israel unfold from its earliest beginnings in the call of Abram to the Exodus, the wilderness wanderings and the Promised Land. I saw the story of a people called out to be a light to the nations, Israel’s story, and from that people I saw one man come to retell that selfsame story through his life and death and life again.

Under Tomasiah’s guidance I descended to the room of screens and directly into the black torrent. Barely able to keep my head above the poisonous ink in which my body was submerged, Tomasiah implored me to speak.

In my panic I spoke what I saw on the screens and my words became black flies which swirled and swarmed about my head pushing me under. The black rain was in my eyes and in my mouth. My eyes stung from its poisons and my tongue tasted its acrid, oily horror. My head filled with scenes of violence – shootings, stabbings, bombings, suicides – I sunk under its swell my nostrils filling with its glutinous slime and then, not a moment too late, I finally understood what I had to say.

In a moment of insight and revelation, I saw a victim of this tide of violence and spoke of the victim that I saw, naming the elderly woman and the effect on herself and her family of the attack and robbery inflicted on her. As I did so, my head was raised above the acrid swell, I breathed the air, and a fleck of gold appeared in the coal black waters.

Rapidly, I spoke of the neighbour who heard the sound of the attack, who called the police and who tended her wounds. I spoke of the paramedics who brought her to hospital and the medics whose skills healed her. I spoke of the family who brought her flowers, grapes, magazines, love and the hope that sustained her. As I told their story and retold this story of violence as one of compassion, the flecks of gold in the black waters conjoined and became a shaft of light piercing the darkness.

I continued by retelling the story of her attackers in terms of the deprivations that had mounted around them from birth and the teacher who refused to give up on them and was finally able to reach them in the guilt that followed their arrest. I retold violent video games by means of compassionate passers-by caring for their victims and sacrificing themselves to embrace the violent. I retold soap family conflicts as confrontations with truth resulting in forgiveness. I retold murder trials as acts of restorative justice.

I spoke for the victims – spoke “for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed / For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse” – and read into their stories people of compassion and care and, as I retold stories in this way, the shafts of golden light began to push back the darkness of the black rain’s falling.

Then Tomasiah showed me that the water had become crystal bright. It now flowed from the Throne of God right down the middle of the room. Trees appeared in each screen planted on each side of the one River, producing twelve kinds of fruit, a ripe fruit each month. The leaves of the Tree are for the healing of the nations.

Tomasiah said to me, “The words you have spoken are dependable and accurate, every one. The God and Master of the spirits of the prophets sent me to show what is taking place and to tell all, ‘Yes, I am on my way!’”

Tomasiah continued, “Don’t seal up the words of this prophecy; don’t put it away on the shelf. Time is just about up. Let the black rain go all out in pollution, but let the right storytellers reread the stories of their times and turn back the polluting tide.

Let them tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it and reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it. Stand on the ocean until you start sinking, know your song well before you start singing, cause it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.”

 

 

 

 

Jonathan Evens

 

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Omnipresence

 

Politics rule our lives.
It’s in the food we eat, the water we drink.
Pesticides and genetically modified crops
jostle for control of fertile lands and the potential
to affect our bodies like lawmakers in
corridors of power.
Hormone injected animals wait their time
inside cooped up enclosures similar to prisoners
in far flung deserts – Abu Ghraib, Evin – except no one
hears cries in chicken coops. Too drugged to know
even when the butcher comes in and slits their throats.
Gods’ words whispered when he feels like it.

Human rights are political and has nothing to do
with rights. Not anymore.
People killed by drones – that’s alright. Collateral.
They got in the way. But terrorists killed to end the horror
in another country, no no, their rights were violated.
People rush in to protect the perpetrators.

The decision to decide is politically ignited.
Its politics to be dumb and seek
weapons of mass destruction in places
most unlikely yet the oil makes it all worthwhile.
Testing grounds for new missiles.
Arms dealers make billions while countries
are torn apart and lives left to rot.
People die like stray dogs.
Millions displaced all over the place.
Death on the high seas trying to get to safety,
only to find on reaching it was all a myth.
That’s politics.

Our beliefs and clothes are political.
Religious decrees to cover up in shrouds
lest someone sees and gets tempted to rape.
Such weak minds have men, but
women are to blame
for everything and more
except when we are
legitimately raped,
as some ‘wise’ man once commented, then
political correctness is thrown out the door.

Our speech patterns and language are informed
by politics. Say the right thing and we are in.
Maybe a picture in the papers smiling with
the right crowd.
Say the wrong thing and the cops will be
after us. More pictures in the papers.
Snarling men in uniform beating, kicking
dragging innocent us away to somewhere else,
someplace safe until we are deemed
socially fit to return. If there’s
anything left to be returned.

Vaccine mandates forced on the public.
Decision makers turn away as the dead pile up,
pile up, pile up.
Not their problem not their lives.
Experiments in a deadly game played by a few
with change to spare. Who cares anyway?
They were just getting in the way.
They didn’t matter. They were
nothing. More could be churned out in labs
if required.

Mothers reduced to helplessness as rights groups
encourage, goad, applaud
stuffing young bodies with puberty blockers. Deny
their birth gender. Question the safety or oppose and get
cancelled. Feeble voices drowned by
screeching mobs. Counselling? Not required, except
to get our heads examined for
refusing to let our son our daughter transition
to the preferred gender of the moment.

Calls for women only spaces repudiated by the noise of a
strange new generation that doesn’t allow for questioning.
No discussions, no explanations. Theirs
the right to choose while women’s rights
crushed, cancelled. We watch helpless as men who
didn’t amount to anything as men are lauded as winners
in women’s sports, given a free ticket to exploit,
harass, humiliate and strip us of all that we are. But who cares.
That’s the way the world turns.

Women’s liberation no longer relevant. Shoved into shadows
as men demand changes. Our body’s language denied,
words erased. No referendum to ask
half the worlds’ population if
they were in agreement with the alterations.
No discussions no talks.
Just enforcement or be called out for racism or fancy
new phrases used to silence. Minorities rule.

Banks collapse, crash, crumble
falling like dominos while those in power
watch it happen and pretend to be concerned.

Politics rule the courthouses,
the whore houses and the houses of Gods.
All of them.
Is there anything left?

The world spins on the wishes of a few
politically stable, economically powerful
consolidating their rights
over lives of the multitude who,
stupid and brainwashed, believe the political lies.

Our friends are political beings,
our names partisan tags.
We are discussed in political circles
on who we are related to and rejected if there’s
no connection to power and authority
to bank on.

Yes, marriage is political.
Lands, property divided, families united by the same.
Peaceful protests have a political reason.
There’s politics in everything we do

including the color of our skin, the shape of our face,
our bodies. Lighten with skin whitening creams
inject poisons erase lines, slice, dice and reconstruct.
Enhance, sculpt create something else.
It doesn’t matter that we look like
someone else, a paler version of what we could be.
It might get us a good husband, a respectable job, win
an election, or better, millions of followers on social media.

Dying is a political act.
It may not be a cause we like yet who cares
for the herd.
Our brains are told it’s good
to die for a cause. Any cause.
Someone else has to live so we bite the dust
and hope they appreciate as the bullets
tear up our flesh letting the earth drink us in, drink us in
drink us in.

Forcing ones’ way on another, all political until
we are strangled by it all and the time to vote approaches.
                          But destroying a vote by refusing to elect
anyone is also a political act so few
choose to exercise.

 

 

Shirani Rajapakse

 

Author bio

Shirani Rajapakse writes poetry and short stories. She’s the author of six books including Chant of a Million Women winner 2018 Kindle Book Awards, USA as well as Gods, Nukes and a whole lot of Nonsense and I Exist. Therefore I Am, 2022 and 2019 State Literary Award winners, Sri Lanka. The latter was also shortlisted for the 2019 Rubery Book Awards, UK. Rajapakse’s work has won and been placed in other competitions. Her work appears in many journals and anthologies.

shiranirajapakse.wordpress.com
www.facebook.com/shiranirajapakseauthor
twitter.com/shiraniraj
goodreads.com/shiranirajapakse
amazon.com/author/shiranirajapakse

 

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AN HOUR TO KILL

My past is catching up with me,
watching minutes pass like dogs,
each one sensing a different yard
or corner to scramble down
or scuttle into. And I’m
in the shadowiest part of the bar
staring at ink stains
on every one
of my fingers,
and I’m hot and flushed
and unfinished,
which is disturbing and ruinous
and sexy as all hell.

And I’ve got an hour to kill.
And there’s no knowing why
these things tick away like this,
when there isn’t a ghost of a chance
nor hint of a prayer
about what’s been buried or burnt
lived here – lived there
when all the walls, doors and hedges
are as close as a street away,
and my past is catching up with me –
stares straight back in the mirror
with a look that could turn
a hearse up an alleyway –
and I’ve got blood in my eye,
blood on the brain
and I’m feeling fine – really fine
for your information,
fine and average
and way too sane.

 

 

 

Phil Bowen
Picture  Rupert Loydell

 

 

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L’ Amour In The Heart!

 

“L’ Amour”

I saw you

And asked to borrow

A second

Then you gave me

Eternity!

I keep you

In this small-sized

Blood pumping,

Ego boasting,

Fear palpitating,

Desire yearning,

Love craving place

That we call “Heart”!

I’ve been away

For so many years

But in my heart

My love for you

Never swayed.

You are

A masterpiece

Still a work in progress

At the same time

I love you fully

For nothing and everything.

I think of

Every word

I wrote

And realised

I have so much

More to say

When it comes

To the love

I have for you.

 

 

Monalisa Paradisa

 

 

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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Questions of Fashion?

Whitworths Semolina[i] – a pudding I perhaps incorrectly associate with the 70s

 

Despite the fact that it looks like someone has stubbed out a couple of fags in this bowl of semolina, I’m dead keen to make some. Trouble is, I thought it required a microwave – never touch the things – or too long in the oven. But, in the small print on the box, I’ve just noticed that there is a hob method – which was how I assumed it was cooked in the 70s when semolina was a popular pudding. We got it at school once a week. When did it go out of fashion . . . or maybe it didn’t?

Perhaps your eyes didn’t read the “chocolate wafer sticks”[ii] decorating the pudding as dog ends[iii]? (another phrase which the internet, at first, implies has gone out of fashion). Such a visual conclusion was, I’m afraid, immediate for me, something I could not avoid, as in the days of weekly semolina, smoking was too ingrained in people even to be considered a fashion. My uncle used to stay with us on occasional weekends and as I was generally up first (usually trying to get outside on my bike quick), I’d have been told the night before to give him a cup of tea. Propping himself up in bed or on the settee, through bleary eyes he would regard me sceptically. I’d worried about getting his tea right and he would try to smile. Often though, he’d light up a fag, and once finished, drop it into the tea and go back to sleep.

Was laying in on Saturdays and Sundays a fashion, a right or a habit?

Once a week my daughter tells me of another fashionable word or phrase she has picked up at school, refusing to believe that it has an earlier, more useful, often contradictory meaning. This may be acceptable – the development or corruption of language and meaning, its constant ‘evolution’ – as long it keeps in mind some kind of overall picture or even quality beyond the transient surface of fashion.

 

Questions of Fashion?


It’s far simpler (though not necessarily easier) to write ‘poetry’ that cares not
a whit for its form, loses shape and changes lines when it feels
like it, exclaims or withers, expands a valid stream of perception or descends into shopping list.
It seems you can just put down what comes into your head. And perhaps
that’s good? Obvious stress is out and often meaning too . . . come to that, maybe even the point altogether? But perhaps we’ve been overconcerned about rhythm and metre for years? After all, what’s worse than rhyming couplets? Only my Aunt Gwen’s mangy, disconsolate cat.

But, (I worriedly ask myself) – is this another case of relativism at play, political correctness in the world of art? Is it freedom, or truth or just the latest trend – anti-elitist positive discrimination on behalf of everyone? Because if so, I’m not sure I really approve. Why not relax altogether and call it prose? And then I, wouldn’t, have that feeling of being, back at school, being. Told off for, growing! random with? my. eccentric Punctuation. (Stop. It’s all true. I didn’t have a clue. Full stops drove me crazy.

Commas you could always go back and add, but semi-colons and so on etcetera . . .

Abbreviations and grammar tribulations.

Fu*k! Who needs ‘em?

But ellipses like this  .  .  .  or even that……. are great! Always have been

 

Here I start another verse (or stanza if you prefer). Was there any reason?

At least (until now)

                        You can’t complain that

I’ve

Spread lines        all                  across                        the                                                  page

                        Just to

                                                embody

some

peculiar timing – another idea I always liked – 

       if   the                   could be-        

as                     words                

come   notes……………

 

Orcondensedthemtomakea’poem’whichdoesn’texceedthemaximumwordcount
But hey! (somebody says, not me – somebody pretending to a casual persona), I don’t really care, I’m only joking.
In the end only QUALITY counts. Neither the form nor the medium but only the atmosphere and maybe the message . . .
Be it angry or pleased, reckless or precise, poetic or joking. Am I joking?
Not about quality.
Never about that

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben

March 2023

[email protected]

 

 

NOTES    accessed on 29th March 2023

[i]               en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semolina

[ii]               ebay.co.uk/itm/254404994490?chn=ps&norover=1&mkevt=1&mkrid=

[iii]              collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/dog-end#

 

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THE NORTHERN RENAISSANCE

Once, I was part of Pieter Brueghel’s crew
Sulking home with only Durer’s hare to show
From the hunt. Maybe if we’d have spread out more
Or followed the signs, up toward Denton
Instead of going across into Dukinfield. Whose
Great idea was that? We’d set out in great spirits
Intending to bring
The Bible into English
As well as something for the pot
I wish we’d not made so many promises
The mountain on the far side of the canvas
Appears to be unfinished
William Shakespeare is one year old, toddling
Anonymous. Yorrick is skating happily on the ice
Down below. Mrs Macbeth is washing her smalls
In the sink. Ophelia looks well
A crow, the size of a Canadair C-4 Argonaut
Is heading out from Ringway, full of weavers
Going to Mallorca. By anyone’s estimation
it’s a strange afternoon
We should watch for their return
The Hunters in the Snow
by Pieter Brueghel the Elder was painted in 1565

 

 

Steven Taylor

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Ban Octopus Farming

Octopuses are seriously smart. They can use tools and solve complex problems, and even feel pain, pleasure, joy and fear!

That’s why scientists are outraged by plans for the world’s first octopus farm in Spain, which would see a MILLION of these mostly solitary creatures crammed into tiny tanks every year, then killed painfully by being frozen alive in icy vats to feed the food market.

It’s torture on an industrial scale.

But we can stop it. Plans for the farm have been submitted to local authorities – and a massive outcry can help prevent this suffering! Add your name now and Avaaz will deliver our voices to local authorities and the EU demanding that octopus farming is banned before it starts!

To the President of the Canary Islands, the EU and governments everywhere:

We’re calling on you to reject the plan to build the world’s first octopus farm in Spain and ban octopus farming in the EU and around the world, including its import and financing. Octopuses are intelligent, sentient and fascinating animals. Let’s avoid creating more animal suffering for unsustainable and short-term human profit.

 

PLEASE sign the petition HERE

https://secure.avaaz.org/campaign/en/ban_octopus_farming_loc/

 

https://all-creatures.org/alert/index.html

 

 

 

 

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Sea Never Seen

picking wild flowers
along that old abandoned
Appalachian dirt road
rambling down to the creek
at summer low tide
dreaming of that
distant sea that
I will never touch

 

 

 

Words and Picture
TERRENCE SYKES

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KIMBERLEY


 
Electric buzz of night in Fancy Town
salutes tall Kimberly in her champagne gown.
 
She’s no Spring chicken — she’s 86 —
but she moves pretty well with those walking sticks
 
and in the next life she and I together
will swim like dolphins, birds of a feather.

 

 

 

Copyright © Mark Halliday & Martin Stannard, 2023
 

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Posh Culture Is Ruining London

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The Future of Sustainable Mobility

Riversimple is pioneering the next generation of zero emission vehicles. They use hydrogen, not batteries and emit nothing but water. Able to refill in three minutes, our vehicles will offer a solution for those who value flexibility and freedom, and want to live lightly on the planet.

Crowdfunding now.

 

Our Purpose

At Riversimple we have a mission:

“To pursue, systematically, the elimination of the environmental impact of personal transport.”

Everything we do – the design of the car, the structure of the business, the people we work with – is in pursuit of this goal.  A “Whole System Design” approach ensures that every step we take, every investment we make, gets us closer to our end goal.

Rasa

 

Efficiency

The key factor in creating a sustainable vehicle is creating an efficient vehicle. The Rasa is one of the most efficient vehicles on the planet, at 60mph it uses less than 10kW of power, 13.5bhp or 3 kitchen kettles. Requiring this little power means that the Rasa uses fraction of the hydrogen used by other fuel cell vehicles to travel the same distance.

Aerodynamics

The Rasa is among the most aerodynamic cars of today; it has a drag coefficient of just 0.248, compared to in comparison a Porsche 911’s drag coefficient of 0.31.

Lightness

The Rasa is also one of the lightest cars on the road, weighing just 655kg, 80kg less than the original Smart car! A lighter car requires far less energy to move and is therefore more efficient. We make our vehicles lighter by using ultra lightweight materials such as carbon fibre.

Regenerative Braking

In most vehicles energy is lost in the braking process when kinetic energy (which takes fuel to create) is turned into heat.  The Rasa is able to recover and store kinetic energy every time it brakes using its electric motors and supercapacitors.

Emissions

Emissions are perhaps the most environmentally damaging aspect of personal transport and are something that we have obsessed over throughout the development of our vehicles. There are two categories: Tailpipe emissions and Non Exhaust Emissions (NEEs).

Tailpipe Emissions

Tailpipe emissions are emitted as a direct result of fuel being burnt or converted within the powertrain of a vehicle. Being a hydrogen fuel cell vehicle, there is no burning involved; the Rasa’s only tailpipe emissions are tiny droplets of water.

Non Exhaust Emissions 

NEEs are emitted from component wear on the vehicle. The two most common emissions are tyre and brake particulates, which are harmful to both humans and the environment. A recent study from Emission Analytics found that pollution from NEEs can be over 1,000 times worse than combustion engine exhaust particulates. Despite this, there are currently no emissions standards for components such as brakes and tyres. As a sustainable vehicle company we have done everything within our power to reduce NEEs. We are building the lightest possible vehicles which means we can use slim tyres, reducing our tyre particulate emissions.  We even use our motors to brake, to drastically reduce our brake dust emissions.

RiversimpleBetaTest-100
River Simple 0244

 

Sustainable Materials

Reducing emissions and increasing efficiency is a great start, but sustainability is far more than that. Our vehicles will be built using increasingly sustainable and sustainably sourced materials.

Recycled materials

We are proud to say that we use a number of recycled materials within the cabin of the Rasa. The upholstery material is crafted using PTFE from recycled bottles. Our door handles are handmade using recycled fire hose by leading sustainable fashion house Elvis and Kresse. Our circular business model will enable us to reuse materials in our vehicles for multiple life cycles.

Critical materials

Unlike batteries we don’t require huge amounts of critical metals such as lithium and cobalt. Our hydrogen fuel cells use a small amount of platinum, no more than can be found in a standard catalytic converter fitted to a combustion engined car. It makes perfect sense to reuse that platinum for future fuel cell production.

READ MORE HERE https://www.riversimple.com/

 

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Fire in the Wire (episode ten)

Steam Stock
 

Tracklist:
Slim Smith – Rougher Yet
Lone Ranger – Love Bump
Laurel Aitken – Mighty Redeemer
Jah Buzz – Love in the Arena
Soul Vendors – Swing Easy
The Gladiators – Looks is Deceiving
Johnny Clarke – Roots Natty Congo
Jah Stitch – Real Born African
Uniques – Love and Devotion
The Techniques – Queen Majesty
Slim Smith – Everybody Needs Love
Bunny Lee All Stars – Ten Thousand Tons of Dollar Bills
The Wailers – Love and Affection
Johnny Osborne & the Prophets – Keep That Light
Jah Screechy – Walk and Skank
The Tonettes – I’ll Give it to You
The Crystalites – Undertakers Burial
Richard Ace – Hang ‘Em High
The Survivors – Rawhide
Slim Smith – My Conversation

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MARCUS AURELIUS LOLLY

 

Young mothers taking toddlers to the shops
Returning home from playtime in the park
Promising ice-cream

Two select with mother
Nicest choicest ice-est treats on offer
They take them to the till

The pay-machine rejects one bank-card then another
Harassed and embarrassed mother
Returns all treats back to the deep-freeze chest

Those toddlers cannot understand
Humiliation from the shark of cash
That eats and eats and then regurgitates

Streets and streets in floods of tears
Held back
Dismayed and betrayed

Meantime false politicians say
Their fee is just ten thousand
Sterling pounds per mercenary day
To brag of that they do not know
In semblance of support
To any cause felt worthy of their wallets

The Chinese gave ice-cream
We change it to gelato
They gave us fireworks
We live within cold rooms
A politician is an ass
On which no whole man sits

 

 

Bernard Saint

Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

.

 

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2,000 Years of Kindness

 

From Marcus Aurelius to Einstein, poets and philosophers on the deepest wellspring of our humanity.

 

 

“Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you’re already in heaven now,” Jack Kerouac wrote in a beautiful 1957 letter to his first wife turned lifelong friend. “Kindness, kindness, kindness,” Susan Sontag resolved in her diary on New Year’s Day in 1972. Half a century later, the Dalai Lama placed a single exhortation at the center of his ethical and ecological philosophy: “Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.”

Nothing broadens the soul more than the touch of kindness, given or received, and nothing shrivels it more than a flinch of unkindness, given or received — something we have all been occasionally lashed with, and something of which we are all occasionally culpable, no matter how ethical our lives and how well-intentioned our conduct. Everyone loves the idea of kindness — loves thinking of themselves as a kind person — but somehow, the practice of it, the dailiness of it, has receded into the background in a culture rife with selfing and cynicism, a culture in which we have come to mistake the emotional porousness of kindness for a puncture in the armor of our hard individualism. And yet kindness remains our best antidote to the fundamental loneliness of being human.

Gathered here are two millennia of meditations on kindness — its challenges, its nuances, and its rippling rewards — from a posy of vast minds and vast spirits who have risen above the common tide of their times to give us the embers of timelessness.

Art by Virginia Frances Sterrett, Old French Fairy Tales, 1920
Century-old art by the adolescent Virginia Frances Sterrett. (Available as a print and stationery cards.)
 
MARCUS AURELIUS

Once a heartbroken queer teenager raised by a single mother, Marcus Aurelius (April 26, 121–March 17, 180) was saved by Stoic philosophy, then tried to save a dying world with it when he came to rule Rome as the last of its Five Good Emperors. Across the epochs, he goes on saving us with the sonorous undertone of his entire philosophy — his humming insistence on kindness as the only effective antidote to all of life’s assaults. In his timeless Meditations (public library) — notes on life he had written largely to himself while learning how to live more nobly in an uncertain world that blindsides us as much with its beauty as with its brutality — he returns again and again to kindness and the importance of extending it to everyone equally at all times, because even at their cruelest, which is their most irrational, human beings are endowed with reason and dignity they can live up to.

Drawing on the other great refrain that carries his philosophy — the insistence that embracing our mortality is the key to living fully — he writes:

You should bear in mind constantly that death has come to men* of all kinds, men with varied occupations and various ethnicities… We too will inevitably end up where so many [of our heroes] have gone… Heraclitus, Pythagoras, Socrates… brilliant intellectuals, high-minded men, hard workers, men of ingenuity, self-confident men, men… who mocked the very transience and impermanence of human life…. men… long dead and buried… Only one thing is important: to behave throughout your life toward the liars and crooks around you with kindness, honesty, and justice.

The key to kindness, he observes, is keeping “the purity, lucidity, moderation, and justice of your mind” from being sullied by the actions of those you encounter, no matter how disagreeable and discomposed by unreason they may be. In a passage itself defying the laziness of labels, rooted in a metaphor more evocative of a Buddhist parable or a Transcendentalist diary entry or a Patti Smith Instagram poem than of a Stoic dictum, he writes:

Suppose someone standing by a clear, sweet spring were to curse it: it just keeps right on bringing drinkable water bubbling up to the surface. Even if he throws mud or dung in it, before long the spring disperses the dirt and washes it out, leaving no stain. So how are you to have the equivalent of an ever-flowing spring? If you preserve your self-reliance at every hour, and your kindness, simplicity, and morality.

 

LEO TOLSTOY

In the middle of his fifty-fifth year, reflecting on his imperfect life and his own moral failings, Leo Tolstoy (September 9, 1828–November 20, 1910) set out to construct a manual for morality by compiling “a wise thought for every day of the year, from the greatest philosophers of all times and all people,” whose wisdom “gives one great inner force, calmness, and happiness” — thinkers and spiritual leaders who have shed light on what is most important in living a rewarding and meaningful life. Such a book, Tolstoy envisioned, would tell a person “about the Good Way of Life.” He spent the next seventeen years on the project. In 1902, by then seriously ill and facing his own mortality, Tolstoy finally completed the manuscript under the working title A Wise Thought for Every Day. It was published two years later, in Russian, but it took nearly a century for the first English translation to appear: A Calendar of Wisdom: Daily Thoughts to Nourish the Soul, Written and Selected from the World’s Sacred Texts (public library). For each day of the year, Tolstoy had selected several quotes by great thinkers around a particular theme, then contributed his own thoughts on the subject, with kindness as the pillar of the book’s moral sensibility.

Perhaps prompted by the creaturely severity and the clenching of heart induced by winter’s coldest, darkest days, or perhaps by the renewed resolve for moral betterment with which we face each new year, he writes in the entry for January 7:

The kinder and the more thoughtful a person is, the more kindness he can find in other people.

Kindness enriches our life; with kindness mysterious things become clear, difficult things become easy, and dull things become cheerful.

At the end of the month, in a sentiment Carl Sagan would come to echo in his lovely invitation to meet ignorance with kindness, Tolstoy writes:

You should respond with kindness toward evil done to you, and you will destroy in an evil person that pleasure which he derives from evil.

In the entry for February 3, he revisits the subject:

Kindness is for your soul as health is for your body: you do not notice it when you have it.

After copying out two kindness-related quotations from Jeremy Bentham (“A person becomes happy to the same extent to which he or she gives happiness to other people.”) and John Ruskin (“The will of God for us is to live in happiness and to take an interest in the lives of others.”), Tolstoy adds:

Love is real only when a person can sacrifice himself for another person. Only when a person forgets himself for the sake of another, and lives for another creature, only this kind of love can be called true love, and only in this love do we see the blessing and reward of life. This is the foundation of the world.

Nothing can make our life, or the lives of other people, more beautiful than perpetual kindness.

 

ALBERT EINSTEIN

In a 1931 essay for the magazine Forum and Century, later included in his altogether indispensable book Ideas and Opinions (public library), Albert Einstein (March 14, 1879–April 18, 1955) writes:

How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people — first of all for those upon whose smiles and well-being our own happiness is wholly dependent, and then for the many, unknown to us, to whose destinies we are bound by the ties of sympathy. A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving.

 

ROSS GAY

In The Book of Delights (public library) — his soul-broadening yearlong experiment in willful gladness — the poet and gardener Ross Gay recounts harvesting carrots from the garden with his partner, and pirouettes in his signature way of long sunlit sentences into a meditation on the etymology of kindness:

Today we pulled the carrots from the garden that Stephanie sowed back in March. She planted two kinds: a red kind shaped like a standard kind, and a squat orange kind with a French name, a kind I recall the packet calling a “market variety,” probably because, like the red kind, it’s an eye-catcher. And sweet, which I learned nibbling a couple of both kinds like Bugs Bunny as I pulled them.

The word kind meaning type or variety, which you have noticed I have used with some flourish, is among the delights, for it puts the kindness of carrots front and center in this discussion (good for your eyes, yummy, etc.), in addition to reminding us that kindness and kin have the same mother. Maybe making those to whom we are kind our kin. To whom, even, those we might be. And that circle is big.

 

ADAM PHILLIPS & BARBARA TAYLOR

In the plainly titled, tiny, enormously rewarding book On Kindness (public library), psychoanalyst Adam Phillips and historian Barbara Taylor observe that although kindness is central to all of our major spiritual traditions, it has somehow become “our forbidden pleasure.” They write:

We usually know what the kind thing to do is — and kindness when it is done to us, and register its absence when it is not… We are never as kind as we want to be, but nothing outrages us more than people being unkind to us. There is nothing we feel more consistently deprived of than kindness; the unkindness of others has become our contemporary complaint. Kindness consistently preoccupies us, and yet most of us are unable to live a life guided by it.

Defining kindness as “the ability to bear the vulnerability of others, and therefore of oneself,” they chronicle its decline in the values of our culture:

The kind life — the life lived in instinctive sympathetic identification with the vulnerabilities and attractions of others — is the life we are more inclined to live, and indeed is the one we are often living without letting ourselves know that this is what we are doing. People are leading secretly kind lives all the time but without a language in which to express this, or cultural support for it. Living according to our sympathies, we imagine, will weaken or overwhelm us; kindness is the saboteur of the successful life. We need to know how we have come to believe that the best lives we can lead seem to involve sacrificing the best things about ourselves; and how we have come to believe that there are pleasures greater than kindness…

In one sense kindness is always hazardous because it is based on a susceptibility to others, a capacity to identify with their pleasures and sufferings. Putting oneself in someone else’s shoes, as the saying goes, can be very uncomfortable. But if the pleasures of kindness — like all the greatest human pleasures — are inherently perilous, they are nonetheless some of the most satisfying we possess.

[…]

In giving up on kindness — and especially our own acts of kindness — we deprive ourselves of a pleasure that is fundamental to our sense of well-being.

Returning to their foundational definition of kindness, they add:

Everybody is vulnerable at every stage of their lives; everybody is subject to illness, accident, personal tragedy, political and economic reality. This doesn’t mean that people aren’t also resilient and resourceful. Bearing other people’s vulnerability — which means sharing in it imaginatively and practically without needing to get rid of it, to yank people out of it — entails being able to bear one’s own. Indeed it would be realistic to say that what we have in common is our vulnerability; it is the medium of contact between us, what we most fundamentally recognize in each other.

 

GEORGE SAUNDERS

In his wonderful commencement address turned book, the lyrical and largehearted George Saunders addresses those just embarking on the adventure of life with hard-won wisdom wrested from his own experience of being human among humans:

I’d say, as a goal in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder.

In seventh grade, this new kid joined our class. In the interest of confidentiality, her name will be “ELLEN.” ELLEN was small, shy. She wore these blue cat’s-eye glasses that, at the time, only old ladies wore. When nervous, which was pretty much always, she had a habit of taking a strand of hair into her mouth and chewing on it.

So she came to our school and our neighborhood, and was mostly ignored, occasionally teased (“Your hair taste good?” — that sort of thing). I could see this hurt her. I still remember the way she’d look after such an insult: eyes cast down, a little gut-kicked, as if, having just been reminded of her place in things, she was trying, as much as possible, to disappear. After awhile she’d drift away, hair-strand still in her mouth. At home, I imagined, after school, her mother would say, you know: “How was your day, sweetie?” and she’d say, “Oh, fine.” And her mother would say, “Making any friends?” and she’d go, “Sure, lots.”

Sometimes I’d see her hanging around alone in her front yard, as if afraid to leave it.

And then — they moved. That was it. No tragedy, no big final hazing.

One day she was there, next day she wasn’t.

End of story.

Now, why do I regret that? Why, forty-two years later, am I still thinking about it? Relative to most of the other kids, I was actually pretty nice to her. I never said an unkind word to her. In fact, I sometimes even (mildly) defended her.

But still. It bothers me.

So here’s something I know to be true, although it’s a little corny, and I don’t quite know what to do with it:

What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.

Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded … sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.

Or, to look at it from the other end of the telescope: Who, in your life, do you remember most fondly, with the most undeniable feelings of warmth?

Those who were kindest to you, I bet.

But kindness, it turns out, is hard — it starts out all rainbows and puppy dogs, and expands to include… well, everything.

 

NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

Most failures of kindness, most triumphs of cruelty, are flinches of fear, unreconciled in the soul. In 1978, drawing on a jarring real-life experience, the poet Naomi Shihab Nye captured the difficult, beautiful, redemptive transmutation of fear into kindness in a poem of uncommon soulfulness and empathic wingspan that has since become a classic, turned into an animated short film and included in countless anthologies, among them the wondrous 100 Poems to Break Your Heart (public library).

KINDNESS
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

 

2,000 Years of Kindness

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Under the Neon Volcano

 

Jay Jeff Jones

“If death can fly, just for the love of flying,
What might not life do, for the love of dying?”
Malcolm Lowry

 

At night, seen from on high, Las Vegas is a shining scar of imagination, an alchemic mess of colossal signs, absurd structures and cloud-slicing laser beams that combine with kaleidoscopes of endless showtimes, robotically spun mechanisms of chance and humdrum urban power consumption to burn through thousands of megawatts per day. ‘Armageddon in neon’ is what architectural writer Paul Davis called the main drag – an ‘…engagement with the luxury of waste on the one hand, and fakery on the other.’[i]

***

Two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multicoloured uppers, downers, screamers, laughers…a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls. 

Vodka, whiskey, gin.

 

These cargo lists for two literary road journeys – one semi-imaginary, the other a complete fiction – were compiled almost 20 years apart. In both books, the lifestyle essentials of central characters mirror those of their authors and the cars travel over the same route, from the City of the Angels to the City of the Meadows. On early maps the destination is simply marked ‘Vegas’, now the louche diminutive for 20th century America’s original adult playground city. It was the location of an artesian well on the Old Spanish Trail and therefore a reliable water source for gold prospectors heading West.

Vegas as the place you can always get a drink is given as the foremost purpose for the journey taken by ‘Ben’ in John O’Brien’s novel Leaving Las Vegas. For him, this will mean never again resorting to shots of Listerine during long mornings in LA before the first bar opens. More importantly, there will be no further interruptions to his plan of drinking himself to death.

Nor did it matter any less to Hunter S. Thompson in Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, an account of everyday depravity in a city where the doors of merchants of the more urgent sins (avarice, lust, intemperance) are never closed. For Thompson’s alter-ego, a swashbuckling journalist named Raoul Duke, the vulgar, 24/7 Circus-Circus Casino was, ‘what the whole hep world would be doing on a Saturday night if the Nazis had won the war’ – a wisecrack that seems to make more sense than it actually does.

Duke and his sidekick, the 300 lb. ‘Samoan’ attorney, Dr Gonzo (in reality a portly Mexican-American activist attorney named Oscar Zeta Acosta[ii]), get dressed for action in ‘Acapulco’ shirts and make the trip in ‘The Great Red Shark’, a rented flash-trash Chevrolet convertible. They hit the road and their take-off drugs to the canticulum of, ‘Pleased to meet you – hope you guessed my name…’ and sure enough, it isn’t long before demonic forms begin to dance in the desert sky.


Thompson and Acosta take a break from their savage journey

Ben’s car in Leaving Las Vegas is not described; it’s any-car, a means of moving from home to bar to liquor store and finally from Sodom to Gomorrah. Ben is any-drunk; the office job he has been fired from is any-job. His clothes are LA dapper – ‘well dressed’ – the functional wardrobe of the life he led before his wife left him. Preparing to depart LA, he burns all personal possessions, all documents, all photos. Into the flames goes a cherished black leather motorcycle jacket, the same as one O’Brien actually owned, a wild-side signature garment for a late developer. Ben expects the five-hour drive to be difficult, probably ‘hellish’ (even without a Satanic Majesties’ soundtrack) and indeed it was. Since Ben isn’t going to Vegas to make an impression he will only don a loud, jungle-print party shirt towards the end of his visit.

The narrative of dissolution in both stories requires cash to be metabolized at a steady rate and, in true Vegas fashion, the meter never stops running. Raoul Duke plunders his advances from publishers and cheats on expense accounts, yet still skips out on hotel bills. Ben’s endless bender wildfires his severance pay and runs up credit card debts he won’t to be around to settle. For little more than walking-around money he unloads his car and Rolex but Vegas doesn’t care what way it comes as long as it gets there.

***

John O’Brien had gone through years of rejection slips before Watermark Press, a small-scale operation in Wichita Kansas, published Leaving Las Vegas in 1990. A few years later, the film rights were optioned and when British director Mike Figgis completed the movie it went on to receive multiple award nominations – four apiece from the Golden Globes, BAFTAs and Oscars – and grossed around fifty million dollars.

We’ll never know what O’Brien might have thought of it. On April 10, 1994, a few weeks after signing the contract, he shot himself in the head. He was 33 and had recently lost another day job, this one in a coffee shop. According to Gaylord Dodd, the founder of Watermark, it was a period when O’Brien was drinking up to a gallon of vodka per day.

The only novel he fully completed in his lifetime, Leaving Las Vegas features elegantly dark lines, strong characterizations and showstopper scenes. Even with its weak spots, the indulgences of a developing writer, it’s a cherishable book – not simply a reminder of lost talent. Other American fictions about alcoholism that became films, cautionary tales of broken lives like The Lost Weekend and Days of Wine and Roses, are nothing like it. Nor is there much in common with Charles Bukowski’s swaggering skid-row confessions despite chapters set in a similar Los Angeles underworld.

After sending Ben across LA on a farewell binge, O’Brien invests him with a shade of intricacy. When he comes to, face down on a public toilet floor with strange piss in his hair, Ben doubts that even an ‘existential pep talk’ by Albert Camus would redeem the utter failure of his life. We are to understand that Ben’s story is a bona fide Existential Crisis – not just another noir episode of loser-on-the-rocks. According to Camus, suicide is never the right solution and his pep talk would have encouraged Ben to accept the sniggering cosmic indifference of Existence, embrace its absurdity and carry on –  not to happiness but to freedom. For Ben, oblivion is the only freedom O’Brien believes in.

LLV’s most compelling character is Sera, a stoic and hardworking hooker who provides our view of Vegas from an insider perspective: the undercurrents of the casinos, sardonic dealers, security thugs, easy marks and high rollers. She finds her own life’s absurd meaning in emotionally detached carnality and her romance with Ben is a Freudian, masochistic fusion of Eros and Thanatos. For a novel stiffened by candid and coarse sex, the only consummation granted to its lovers is a respite from loneliness.

If the outcome is predictable enough to be a let-down – the film version’s attempt to raunch it up is even worse. With what we now know about O’Brien’s life, it still underlines the loss his death brought to those who loved him.

***

As a Wild Turkey snow-cone and designer LSD-fuelled media-terrorist, Hunter Thompson would have in many ways satisfied Camus’ definition of ‘The Rebel’ – even the Metaphysical Rebel, who not only protests his own condition but the whole shitty mess of creation. When Thompson declared a guerrilla war-of-words on the Establishment, his excesses of alcohol, dope and felonious conduct were weaponized, the attributes of an enemy beyond reasoning, of the dangerously possessed.

He was just one of the hipper hacks who experimented with participatory reporting but took it up another level, turning the story’s lens onto himself. At the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago (where he claimed that cops had thrown him through a plate glass window), the Yippies’ provocations gave him ideas.[iii] There had been Mailer, of course, giving himself a third-person presence in The Armies of the Night, which documented the 1967 protest march on the Pentagon and let him mock his own radical intellectual celebrity. A more personal inspiration came from Ken Kesey and the Pranksters,[iv] who refined the trick of out-squaring the squares while hiding all kinds of unholy weirdness in plain sight.

Somewhere along the way Thompson pretended to abandon the profession of journalism, describing it as ‘a low trade and a habit worse than heroin’, a seedy world of ‘misfits and drunkards and failures’. He began to despair at actually doing the work, something he could only overcome through the foreplay of large advances, princely expense budgets and ritzier chemicals. He made no protest, however,  whenever feted as a ‘New Journalism’ pioneer or one of the chic media outlets’ zeitgeist-busting celebrities, always hurrying to play the role on late-night talk shows.

For over 40 years he continued to dissect the establishment’s fearful and loathsome state, the Empire of the Senseless, the politicians and the powerful who owned them. When some of his best work was collected in a Rolling Stone anthology, a reviewer said he wrote ‘top-notch journalism, of course, but beyond that there is a depth, a truth, that runs through Thompson’s writing. It’s as if his investigative instincts apply not just to the story, but to his telling of it…turning the facts—and more than a few fictions—over in his mind, uncovering hidden facets and exposing every angle so that the readers could see the story at its very core.’[v]

The New Journalism’s innovation, according to Tom Wolfe, was to, ‘…take, use, improvise. The result is not merely like a novel. It consumes devices that happen to have originated with the novel and mixes them with every other device known to prose…the reader knows all this actually happened.’[vi]

In Fear & Loathing, ‘actually happened’ was stretched beyond absurdity and Thompson confided, ‘Only a goddamn lunatic would write a thing like this and then claim it was true.’ For the book’s ‘jacket copy’, an unpublished introduction, he explained Fear & Loathing with an almost restrained pride – ‘…although it’s not what I meant it to be, it’s still so complex in its failure…I can take the risk of defending it as a first, gimped failure in a direction that “the new journalism” has been flirting with almost a decade.’[vii]

Considered as a novel, its requisite qualities are slight – the cast of caricature extras and slapstick narrative roll precariously along the edge of chaos. Thompson even resorts to a little bum-Trip Advisor ‘travel writing’, exploring Vegas’ plasticine imitation of civilization and scabrous heart. This was hardly news to anybody but the book cut it as a metamorphic work for the jive talking duet of Duke and Gonzo, a pair of mind-fucked libertarian assholes who bring together the drollery of Gulliver’s Travels, badinage of Naked Lunch and brio of The Three Stooges. Literature has always had a soft spot for this kind of road journey teamwork, whether Don Quixote and Sancho Panza…Huck and Jim…Sal and Dean…or Bob and Bing.

An assignment from the posh-jock magazine Sports Illustrated to ‘cover’ the Mint 400 desert motorcycle race required Thompson to produce 250 words worth of snappy photo captions. Instead, he spewed, quite literally, 2500 words – and Sports Illustrated rejected every one – along with his always immodest expenses tab.

At the time, Rolling Stone magazine was raking it in from music industry hustlers posing as patrons of dissidence and was still inspired by its unwashed Underground Press roots. Without hesitation, they snatched up the story and, in a moment of what could have been editorial madness, sent Thompson and his medicine chest back to Vegas to extend the wordcount by reporting on the National District Attorneys Association’s Conference on Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.

Thompson announced that he would no longer be taking the usual notes but using his ‘eye and mind like a camera…the writing would be selective & necessarily interpretive – but once the image was written the words would be final.’[viii] This shaky lean on Jack Kerouac’s instructions for spontaneous prose was soon abandoned. In the artfully hallucinated final draft, the motorcycle race and the conference were of less concern than the end of the Sixties and the squandered promise of the era. At the point of his final blundering getaway, Thompson / Duke pot-shots the guilty, starting with the psychotropic snake oil peddler Timothy Leary (‘there is not much satisfaction in knowing that he blew it very badly for himself, because he took so many others down with him.’); Sonny Barger for declining from uber-outlaw to moneygrubbing mobster; followed by the SDS / New Left countercultural killjoys and all the utopia-exploiting gurus, cult-mongers and mind-warpers he could think of.

The use of drugs by Duke and Gonzo is voracious and multi-layered, not so much getting stoned as ultra-intoxicated – with a side-car of semi-psychotic paranoia. Far beyond the mescal-soaked Day of the Dead visions of Malcolm Lowry’s Under The Volcano this was another literary original, an all-American Hieronymus Bosch portraying the hemorrhoidal ass-end of evolution.

 First publication, first part in Rolling Stone, November 11, 1971

 

The relevance of Thompson’s subtitle “A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream” may echo An American Dream, Norman Mailer’s 1965 novel. Mailer’s Ubermensch protagonist Stephen Rojack (war hero, ex-Senator and posturing New York talk-show host) gets away with murder through a torturous intrigue linking politics, obscene wealth, police duplicity and the justice-proof veneer of celebrity. Its overwrought dialogue (Mailer in showy conversation with himself) and scenes of violence and transgressive sex are delivered, according to one study,  by ‘stylized language, and an abundance of mythical, fairy tale imagery to evoke an exaggerated, dreamlike psychological fantasy’,[ix] which almost passes for a description of Fear & Loathing. But, even if Rojack was a self-caricature, just as Raoul Duke is for Thompson, Mailer trying to write comedy was a struggle he usually lost.[x]

It took until 1998, 27 years, before Fear & Loathing became a motion picture doomed by the direction of Terry Gilliam. Nominated for few awards, Johnny Depp’s impersonation of Thompson managed to win the only one – in Russia – and the box office came in $8,000,000 short of the production cost.

***

John O’Brien’s childhood and teenage years in the suburbs of epithetical Lakewood, Ohio were occupied by stamp collecting, planet gazing, avid reading and listening to Bob Dylan. The signs of a delayed rebelliousness included not attending his high school graduation ceremony and getting his diploma made out in the name of ‘John Dylan O’Brien’. He could still have gone on to university but instead married his girlfriend and set off  on explorative road trips, short term jobs, time in Portland, time in Atlanta.

By January 1983, they were in Los Angeles and O’Brien’s arraignment had become that black leather jacket with a t-shirt and jeans – the utilitarian style of street punks in Hell’s Kitchen, the Booze Fighters on Market Street in Frisco and city-of-night hustlers all over America. For tough guys it meant protection from switchblades, truncheon blows, road rash, police dog bites – then became an edgy style for maverick film stars, pouting poster icons, a re-enactment of attitude and desire. Bobby Zimmerman adopted the look as an adolescent in Hibbing, Minnesota – ‘Just like Marlon Brando’. A poseur cliché already when given a kitsch new use by Joey Ramone and Bruce Springsteen, satirising a tribal lore of pseudo-primitive masculinity that had long since gone cold.

John O’Brien

 

To match his new look, O’Brien had graduated from Coca-Cola to Wild Turkey (what else?) and the thirst for freedom he had discovered in his bedroom books and the road-wise rhymes of Dylan did little to warn him about what could often be alcohol’s self-fulfilling curse.

In many of his photos, O’Brien is charmingly gawky, smiling and self-assured like a clued-up dude with drowned uncertainties. It makes you wonder what it would have taken to save him if a credible promise of fame, fortune and literary recognition turned out not to be enough.

Seven years later, with a drinking habit well underway, O’Brien had the start of the writing life he had dreamed of – publication of his first novel, nearly completed drafts of two more and agency representation by Ray Powers at Marje Fields. Leaving Las Vegas could well have remained a cult first novel that never made it into paperback except for Powers’ persistence to secure a film option. Another agency, the elite William Morris, tried to lure him onto their books and Laura Ziskin, producer of Pretty Woman, offered a commission to screenwrite a new version of Days and Wine and Roses.

When Nicholas Cage agreed to take the role of Ben in the movie he said O’Brien’s suicide had been the deal-clincher. ‘It wasn’t just this character. It was layered now. There was irony.’ Suicide’s ironic provenance may not appeal to everyone but real irony would arrive when Cage’s glum, hammy and medically unrealistic portrayal of a dying drunk won an Academy Award. The movie treatment added its own backstory, making Ben a Beverley Hills-cruising scriptwriter whose drinking destroys his talent and politesse in the presence of pretty women. What seems like a plot lift from The Lost Weekend was an ill-judged attempt to make ‘Ben’ a more glamorous version of his creator.[xi]

The suggestion that O’Brien wrote Leaving Las Vegas as a ‘suicide note’ is untrue according to his sister Erin.[xii] The comment originated in a letter she had sent to Cage, which the film company then exploited. Powers, who was for a couple of years also my agent, claimed O’Brien phoned him only days before he died and during the call said, ‘I am Ben’ but that’s hardly the same thing.

***

Even if Hunter Thompson’s teenage kicks didn’t include hot rods, motorcycle jackets and greased quiffs, his troubles with the law ran from truancy, underage drinking and vandalism to car theft and burglary. Thompson’s father died when he was only 14 – fatherless, he turned to books for formative influences and found Sebastian Dangerfield, the atrocious hero of J P Donleavy’s The Ginger Man, and the colourful local lore of Kentucky’s antebellum decadence. When he should have been preparing for his final high school exams he was locked up in juvenile detention.

In 1964, after several years scratching a living out of freelance reporting, Thompson arrived in Ketchum, Idaho to research an article on the suicide of Ernest Hemingway, a writer he admired so much that he had (like  Joan Didion, one of his essayist / journalist contemporaries), typed out pages of Hemingway’s prose to improve his own writing technique. Thompson’s theory of why Hemingway shot himself – a lack of political commitment and confusion about grey areas in modern ethics – doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. Locals who knew Hemingway described the decline of a self-publicised man-of-action who was no longer able to carouse, go hunting or be the life and soul of the party, the lion in the room.

A few years later, Thompson discovered his own ‘Ketchum’ in Woody Creek, Colorado and used royalties from Hell’s Angels, his first book, to purchase Owl Farm. The farmhouse was remote enough he could wander out onto his porch, stark naked, and let off a few rounds from his .44 Magnum without disturbing the neighbours. Where Hemingway had hunted the backwoods for ducks, Thompson hunted for bigger bangs and, just as Hemingway cozied up to war and bullfighting, Thompson found his own ways to play close to the fire. Back in San Francisco he had taken drug-winged midnight runs down the winding coast highway on his motorcycle; ‘…that’s when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred…’.[xiii]

With the Hells Angels (and without the fucking apostrophe), Thompson found the real edition of his teenage rebellion, impelled by beer, pills, weed and velocity, but all grown up and ready to rumble. They cut a slovenly piratical dash that he wisely avoided by sticking to his shore-leave casuals. Eventually, he annoyed a group of Angels enough that they stomped his ass, an event  he may have provoked to take centre stage in his book’s conclusion. As Thompson told it, he had been horsing around with one of the Angels and got him in a bear hug, whereupon the others piled in and broke his nose. Only just saved from having his head caved in with a rock, he drove himself to the hospital.[xiv]

According to Sonny Barger, the president of the Angels’ Oakland chapter, Thompson had intervened when a club member slapped his own girlfriend. When a few members roughed him up and ordered him to leave, he ran to the police and filed a complaint. ‘Hunter turned out to be a real weenie,’ wrote Barger. ‘You read about how he walks around his house now with his pistols, shooting them out of his windows to impress writers who show up to interview him.’ [xv]

Norman Mailer’s weakness for subtly self-reflecting hyperbole was apparent as he described a certain type of self-dramatizing writer, compelled to live in a ‘psychic terrain where he has to be brave beyond his limits’ or else he will have to ‘make another reconnaissance into / death.’[xvi] While the subject of this could have been either Thompson or himself, it was in fact Hemingway. Mailer and Thompson spent time together while covering Rumble in the Jungle, the Ali vs. Foreman boxing match in Kinshasa. Mailer, a drinker of some renown, was in awe of Hunter’s constitution, his taking more drugs ‘than any good living writer’ and drinking more beer ‘than all but a hundred men alive.’[xvii]

Anecdotal accounts by Thompson’s girlfriends, buddies and guests at Owl Creek suggest that he welcomed the start of each day – around mid-afternoon –  with a glass of Chivas Regal, strong coffee and the first of many Dunhill cigarettes. A taxing schedule of cocaine, grass, Heineken, margaritas, chartreuse, LSD, champagne and Wild Turkey would then follow. Margot Kidder was a witness to this stamina when he visited her and husband Tom McGuane in Key West. Thompson and McGuane agreed to find out who could take the most drugs without dropping dead. ‘I was very upset. I was screaming “Hunter! Hunter! You’re going to kill my husband!”’[xviii]

When Thompson said his intake of booze and narcotics was obviously exaggerated or else he couldn’t still be alive no one actually believed him. Nevertheless, he would always be considered a Falstaffian hellraiser and altered-state connoisseur and never a pitiful drunk or sad junky. Few seemed to notice that something might be missing – like the time he ordered a pizza ‘with everything’ and after opening the box, registered genuine disappointment, saying, ‘There’s never enough everything.’

In 1978, when The Great Shark Hunt, his first collection of press and magazine articles was ready for publication, he wrote the introduction while sitting in his publishers’ 5th Avenue, New York office. He was 40 and teasingly styled his copy like a suicide note, wondering whether his time was over and he should run over and leap out the nearby 28th floor window. ‘I have already lived and finished the life I planned to live’.

Twenty seven years later, Thompson would be struggling to walk after first breaking a leg and then having hip and back operations. For the back surgery he was required to withdraw from a lifetime of constant alcohol use. The doctor had him placed in an induced coma to make this more bearable but it was only partly successful, leaving him in pain, distressed, sour tempered and never likely to ever again be the life and soul of the party.

He was inspired to compose another suicide note, one which he gave a both literal and symbolic title – “Football Season is Over”. The 2004/5 NFL season had just finished and Thompson managed to host a small gathering of family and friends to watch the televised Superbowl game. Football was one thing he could love in an old fashioned American way – he had begun his career as a sportswriter and at Rolling Stone his beat listing on the masthead (as Raoul Duke) was ‘The Sports Desk’.

The note had a poetic lilt.

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy… No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.’

When he put the barrel of a .45 calibre pistol into his mouth on
February 20th, it was more than a solution to pain and despair – it was also an act of rebellion – against the doctors, the indifference of their science, and the closing trap of his body. It was also on behalf of the people who, in spite of
everything, remained closest to him and whose lives he was making
miserable. When finally cornered, with no pleasures left to him but guns &
bullets, the only option was to shoot his way out and nothing left to shoot but
Existence.

***

The epigraph is from “For the Love of Dying”, Selected Poems of Malcolm Lowry, City Lights Books, 1962.

 

[i] “The Landscape of Luxury” in Occupying Architecture, ed. Jonathan Hill, London, Routledge, 1998

[ii] https://evergreenreview.com/read/the-marginalization-of-oscar-zeta-acosta/

[iii] https://www.history.com/news/yippies-1968-dnc-convention

[iv] https://realitysandwich.com/ken-kesey/

[v]  “HUNTER S. THOMPSON, THE METHOD AND THE MAN: ‘FEAR AND LOATHING AT ROLLING STONE”, Christel Loar, February 2012.  https://www.popmatters.com/153852-fear-and-loathing-at-rolling-stone-2495891562.html

[vi] The New Journalism, Tom Wolfe, “Like a Novel”, Picador, London 1975. p.49.

[vii] Hunter Thompson, “Jacket copy for Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas”, in The Great Shark Hunt, Summit Books, 1979. p.21-2.

[viii] Paul Perry, Fear and Loathing / The strange and terrible saga of Hunter S. Thompson, Thunder’s Mouth Press, New York, 1992, p.???

[ix] Andrew Gordon, An American Dreamer. A Psychoanalytic Study of the Fiction of Norman Mailer, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, London, 1980.

[x] Coincidentally, perhaps, An American Dream concludes in Las Vegas, where Rojack flees to

gamble up the money to pay his debts and to make peace with his ghosts.

[xi] For a shrewd critique of the film see “The Lost Evening” by August Kleinzahler in his collection of essays, Cutty, One Rock, Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, New York, 2005. p.53.

[xii] Erin O’Brien is a journalist, novelist and blogger who edited several of her brother’s left-behind works for publication, including the nearly finished novel The Assault on Tony’s, which Grove Press published in 1996.

[xiii] Hunter S Thompson, Hell’s Angels, Allen Lane – The Penguin Press, London, 1967. p.276.

[xiv] Paul Perry, Fear and Loathing / The strange and terrible saga of Hunter S. Thompson, Thunder’s Mouth Press, New York, 1992, p.158.

[xv] Ralph Sonny Barger, Hell’s Angel, Fourth Estate, London 2000. p.125.

[xvi] Norman Mailer, “Punching Papa”, in Cannibals & Christians, Andre Deutsch, London, 1967, p.156.

[xvii] Norman Mailer, The Fight, Penguin, London, 1991, p.120.

[xviii] Quoted by E Jean Carroll in Hunter – the strange and savage life  of hunter s thompson, Simon & Schuster, London, 1994. p.212.

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What Could Be True

Your brain by now should be adjusted to your skull.
The thought of a firefly could change that.

I’ve tried to say what’s between you and me
many times, and each time recall:
love is forgotten in the act.

The sky is quite low,
like the roof of a tent that was snowed on
quietly overnight. What is snow but rain
wearing bangles of ice.

There’s a cistern deep in the earth.
We’ve  accumulated centuries, but it remains empty.

Sharks cruise shallow water more often now.
Shells light up when their shadows come over.
So much occurs, like war, like the thought
lobsters are the samurai of the sea.

It is hard to stand anywhere any more.
There is shifting under us, waves above.
We’re starting to drift, to fade into what goes unspoken. 
It has clouds over it and a wound beneath.

 

 

 

Peter Yovu
Picture Rupert Loydell

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Electronica and Improvisation at Hope Chapel

 

Some images and words from Alan Dearling

Billed as “a night of experimental, psychedelic and electronic sounds”, it provided a great opportunity to spend a few hours in this rather remarkable and imposing venue in the heart of the artistic centre of Hebden Bridge. In fact, this Baptist Chapel is still a working church – but it also engages with arts, music and recording facilities and other community-focused events. It’s a real treat of a space for music – superb acoustics, an upstairs balcony, and an area behind the pulpit for image projections.

Three sets of musicians performed. All different in styles and contents, and obviously every member of the audience had their own preconceptions and preferences – me included. But, I was very involved in photographing the event, so probably didn’t pay as much attention to the music as many who sat enthralled in the wooden pews. I was up and down stairs from the lower ground floor auditorium and darting around the gallery.

During the three sets from Fire Tower 4, Lines of Silence and Scissorgun and dj-ing from Paul Owens from Muse Music Café, the Live:Lab did a great job projecting images onto the back wall of the chapel and making sure that the sound was par excellence. Fire Tower 4 moulded themselves into the fabric of the space and the community. It was welcoming. Intimate, friendly and engaging. They told us that they do not arrive with a set list and genuinely improvise with whoever is part of that day’s collective. The results were lyrical, lush and each performer seemed to allow space, freedom and fluidity for their colleagues. World jazz music, shades of techno and EDM, pulsating beats, scat vocals. As they said, “No two Fire Tower 4 performances are ever the same.” A lovely way to create a creative portal into the evening’s performances.

Indeed, a bit of musical magic! Video (but rockier than at the Hope): https://youtu.be/0dvf8Gn94UM

Lines of Silence call themselves purveyors of “space music from under the soil”. A very intense show, much more free jazz than psychedelia to my ears. Dark soundscapes, ghostly scraping and creakings from scary monsters just out of view.

Well-supported by locals in the audience who were obviously very personally involved in the fairly ambient and at times quite musically challenging sounds. They have recently released their second album, ‘Stations of the Sun’. https://linesofsilence.bandcamp.com/album/stations-of-the-sun

Lots of interesting experiments in found sounds, loops and musical excursions from Scissorgun. They are a duo consisting of Alan Hempsall on guitar and vocals, combined with an array of keys and computer gizmos commanded by David Clarkson. David is a veritable veteran of electronic programming and production.

It varied in tone and tempo from aural cinematic film clips to quite noisy rock ‘n’ roll. I bought Clarkson’s 2023 new album, which is created from field recordings described as ‘A pocket guide to Dream Land’ – “faded fairgrounds and coastal ghost towns of the British Isles”. Quirky and not without humour. Scissorgun short live video clip: https://www.facebook.com/scissorgun/videos/527130419523040

A mixed musical canvas and very special venue, a space made more special by friendly organisers, performers and the sound and lighting crew.

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