Ode to the Lost Path 


 
                        for Fran Lock 
 
I entered the life I’d created 
then immediately lost my way  
she said, traversing graffitied subways 
past the demolished library 
to areas of sub-standard housing 
where tourists never venture 
is this my pavement? my road? 
is the shopping mall mine 
patrolled by big men in uniform 
topping up their Universal Credit? 
is it OK to window-shop? 
I open my purse, it’s full of oysters 
not a single pearl 
I look at google maps 
not a single straight path 
past the retail parks 
& railway sidings 
through darkness  
of small-time crooks 
drunks & dead-beats 
delirious losers 
of TV talent shows 
& sad-eyed academics 
on minimum wage 
o where is mine countrie? 
it cometh forth like a flower 
& is cut down, & where 
where, she asked are 
the houses built for  
sustenance & not for profit? 
the life I created isn’t mine 
I have to build it  
from discarded words 
& sentences that make sense 
only to twisted minds 
tongue-tied, I sing 
a memory-lapse series of moments 
rained-on turf soaked in grief 
visions of Albion 
Sunderland’s sad factories 
& heritage museums 
I ask what use is the past 
if it doesn’t remind us 
of all those  
who’ve laboured in it? 
I hum the tunes to adverts 
& list the products I like 
feature-rich & discounted 
o lead me to endangered orchids 
in the oakwoods of Derbyshire 
show me dog walkers 
& litter bins 
imbued with transience 
& an otherworldly light 
& let the new-made Sun 
spill over this world 
old & ruined as it is 
I need a soft scoop 
of something sweet 
a multi-vocal harmony 
interrupted by adverts 
a splash of colour 
on a high-resolution sky  
manganese water mixable 
what’s on the news?  
the death of a duke 
anything else? no  
is your life 
full of the world 
as you imagine it? no 
do you wish for…? yes, grass 
shaken by the wind 
& the big trees across the park 
to dance their stately dance  
& birds to be buffeted 
& soaring 
I want to sleep the sleep  
of sandpipers, one eye  
always open to the world 
dreams illuminated by a real Sun 
I want to switch off 
the TV & lie 
with Night draped  
over my shoulders 
keeping me warm 
with its invisible light 
open to quantum effects 
& warped time 
in which buskers get rich 
though the coffee is cold 
& the day  
turns dark early 
set on fire by clouds

 

Alan Baker

 

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Take a beaker filled with clean water, add salt…

Take a beaker filled with clean water, add salt
Until your water fogs (it’s early yet as he sips
his first coffee thinking “three’s an odd number,
got a foot  in both camps”) next apply gentle heat,
Add more salt (chews a dunked biscuit, smells
washing day, fresh baked bread, Grandad in his
coffin) go way past saturation point then turn off
The heat, let the mix cool, see how it stays clear
(staring down at the table top he sees a rhythm
in the grain) wait a moment then tap the glass
Gently (he lay full length ear pressed to the
bedroom carpet itching his face as he hears
muffled anger from downstairs) and a single
Crystal will form seemingly out of nowhere,
(he’s sliding weightless down that twisted
rope ladder to the place where all poems
begin) shatters the beaker (picking up his
pen, he begins…)

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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London Live

Alan Dearling takes us on a slightly damp tour of some London music and arts events as post-Covid activities re-activate.

After my first weeks of post-English Covid ‘Freedom Day’ in Yorkshire, I found myself heading down to London, via Scotland, to take photos and review a big indoor gig with Eat Static, Zion Train, Chris Tofu and others at Brixton Electric. Alas, it was not to be. It was cancelled late on, presumably over Covid entry restrictions.  So, personally, I had to bite the bullet, and I still went by train and buses from the Scottish borderlands to North London to stay with good friends in Crouch End. It felt a long time since my last visitation. Indeed, it had been a long gap since the London Re-Mixed indoor festival at the very beginning of 2020.

Wandering around a soggy London, on-off rain and sunny bits, it was interesting to see London emerging into the new world of ‘living with Covid’. Pubs with virtually no masks, but still face-coverings mandatory on public transport. Signs of poverty and homelessness on the streets. People bustling about their business, but a slightly edgy wariness.

My first indoor London event was an album launch for the Snakeoil Rattlers at the iconic, Hope and Anchor pub in London’s Islington Upper Street. A legendary downstairs’ stage, the site of many famous sets from pub bands, punk gigs, blues, country and more.

The sound quality for a short solo intro by the Snakeoil Rattlers’ front man, Barry Warren, was great. Clear and sweet. Not so, for the ramshackle, but loveable rock ‘n’ rollers in support, The Shangrilads. It was even louder and muddier for the Snakeoil Rattlers. They were previewing ‘Backwater’ their new album. We got to hear some fine lap-steel guitar, but the words were lost in a sonic murk. The Snakeoil Rattlers are purveyors of swampy, bluesy-rock Americana. Songs full of ‘stories’ of life on the road, in bars, brawls and drug and alcohol fuelled ‘experiences’. The sound quality was disappointing for both bands as they seem to be a really nice bunch of lads. Here’s the link to the Rattlers’ website and to the Bandcamp page: http://www.snakeoilrattlers.co.uk/

‘Sirens of the Highway’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IV0ybbFe3EM


A pic of the Snakeoil Rattlers, and one of Barry Warren.


And a pic of the Shangrilads.

ZooNation at the Southbank

Oooodles more precipitation down at Southbank. Outside events – arts, music and dance were forced indoors. It ain’t the same vibe, but ZooNation Dance Company did their level-best to energise a youthful workshop group onto an improvised dance-floor. ZooNation are a well-known dance collective, part of the Katie Prince Company, which uses story-telling, music and dance to enable young people to become more creative.

Web site: https://zoonation.co.uk/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwvaeJBhCvARIsABgTDM6AhD3QOBY-xJirlfOwBOU4u-GY9VG3w7YrohxOijoilBuH4QmSHRUaAlLPEALw_wcB

 

 

ZooNation in action>>>>>>>>


Alexandra Palace: The People’s Palace

Sunday afternoon – street food and craft drink stalls, plus live music all centred around the terrace at the ‘Palace’. A good size, revolving crowd of punters and performers braving some pretty abrupt and sudden rain-bursts. Smiling people, dancing people, people on their own personal missions to shake-off the shackles of Covid.

Heavy Beat Brass Band 

From Birmingham, this is a marching band and a human entertainment machine. They offered musical slices of authentic vibes of New Orleans to the crowds in North London. Lively, youthful and fun!

Start Off Right (Soul Rebels Cover): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPG2o0LPs4I

Web site: https://www.heavybeatbrass.com/

Norton Money Band

Country-tinged music, but at times accompanied by a pulsating, driving beat. During their second set, they upped the tempo, capturing much more attention and even got a fair few among the crowd up and dancing. They were showcasing many tracks from their recorded output.

‘Hold on again’ from 12 Bar Club: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKfqsQfXXXI

Web site: https://www.nortonmoney.com/

The Third Elvis and friends

For many, the ‘heroes’ of the afternoon, the ‘star attraction’ with that extra ‘z’ or ‘x’ factor, were: The Third and last remaining London Elvis, and his two dancing friends. Memorable! As my mate Tony remarked, “I want to find their Care Home, and go and join them!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Since

 

Since the river ran dry and no respite came.

Since what you thought of first is the opening line.

Since the fingers on your hand point away from the thumb.

Since the road you once took is the one that has gone.

Since your strength and your skill got you into the team.

Since the mountainous path can’t be travelled alone.

Since the words that you heard were not quite what they seem.

Since what happened on the street won’t ever happen again.

Since the flowers on the piano were picked down the lane.

Since the face that you saw was concealed by a hood.
Since the trees round the farm felt the breeze from the rain.

Since the news that you got was all downright bad.

Since the time of your life could be heard in a song.

Since the river of night was where you thought you might belong.

 

 

Phil Bowen
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

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It’s Happening Now But People Don’t See It

 

344K subscribers
 
A revolutionary and powerful speech from musician and Pink Floyd band member Roger Waters on challenging authority and societal change. This is not a drill. “We are all brothers and sisters under the skin and above it . . . it’s super important that we stop lobbing bombs over the top of the wall and start trying to dismantle it, so that we can say ‘hi’ to whoever is on the other side, whether the divide is religious or nationalistic or politic or economic.”
 
Speaker: Roger Waters
 
 
Speech: Various Produced and Edited by T&H Inspiration
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Alice in Londonland. Colin Gibson

Alice in Londonland – a music monthly. This month’s special guest, musician and artist Colin Gibson, well known for being in 60s legends Skip Bifferty.

 

 

Soho Radio
Alice Platt aka Dolly Partime

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8 count

from my bed

I watch
3 birds
on a telephone   
wire.
 
one flies
off.
then   
another.
 
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
 
my typewriter is
tombstone
still.
 
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
 
just thought I’d
let you
know,
fucker.
 
 
 
 
 
“8 count” from Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955-1973 by Charles Bukowski. Copyright © 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, 1968, 1974 by Charles Bukowski. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers. 
 
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I Want

Department S – I Want. 3rd and best Department S single. Made Number 1 in Europe but did nothing in UK.

Lyrics:

Oh God I want Christmas all year ’round
I want a swimming pool I don’t want to drown
I want a lot of money but I don’t wanna pay taxes
Unless it’s just a penny in the pound

I want a mini cooper, immune to endorsements
I want a place in the country and a penthouse apartment
I want a yacht to sail, I want a pass on British rail
Guaranteed with my own compartment

I’m not begging, but I’m asking
I’m not giving, but I’m receiving
I’m not taking but if you’re listening
This is everything I’ve been wanting

I want to be happy for the rest of my life
I want to die but not by the knife
I want to sleep all afternoon
I want to rise at night with the moon

I want a daughter without the wife
I want Marilyn Monroe
Painted by Warhol
Reincarnated Jean Harlow

I want the style of De Niro
I want to get out of this place
I want to see your face
Until then Amen, I gotta go

I’m not begging, but I’m asking
I’m not giving, but I’m receiving
I’m not taking but if you’re listening
This is everything I’ve been wanting

Toulouse/Herbage

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SOUTH PACIFIC

 

Chichester Festival Theatre

Streamed on 31/08/2021


Following my first appearance as one of the Siamese children in ‘The King and I’ in my local operatic society production at the age of seven, I was chosen to play Jerome (son to Emile de Becque) in ‘South Pacific’, so watching Chichester Festival Theatre’s revival production brought back many fond memories. Mine, being an amateur production, was rehearsed over a period of six months, and I attended every rehearsal.  I loved the show, the music, the drama, and the wonderfully defined characters, albeit some of them slightly caricatured both in the writing and interpretation.  All these years later, to watch the streaming version on my TV at home was a treat I was looking forward to. 

The audience were masked, as were any of the cast who wandered amongst them, and although there was little social distancing on stage, there was still a sense of a company fighting the odds to come up with a production which main strength is ensemble playing.  A beautifully staged show by Daniel Evans and choreographer Ann Yee presents a ‘South Pacific’ that is low on individual glory but high on accolades for a hard-working, well drilled ensemble. A company of performers working to one common goal, a contemporary vision of a very controversial storyline from yesteryear.

Controversy aside, my everlasting memories of the show are threefold: the wonderful love story between the Frenchman (Emile) and the American cockeyed optimist (Nellie Forbush), the tragedy of Bloody Mary’s daughter, Liat, and Lieutenant Cable’s relationship, and the comedic relief from the likes of Seabee sailors Luther Billis and henchman Stewpot. Two out of three succeeded here.  One, Julian Ovendon’s (Emile) renditions of ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ and ‘This Nearly Was Mine’ sent shivers down my spine, as did Rob Houchen’s (Cable) poignant ‘You’ve Got To Be Carefully Taught’. The missing element was the light relief.  Keir Charles as Luther Billis just didn’t capture the essence of fun required, nor was his singing voice up to the challenge of ‘There Is Nothing Like A Dame’, sadly, one of the disappointments of the show.  Fortunately, Nellie (Gina Beck) and the female ensemble make up for it with their ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair’, which gets a well-deserved encore.

Like many musicals, it is a show of two halves.  With most of the hit songs in Act One and following a fun opening to Act Two (‘Honey Bun’) – again a misjudged drag from Keir Charles (where was the coconut shell bra, I ask?), we enter the drama and dangers of wartime romance. The difficult change of locations is wonderfully achieved, and the controversial acts of prejudice not shied away from but played with a true sense of the now.  Bravo to all who contributed to the artistic and dramatic success of this Final Act, not least to the wonderful sounds coming from the orchestra above us. So much of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s musical score unfolds to tell the story through the music alone and it is then we truly begin to feel the emotion, passion, and power of two of the greatest musical theatre writers of all time.  The show receives a standing ovation – for the cast, and for R&H.

 

 

Reviewed by Kevin Short

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The Kites And The Ground

 

From the tip of the turret our kite

sends a desparate message.

The string, invisible, vines up

and coils the stones and the concrete.

 

We can still roam naked –

two comrades in penury

co-sharer of the kite that has

left us for the great height.

 

We visit the ground everyday.

The kite thins out from existence,

and then, on the day following,

we fly another kite, red and white.

 

“This fella can win a competition.”

You say. We can win a medal

as long as we dream.

 

In this reverie we wear

one pair of jeans on the podium,

sharing its legs. Our other legs

know the wind and

the ways of the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Ilustration 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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I’m Not Your Steppin’ Stone

 
 
IF YOU LIVED IT YOU WERE AS BIG A PART OF IT AS ANYONE ELSE AND DON’T BE TOLD ANY DIFFERENT. OUR CONTRIBUTION DOESN’T SEEK TO ATTACK INDIVIDUALS BUT IT DOES SEEK TO ATTACK THE NOTION THAT WE SHOULD EXALT LEADERS AND FIGUREHEADS. PUNK HISTORY BELONGS TO US ALL AND I FOR ONE AM NOT YOUR STEPPIN’ STONE…
 
Performed by ARSE Petesy Burns
– vocals Jim Gilmore
– guitar and backing vocals Martin Lenane
– bass and backing vocals Donal McCann
– drums and backing vocals. 
 
Recorded and mixed in Attic Studios Belfast by Jamie Wilson, October 2018 Produced by Petesy Burns Executive producer: Colin Harper Mastered on Skye by Denis Blackham Video by Mark Case at Busted Flush Productions Available for download on iTunes and all the usual places
 
 
 
 
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New and Old Music releases

 

Alan Dearling shares a mixed bag of new and old music, much of it being released in new and re-mix versions. Dip into the magic musical hat!

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

Larkin Poe and Nu Deco Ensemble:  ‘Paint the Roses’

A class-act. This female country-blues duo exude skill, charm and an increasing amount of light and shade in their musical output. In the past, they’ve appeared a bit manufactured in that North American way of things. Now, I think there’s more edge. A rougher, gutsier, blues feel and sound, some real lived-along-the-roadsides. Still plenty of sweetness and light too. Catchy tunes, melodies and an almost telepathic harmonising. Sisters, Rebecca and Megan Lovell are archetypal singer/songwriters, multi-instrumentalists have been honed by their southern US heritage. Originally from Atlanta, they are currently living in Nashville. And, just for the record, one should note that they are descendants of the tortured artist and creative genius Edgar Allan Poe. The album, with the sisters collaborating with Nu Deco, is a new departure in terms of texture and sounds. I prefer them at their rowdier, but, I reckon that it’s worth checking out.

Here’s ‘Every Bird the Flies’ from the new, live concert album:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qhgHZR3fqw

And here they are live from 2021 Blues festival.

‘Preachin’ the Blues’ catches the energy and a bit more of their grungier, edgy blues:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQZyDWT7Zj4

‘Straight Outta Caledonia’, is apparently the first commercially available Jackie Leven ‘Greatest Hits’ album. I have well over a dozen of his solo albums, starting with ‘Control’, when he called himself John St.  Field, plus some of his output from the punky, Doll By Doll. For me, he was a Scots’ ‘institution’ along with Michael Marra.  Ian Rankin totally agrees and has been instrumental in supporting the legacy of Jackie Leven and his music. Jackie was a wordsmith, raconteur, a troubadour, a poet and bard for, and of, the people. Acerbic, he could be a tad rude, and sometimes pissed.  The kind of loveable rogue that you wanted as a companion on the road or a long pub crawl. The album is a compilation recently selected for release by Night School out  on CD & black vinyl and on its Archival label ‘School Daze’ via Bandcamp. It must have been a hard call, as to what to leave off, as well as what to include. To give a flavour of the guy, who provided so many ‘fairytales for hard men’, here’s a video link to Jackie, ‘My Philosophy’ from Rockpalast in 2004:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pcJw_Zjf94

 

The Near Jazz Experience: ‘Nought to 60’   

I’ve always savoured and enjoyed my sorties into modern jazz, especially when its music is shredded through a musical blender. This new longish EP – same length as some LPs back in the 1960s, is fun, experimental and witty. The NJE musicians are seasoned pros, with Terry Edwards on horns, who has worked with the likes of PJ Harvey; Mark Bedford, multiple electronica (Madness et al.) and Simon Charterton on percussion (I think), has worked with Alex Harvey ‘back in the day’.  ‘Spirit of Indo’ kicks off the album with a loose, multi-textured jam. Its hypnotic, sparse and at times filled with squalls of sound. Bowie’s ‘Five years’ is re-imagined with a mournful, almost melodica/harmonium sound.

The title track, ‘Nought to 60’ reminded me of the repetitive, drug-fuelled Nik Turner (originally of Hawkwind) arriving on the musical station platform. A mash-up of sax, beats and speed-freakery. Odd, but satisfying on its own terms.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEan4oKYPB4 

 

Bob Dylan ‘Springtime in New York’ 1980-85


More mid-period, ‘Bobness’.  From the blurb, we learn that this is the latest chapter in Columbia/Legacy’s highly acclaimed Bob Dylan Bootleg Series. It revisits an often-forgotten, rather reviled period vein in Dylan’s vast and complex catalogue. Again, to quote the promo-blurb:  “In the early 1980s, while the music industry was grappling with the arrival of new trends and technology, from MTV to compact discs to digital recording, Bob Dylan was writing and recording new songs for a new decade, creating an essential new chapter in his studio catalogue.”

These are: Bob Dylan’s ‘Shot Of Love’, ‘Infidels’, and ‘Empire Burlesque’. The new double album is provocatively crammed with previously unreleased outtakes, alternate takes, rehearsal recordings, live performances and more. Here are some samples.

I’ve only heard and watched samples as yet, but it does look like a ‘must have’ for Dylan fans.

‘Too Late’ (Band version): https://youtu.be/RUT7N8RYgSI

There’s a Deluxe, five CD version and a two CD one:

  1. Angelina – Shot of Love outtake
  2. Need a Woman – Rehearsal
  3. Let’s Keep It Between Us – Rehearsal
  4. Price of Love – Shot of Love outtake
  5. Don’t Ever Take Yourself Away – Shot of Love outtake*
  6. Fur Slippers – Shot of Love outtake
  7. Yes Sir, No Sir – Shot of Love outtake
  8. Jokerman – Infidelsalternate take
  9. Lord Protect My Child – Infidelsouttake
  10. Blind Willie McTell – Infidelsouttake
  11. Don’t Fall Apart on Me Tonight [version 2] – Infidelsalternate take
  12. Neighborhood Bully – Infidelsalternate take
  13. Too Late [band version] – Infidelsouttake

 

  1. Foot of Pride – Infidelsouttake
  2. Sweetheart Like You – Infidelsalternate take
  3. Someone’s Got a Hold of My Heart – Infidelsouttake
  4. I and I – Infidelsalternate take
  5. Tell Me – Infidelsouttake
  6. Enough is Enough [live] – Slane Castle, Ireland
  7. Tight Connection to My Heart (Has Anybody Seen My Love) – Empire Burlesque alternate mix
  8. Seeing the Real You at Last – Empire Burlesquealternate take
  9. Emotionally Yours – Empire Burlesquealternate take
  10. Clean Cut Kid – Empire Burlesquealternate take
  11. New Danville Girl – Empire Burlesqueouttake
  12. Dark Eyes – Empire Burlesquealternate take

Undying Heads have just released A Break in the Countrycheck it out here

My good friend, Sam, and her partner, Frank are travelling still. Have done so throughout the Covid lockdowns and for well before. They travel in their live-in vehicle. Many places, people met, experiences lived.

Their music has been evolving in their recent ‘travelling days’. It feels ‘old-timey’, redolent of campfires, the ‘old days and the old ways’. See what you think. I particularly enjoyed this track:

 

Oldtimer in an Old Hymer Motorhome

It started with a closed cell insulation, condensation conversation
Butane pipe for propane, it all got somewhat deeper
Said an oldtimer in an old Hymer motorhome

I was stuck in a rut, driven to the booze
By the job I hated, I was so afraid to lose
Said an oldtimer in an old Hymer motorhome

Here’s a video they made recently: https://undyingheads.wixsite.com/undyingheads/videos

They want to communicate with a new and future audience. It ain’t about money. It’s about getting noticed, getting heard. Here’s what they say about it:

“Hey Bandcamp followers! Long time no see or speak! Here is our second album for your listening pleasure. Please do let us know what you think! Don’t forget to check out our website for new videos and pictures! Lots of love, Sam and Frank aka Undying Heads xxx”

 

 

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Charlie Watts

 

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

 

 

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Birth Pangs

I too was a kid
When my brother was born

As I heard my mother crying
in pangs of childbirth
I asked the gathering of grandmas its cause

Rather than answering me
Smilingly they ask for a gift from me

The moment I create a poem
vividly I remember that very day of my mother
and I get carried away by unearthly feelings

Looking at my state of fearless indifference
my body unmoving with no physical pain
very often my shadow asks me
What’s happened to you

* * * * *

 

Guna Moran
Tr.© Nirendra Nath Thakuria

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Buddha and me

We looked at each other

in disbelief.

Buddha

and me.

He was clad

in an  age old

duplicate polo sweatshirt

and a hippie donated blue jeans.

Whereas I was

wearing a saffron robe .

After a while,

little rattled

by our silence,

we smiled indulgently

and then looked at each other

with belief.

The blue of the sky

beckoned invitingly.

We sat together

dipping out feet

in the creek

within a circle of ferns

and mature tall trees

far from the  horns

and screeching brakes

of time.

 

 

 

-Bhuwan Thapaliya
Illustration Nick Victor

 

Nepalese poet, Bhuwan Thapaliya is the author of four poetry collections.  Bhuwan Thapaliya’s books are Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publications, New Delhi), Our Nepal, Our Pride (Cyberwit.net, Allahabad), Rhythm of the Heart( Lulu Publication) and Verses from the Himalayas. Thapaliya has read his poetry and attended seminars in venues around the world, including South Korea, the United States, Thailand, Cambodia, and Nepal. His poems have been widely published in leading literary journals, newspapers and periodicals such as Kritya, Pandemic Magazine, The Foundling Review,  Strong Verse, International Times, Countercurrents.org, myrepublica , The Kashmir Pulse, Taj Mahal Review,  Poetry Life and Times, Ponder Savant, VOICES( Education Project),  Longfellow Literary Project, Poets Against the War etc. His poetries have also been published in the CD’s and Books such as The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry (ISBN 1- 878431-52- 8) , Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry (The Poets Printery, East London, South Africa,2008, pp.118, Paperback, ISBN 0-620-41372-7), The Strand Book of International Poets 2010 , of Nepalese Clay, Pratik and in many more.

 

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FIRES IN THE WEST

Despite drought, despite burning
restrictions, against advice to the contrary,
I clip the gauzy nursery of the tent
caterpillars from the black walnut branch,
rush it to the back yard fire pit,
torch the swaddling of newspaper
I’ve wrapped it in and watch its whitish
envelope melt and crisp in the flames,
watch with an enflamed part of myself
the inch-long baby caterpillars
squirming to escape the heat until
the fire utterly consumes them.

Later I ask myself why
the outsized rage at the sight
of a single infested branch.  Google
advises drowning them in soapy water.
Why wasn’t that enough?  I remember
caterpillars falling on my head in boyhood
summers, the revulsion, in truth the fear.
And here it has returned, infesting me
again, a shadowy crawling beneath
my cobwebby justification for the same
reckless arrogance smudging our air
from forests burning a half-continent away.

 

 

 

Thomas R. Smith

 

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this

this
land’s an

nals and
now

this

quick
glint in

brown grass a
fragment from

some

thing smashed catch
ing sun’s sent

zeal

crouch
down

just

here
to

intricate rub
ble on waste

ground

look hard
for gleams

among dull
stones

make a
map of

shat

tered
oaths

 

 

 

Mark Goodwin

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I WAS ELTON JOHN’S PIANO-POLISHER



before streaming, people had
upright pianos in their front room, no-one
has space for a front room piano any more
except Elton John, he has a big white room
just devoted to that one white grand piano,
overlooking the lawn where his peacocks strut,
and there was a time, I’m now free to confide,
when I was paid to clean and polish that piano,
it constituted my fulltime employment role
and I took my duties as Elton John’s
piano-polisher very seriously indeed,
I would clean the white keys one day
then the black keys on alternate days,
stooping low to polish each claw-leg in turn
allowing no speck of dust to sully the high-gloss
sheen of that immaculate well-tuned Steinway,
I was proud to be the Rocket Man’s piano-polisher
proud to play such a very small part in Elton’s career,
but, I hear you ask, why did the sun have to come down
on such fulfilling employment? come close, I’ll tell you,
it wasn’t the polishing I objected to, it wasn’t the
white keys or the black keys, no, it was having to
wear the French Maid’s outfit while wielding the
feather-duster when I was polishing that finally brought
my career as Elton John’s piano-polisher to a close…

 



Andrew Darlington

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Climate, Covid, Control – and Criminals

 

Do not underestimate the mind bending power it takes to get ordinary folk to embrace the notion “You will own nothing and you will be happy”.

If anyone says to you “the weather extremes are a sure sign of global warming”, it’s because they take this information directly from the media and assume it to be fact.

The media get it from government – or government ‘expert advisors’. The ‘expert advisors’ get it from a computer modelling exercise (e.g. Imperial College London).

The computer modelling exercise gets it from a large financial incentive offered by the corporate conglomerate and bought-out government, with the explicit instruction to produce a result which fills the needs of their combined political goals. In this case, to magic-up ‘scientific proof’ that global warming is real.

The need to have ‘proof’ that this invention is real is arrived at in spite of the fact that global warming’s main proponents know that the idea was dreamed-up at the Club of Rome in 1972 under a widely publicised treatise with the catchy title ‘Limits to Growth’. It gained a further boost from the 1992 Earth Summit in Rio de Janeiro, when the infamous Agenda 21 was launched to impose largely irrational environmental constrictions as a forerunner to the highly discriminating ‘carbon taxes’ in operation today.

Limits to Growth might have appealed to those who oppose neo-liberal capitalist insistence on the necessity for a ‘permanent growth’ economy; but the real intent behind those words is the conditioning of the receiver to take a self imposed pseudo-sacrificial attitude about ‘limitation’.

Ergo, limiting one’s self for the sake of a ‘higher cause’ – saving the natural environment from Global Warming!

This form of ‘austerity-conditioning’ becomes the perfect precept for encouraging naturally concerned citizens to not just embrace cutting back the typical material excesses of their lives, but ultimately the pseudo-saintly renunciation of all material interests. The ghoulish plan behind Klaus Schwab’s quasi religious Sermon from the Mount WEF

“You will own nothing and you will be happy”.

Schwab’s psycho-social engineering ‘deep mind experts’ having planned-out the precise stepping stones necessary for a ‘check-mate’ seamless handing-over of all private wealth to the insatiably materialistic elite masters of deception. A thoroughly odious yet quite brilliant sleight of hand.

The great ‘Global Warming’ alarm was raised as a calculated way for leading industrialists, bankers and royalty to ensure their future as the premier influencers and controllers of global affairs.

Blanket controlled media indoctrination, using rampant fear mongering as its key component, is designed to convert public sentiment to the cause. The elite industrialist club know full well that ‘fear’ makes desperate people turn to their perceived leaders to protect them – and tell them what to do. The historial precedent for this is ubiquitous.

The notion that the climate was dangerously warming had no scientific evidence to back it up. That was cooked-up later under the auspices of the International Panel on Climate Change (IPPC).

It is more than unfortunate that the great majority of green oriented NGO’s also swallowed the bait and, being by then mostly well funded by corporate backed governments, took the money, closed their eyes and minds – and jumped on board – thus embracing the deadly distortion of their original green commitments.

It is now the turn of Klaus Schwab (director of World Economic Forum) to take up the reins handed down to him by earlier representatives of the small but powerful elite that runs planetary affairs via such puppet heads of state as Bush, Cheney, Blair – and other aspiring despots of that time.

Schwab’s job is to ensure that ‘stop global warming’ goals are fully implemented through the channels of The Green New Deal, Great Reset, Fourth Industrial Revolution, Zero Carbon agenda. He must get this fake-green ball firmly rolling down the road especially designed for it by highly paid technocrats, whose particular bent is to create an ‘inventory of everything’ to make possible the control of all aspects of life on Earth.

These techno’s view the management of the world as an exercise in accounting. A sterile reductionist mind-set closely linked to robotics and the notion that advanced mechanisation and calculation is superior to the creativity of the human mind. Hence the WEF’s announcement of the forthcoming ‘Internet of Everything’, the 5G powered Smart City surveillance and control grid which forms the centrepiece of The Great Reset agenda.

An agenda that has been specifically positioned under the title ‘green’- a name stolen from the original ecology movement of the 1970’s and 80’s, whose ethos was – and remains – the promotion of a human scale, light footprint ‘people’s ecology’. An authentic vision that bears no resemblance whatsoever to today’s gigantic corporate led Fourth Industrial Revolution, held up by the WEF masters of deception to be the only solution for ‘greening the planet’.

What it actually is, of course, is a wholesale corporate/cabal grab for the control of the world’s primary resources and money supply. The word ‘green’ could hardly have been more butchered.

So with this fake green ideology now at the forefront of the central control global planning elite’s blueprint for a brave new world, the drive is on to utilise every opportunity possible to enforce conditions that constrict mankind’s behaviour patterns to fit the cunningly concocted demands of ‘preventing global warming’. The great Club of Rome scare story, designed specifically to leave a frightened and confused public completely dependent upon the technocrat ‘experts’ coming up with a ‘life saving solution’ to prevent the planet from frying.

Now, ‘the life saving solution’ to the fictional ‘problem’ the technocrats came up with, has to fulfil the hard-wired goals of this small but very powerful elite that forms the shadow government of the planet. A despotic cabal whose intention is to master-mind the future according to a darkly inflated sense of self importance and superiority over the rest of humanity.

The first thing needed to smooth the way for the unfettered display of such rampant megalomania is to ensure the least possible public resistance. Least resistance to the rolling-out of ‘the grand plan’, whose implementation requires – to make it credible – a continuous process of environmental disruption and degradation.

The cause of this disruption can then be pinned on the advance of the ‘catastrophic’ warming’ – to which all solutions must be ‘technological’. Technological in the sense of high tech, robotic, digital and electro magnetic.

Killing at least two birds with one stone is a popular concept within the ranks of New World Order proponents. So it was found that the effects of a general dumbing-down of brain power could be enhanced when combined with individually targetted mind control, hypnosis and torture, all of which had already been well tested via the US MK Ultra programme.

In this program human beings were ruthlessly experimented upon to find at what point they ‘cracked’ and became controllable tools for carrying out the secret operations needed to undermine the orderly functioning of society and to enact psy-ops, false flag events and even – when deemed necessary, murders.

A variation on these same techniques were used behind closed doors during Covid lockdown, especially in care homes, where genocide has become thematic and old people are considered disposable matter in the cause of ‘stopping Covid’.

Mind control is the central weapon of the elite planners. Its presence is ubiquitous in all aspects of daily life – starting with the TV – a particularly vital component of (State) control of the masses, and extending into all mainstream media operations, cell phone technologies, computer programmes, Wi Fi and advanced military ‘silent’ weaponry. There is a wafer thin line of distinction between the process and function of mind control, propaganda and straight indoctrination.

All the above are now being deployed to get the joys of Klaus Schwab’s Great Reset, Zero Carbon, Green Deal and 5G Smart Cities firmly installed in the brain cells of culpable human beings, who are also to be induced to hand-over all their private assets ‘for the cause’. Do not underestimate the mind bending power it takes to get ordinary folk to embrace the notion “You will own nothing and you will be happy”.

Coming-up this November is the COP International Climate Conference in Glasgow, UK. All the most sophisticated mind controlling wizardry will be employed to make this event appear to be ‘a world saving’ gathering of the good and the great. This is because it is nothing less than ‘fear of global warming’ that holds the entire Great Reset/Green Deal invention together.

Without this scary message of ‘disaster if we don’t act’ underpinning it, the future of the New World Order’s master control agenda would fall apart at the seams. Covid was sprung on the scene to ensure the fear factor would receive a turbo-charged boost, enough to carry it through to the point where the COP could double-up on it – and thus increase the chance of a witless public finally throwing up their arms and shouting “Save us at any cost!”

Atmospheric Aerosol Geoengineering (Chemtrails), Covid, 5G, The High Auroral Atmospheric Research Program (HAARP), WiFi, GMO, the chemical saturation of household products and especially foods – are all examples of contemporary weapons whose deployment is sold to us as ‘important progressive science’, but whose true purpose is to suffocate the life force that drives human and environmental vigour, natural health and spiritual vibrance.

Right down to the manipulation and degradation of human, animal and plant DNA and the genome of life itself.

At the end of this egregious mono cybernetic intrusion into the divinity of creation is ‘Robotic Man’. The transhumanist singularity omega point. A soulless cyborg ‘inhuman race’ which gets all its instructions through having its neocortex permanently wired to a central super computer.

This is actually the vision of the evolution of humanity that Schwab’s dark controllers have planned-out to be ‘The New Normal’; making the sentient human race largely obsolete by around 2050 – and almost so by 2030/2040. A human race that will by then have been culled down to approximately one quarter of its current number, if all goes according to plan for the psychopathic architects of the Great Reset/New World Order/Green Deal.

It is vital to grasp that the monstrous Covid invention, whose toxic ‘vaccinations’ are a genocide inducing weapon dressed up as ‘protection’, is just one of the cards in the ‘kill and control’ pack. A significant one, but one whose manifestation is symptomatic of the demonic bag of tricks available to the insentient perpetrators of raw evil.

Corona Virus and Global Warming are first cousins. They both owe their creation to exactly the same ‘rabbit from a hat’ conjuring trick. That of applying the art of deception-hypnosis en masse, in order to make people believe that what is unreal is real – what is fake is actual. And they both use the same fascist control mechanisms to achieve their ends.

Now we have put together the disparate parts of this genocide operation called: The Great Reset (forced totalitarian take-over), Green New Deal (fake green fascism), Zero Carbon (no carbon=no life), Fourth Industrial Revolution (completely robotic workplace) we can recognise that each element is actually integral to the overall plan. Strung together in this way we can finally see the whole diabolical picture.

It is therefore vital to recognise that we can only be effective in our defence of Life on Earth by seeing and acting on this ‘whole picture’. Not being drawn into treating each symptom as a separate and unrelated crises in its own right. Which is precisely what the instigators want us to do, of course.

For a steadily growing number of people, these dark days are actually having the reverse effect than that intended. They are stimulating the manifestation of great shafts of counteractive light! Suddenly, tens of thousands are finding a commonality of purpose and joining together to take-on the masters of deception, through standing strong for truth, justice and freedom.

It portends a remarkable shift of emphasis in all our lives. One of truly dramatic proportions that heralds the tangible unfolding of a new era for humanity. An era in which a dissolving of old barriers of race, class, religion and money – ushers in a profound sense of universal brother and sisterhood; a great expansion of the spiritual and a new form of worldwide social and economic cooperation.

Cooperation in which shared humanitarian goals steadily replace the divisive and destructive greed of the profit predicated global market place.

This heart-led flowering of humanity is to be the truly defining factor of the great Global Warming/Covid Scam, as the history books will one day relate. The overwhelming use of fear and deception has provoked the opposite state to come out of hiding and to manifest as what, for its detractors, will be an unendurable counter force – emanating from none less than the energetic source of Creation Itself.

Such an astounding metamorphosis is now underway, and it has taken an extraordinary, blatant manifestation of darkness to ignite the counteractive fire which is now calling forth a great renaissance of the true powers of man. This is the age of truth, enlightenment and action..

Take your courage in both hands and step forth! Set your sights on nothing less than disarming and dismantling the technocratic top-down total-control system that attempts to enslave you, me and every sentient human being who seeks to remain true to the deepest values of Life.

 

Julian Rose

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

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Light Smith

By the pond, near a line of poplar trees
Is an old man whose brush stroke stills
A shifting sky: pondskaters skim each
Ripple’s wind raised spine: their movements
Mirror his line, his colour as he seeks a wash
Of birdsong, blocked in sunlight,
The silence that precedes

Sudden leaping trout.

 

 

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Painting
William Joseph Schaldach
 

 

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp

 
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MISSING PERSON

Speak, Silence. In Search of W.G. Sebald, Carole Angier (617pp, £30, hbck, Bloomsbury)

Carole Angier is obsessive, a literary terrier who will never put the ball down to be thrown again. Denied interviews and information by many of W.G. Sebald’s closest family, friends and colleagues, she nevertheless persists in tracking down and interviewing every and any contact she can, revisiting cities and towns in England, Germany and Switzerland, and reading all the letters, manuscripts and archives she finds.

This is, of course, what biographers do. What they don’t so often do is have a thesis or argument they subsume their biography too. Here, Angier’s obsession is Sebald’s nationalistic ‘guilt’ (and hatred of) his country’s Nazi past and its denial of it, and his depression. Throughout the book, however, Angier has to make assumptions and guesses about how Sebald felt and how it all feeds into his writing.

It’s not, of course, that Sebald’s books aren’t melancholic and depressive, they are well known as discursive and gloomy exploratory texts. But they aren’t autobiography, or anything close, and Angier knows full well that she is on thin ice when she persists in seeing endless links between ‘real’ events and occurrences and the contents of Sebald’s books. All writers are somehow present in their work, all writers steal and adapt stories and experiences from others, and Sebald was no different.

Or perhaps he was? One of the problems with this book, apart from the surmises throughout, is that it is so closely focussed on Sebald that it does not offer a wider literary context for his work. One of the reasons that Sebald was so popular a writer is that his books were published as creative non-fiction was becoming a best-selling genre and publishing hotspot. Psychogeography and fictional biography were just two of the types of book that contributed to this rise, and Sebald was and is often associated both of these. Literary debates raged, and continue still, about the blurring of fact and fiction, and the ownership of stories; sampling and remixing don’t just happen in popular music!

It seems to me that this context is entirely missing from Angier’s biography, yet it would be more useful for the reader than some of the psychological assumptions and biographical details here. At times this book falls back on convoluted links between biographical details about Sebald and his books, occasionally noting that a certain fact wasn’t true, he altered the date or changed the colour of her hair, which of course is what writers do! But it is a biography, whose focus is the named subject, although for me it strays too far from the books, which after all is what Sebald is famous for, and the only reason anyone would read his biography.

This may be my problem of course. I came late to Sebald and after four attempts over a decade have still not made it through Rings of Saturn, though I have read his poetry and his other books. I am not very knowledgeable about German culture or widely read in European literature, but I am interested in Sebald’s literary influences, and how he saw himself as a writer; even the process of how he wrote. I am not, however, at all interested in where he lived, what he had for breakfast or how ill he was feeling at any given moment.

The repression of individual and cultural memory, inherited guilt and melancholy are all fascinating subjects, and much has been written about them. There is no question that these subjects underpin Sebald’s writing, often more specifically in relation to Germany and the Holocaust, but Angier never truly unpicks these themes in her biography: they are here only through biographical moments, such as Sebald’s first shock encounter with concentration camp footage at school. Angier uses words like ‘trauma’ throughout her book, and relies on her categorisations and labels, rather than the books themselves, as evidence for why Sebald wrote what he did.

There is no question that Sebald is an accomplished and fascinating writer, albeit too erudite and mannered for many readers; nor that Angier is a studious and thorough biographer. Much of this book however feels like conjecture, and also highly constructed to fit Angier’s point of view, especially her late sideways step where she suggests that Sebald is totally original and actually writes about metaphysics and the true nature of reality. Despite copious and detailed footnotes for each point, I can’t help but feel there is another Sebald out there, an author who is not quite the one Angier creates. I’d rather like to meet him.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

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Bad Timing

 

In the soporific market

everyone stays awake.

“The time of pandemic, sir,”

says one cab driver,

“hunger prowls in the streets

with a bodkin open and naked.”

 

I buy some time from

a green grocer who says nay

to the request of wrapping

it as a gift item,

“Plastic is banned.” He asserts.

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Ilustration 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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Elegy For A Friend


We say goodbye
only to the body

Heart mind
Soul & sprit

Slipped away
over the past
few years

You took
your life
I hope
It gives
you peace

We living
go on living

Remembering

Perhaps
just a bit too
envious
of your
Courage

 

 

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

 

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Song For Nico

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Visit to Africa

by Adam Kvasnica

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Journeys from the Heart of the Street Writer – Part Seven

 

Now we come to the final instalment of this section which has got to do with my own loneliness, isolation and self-love throughout writing…

The funny thing is: I never felt alone or isolated throughout writing these poems and stories and screenplays and articles…

The real funny thing is: I always felt better when I was on my own!

The three women I talked about: of course I loved their company, but when they were gone: I always had my writing to fall back on and keep me company!

I personally know a lot of people who are so scared of being on their own and they have never truly been alone for too long in their lives…

I don’t necessarily hate people or other writers but… I can do without them most of the time.

I think when you are with someone or a part of a clique with writers it starts to get too political… and that’s the part I don’t like at all!

When I did all the hardcore training: I did most of it on my own and maybe that’s why I got so good at it.

And when I did the skating: there were some nights I would just go out on my own and practice as much as I could to get better!

And when it came to love (one of my main reasons to live) I would always clash with the other woman over the heads of something stupid and I would always look like a bastard and seen as the shit head!

But, for my writing: I could do most of it on my own and be on my own while I did it and that career path just really, really suited me to the ground.

I have met so many great living writers in my time writing all of this bullshit but… there is something so sublime reading a dead writers book and getting what you need from him, her or it!

My mum would always say: most of your writer friends are dead ha ha.

But, of course! All of the living writer friends I have befriended over the last several years doing this more prolifically: I fucking love them and I will and always have wanted the very best for them…

I just hate when it gets political and people only do it to win things… instead it should be about encouraging one another to get better and better instead of downgrading each other after every controversial lyric or mistake you may make!

I love the story Bill Hicks’s brother told about Bill… he said that Bill only felt like himself when he was on stage… and for me: this one room I am in now where I do all of my writing is the only place I feel normal, safe and free!

So, where do you feel most as yourself?

When you find this: don’t fucking let go!

We have to deal with a lot of bullshit outside of ‘our’ place, unfortunately!

So, when you do find it: build a fucking universe and don’t stop until you’re dead!

That is the only way they are getting me out of here ha ha!!!!

As long as I have my books, music, films, writing, coffee, cigarettes, food and wanking… I’ll be all fucking good!

I will be honest with you: there are times I do get very, very fucking lonely but, I remember what the great Bukowski said: you get so alone sometimes it just makes sense!

I couldn’t say it better myself!

Loneliness will make you into your ‘own’ greatest writer!

I mean, look at Emily Dickinson!

She never fucking left her room and she has been seen as one of the greatest woman poets of all time.

And if I’m to be frank with you: I fucking love Emily!

I am going to leave you with the one thing that has got me through my most difficult times in my life from one of the greatest philosophers in the word: the only thing I know is that I know nothing – Socrates!!!!

Take that with you everywhere you go and your life and your art will become your very own playground to do with it as you please!

Love out

PBJ

<3

 

(Short Story)

The many loves of P

 

Love entered P’s life young. He was five years old when he was entranced by A. she was a-class. She eventually became his girlfriend in primary 5 until primary 7. He fucked it up by kissing another girl under his cousin’s bed sheets. About ten years later P met A at a rock concert and she told him that he was her first kiss and she wrote it in her diary.

In the summer of P’s 12th year he fell in teenage love with E. They dated in that summer with their thirteenth birthdays only a few days a part. She broke it off with him and he slit his forearm with a piece of dirty glass on a car park floor. She met him in an alleyway in their hometown a few days later, but she never took him back. Another autumn, winter, spring went by and then the summer appeared its head like a rose and they got back together again. They dated all summer and into the autumn then it fell apart again. She wanted him back a few weeks later and got one of her friends to ring him to see how he was. When E’s friend rang P he became butch and manly and told her he didn’t care for her anymore. Which was not entirely true, but what he didn’t know was, her friend had a crush on him and she was trying ‘not’ to get them back together again. It was finally over and he never saw her adolescent face again as the last autumn leaf fell.

By the time P was 19 he fell in love with a girl he was sure was his other half. Their whole relationship was like the nougat bars and hot chocolate they drank and ate every night and day. But when she decided she could not deal with his inability of not being able to see how great he really was, as a man and a god damn artist, she left him with a last kiss at her door and it tasted like rotten tomatoes and he wandered about aimlessly for one full year until he wrote that ‘I’m over you poem.’

P met N through a friend of hers he kissed while she was there as well that night. On that night she told him he was fucking hot. A few months later and with her friend out of the way P got in there and made a move and it was successful. They started off great and the sex was open and full of life with every moon that showed its smile and whatever bit of sunshine they got in Northern Ireland. But in the last six months he lived in fear. She would always say: you’ll never get rid of me. But in the last six months he wanted her gone and it was difficult because they lived together. The opportunity arose to have that talk about splitting up and they did. The next day she left in her first car and drove off and he knew she was crying when she turned that corner as he waved in relief.

These were the four major loves of P’s life but there was others like: the time he blew his load in J’s mouth and told her he would come back, but he never did, or the Christian girl who only believed in procreating when you’re having sex. P wasn’t so much a slut but he was a handsome man. From a child with snow white hair till twenty something with a leather jacket and sunglasses. You couldn’t fathom the amount of love and sex P had in his lifetime, but he plants them in major poetry magazines all over the world.

He will leave this world just exactly as he leaves this page… FULL!

 

……

 

Many other loves beside the same moon

 

We were young and pretty once

The same stuff they say the angels are made of

Over a decade later

We are more tired

We are heavier

From life’s beatings

We would be perfect for each other now

But instead

We will know many other loves

Beside the same moon

We kissed in front of many times

PBJ

 

 

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QUIT THIS DYING FOREST OF PYLONS


Winged Blue Shadows I

        Uncrowned king of seedy rooms in this city, I am not interested in your wretched lives. 
        We are trained for it – for this – for the end of the line. My methods no longer trouble me; I can just recall when my thoughts were interrupted by eruptions of conscience. But no more. It does not matter – not any more.
        Quit this dying forest of pylons. Escape? Impossible.
        Life is what you make it. Or what others make of it for you…
        Call the service.
        Get it together.
        We are all lying through our teeth most of the time.
        It does not matter.
        The future glows along the darkened horizon – so many incendiary flares rendering the landscape stark with shadows that haunt the waking hours.
        They come from above. They come.
        On the surface the wind blows warm with unnamed diseases.
        Inside we cower, writing messages of hope in the blood of our offspring born shrivelled onto the cracked and shattered flagstones. The river flows deep, encrusted with all the detritus we can find to tip into its insatiable maw.
        But on the other side They wait. Waiting forever. Rusting monoliths of treason.
         Anger used to be my most favoured weapon. Outrage. Denial.
         But now the bitterness eats at the very core of it all, encroaching on our forgotten dwellings where, sometimes, blood still courses, red and inviting.
         Sustenance for leeches.

 

 

 

 

© A C Evans

 

 

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Undercutting the Extravagance

 

Santa Lucia by Charlie Baylis (Invisible Hand Press)

I’ve been on a subtropical Atlantic island for a week, doing nothing but swim, look at the spectacular scenery, eat, drink – and read. It makes you feel poetic, sipping sun-downers in the early evening with Madeira shimmering on the horizon. 

It also makes you wonder what to do with beauty and poetic feelings – whether others really want to read about them: do I? Because I’m aware how annoying my first paragraph may be. 

Baylis lives in the blazing heart of Spain – Madrid – though at first, I thought Santa Lucia was some island, possibly Caribbean. I’d reviewed his first collection, which was brilliant in places, but also a bit loose and sometimes too ‘poetic’, at least for my grim tastes. He’s much given to surrealism – a technique yielding diminishing returns – and extravagant metaphor. Both of these can be highly distracting and – sometimes – leave the reader groaning ‘not another one; can’t I have a poem instead?’ 

Of course, that’s personal; but poetry is unique, in how people quickly tire of (and even poets are wary of) its tricks. No other artform is so inherently self-destructive and annoying. Let’s face it, the baggage is often quite horrendous. All those creepy mugshots of sensitive souls, heads tilted, with dumb looks on their faces – offering ‘workshops’, doggedly convinced their reactions are worth sharing. 

The problem, of course, is that poetic ability and sensibility exist and ARE vital, sometimes overwhelmingly so. The point is: ‘Having a talent is not enough: one must also have your permission to have it…’.

Anyway, Baylis looks like a poet, sounds like a poet – and certainly writes like one. Thankfully, it increasingly seems less affected; this pamphlet seems more disciplined and controlled than his previous work. He’s not done that by the quick-fix thing of ‘finding poetry in the the everyday’, with poems about Granny’s knee-caps or some unlucky sod’s Huddersfield council flat. 

No, the writing is even more obviously poetic, just more aware of the risks. It’s using more bite and attack – more serious and grounded, less sugary, with salt added to counteract the wackiness. In the very first poem (all lower case) he shows how he’s now balancing the two. It opens with an Elvis impersonator but quickly moves to: 

    john ashbery writes in clouds of entropy
    of polar bears with the bluest eyes
    playing in the blue snows of neptune
    of beached seals hypnotised by global warming
    the police lend me novels which drive me mad
    the police lend me novels about romance
    hush!
    my novels are classified…

    (from ‘the museum on the edge of santa lucia’)

He’s undercutting the extravagance here, both by that sudden use of the police but also by switching tone, and even voice. Throughout the collection, there are frequently sinister elements intruding, and there’s a very effective elegy to the deceased Sean Bonney:

    the eagle with gold bars melting in her mind
    lava over the opal mines
    ashes in a bucket of ice-cream…
    i’ve had enough of this shit…
    write to me when the war is over
    write to me when we have won.

    (from ‘dystopia’)

My favourite poem is this one, ‘private beach’, quoted in its entirety, to show what I’m getting at:

    the beauty of the city when the sun is rising.
    the botanist collecting peas. classic god
    shaped wholes envelop us, you.

    a small private beach with white sands.
    yew tree, unicorns graze, youths.
    hitting blue with a hammer.

    what’s wrong? everything i do is dumb.
    a ballerina pirouetting with a rhino.
    nothing left of my leather toes.

    summer burns. 
    getaway while you can.

What I especially like about this, is the preponderance of simple (but vivid) statement, with only a touch of the extravagant – the rhino dancing. 

To use an awful cliché – less is more. 

 

 

 

Paul Sutton

More details at: https://invisiblehandpress.com/2021/06/08/265/

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SAUSAGE LIFE 194

 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano
The column that won’t shoot until it sees the whites of your eggs

READER: I heard there were riots at the Poundsavers closing-down sale.

MYSELF: I’m not surprised. There was 10% off everything.

READER: So what happened?

MYSELF: Apparently police were called when two elderly ladies, battling for the one remaining combination nail file and fish knife, tripped over a folding loofah rack which had been left in aisle 2. This ricocheted them into an adjacent trio of shelves featuring non-stick suction pads, screwdrivers with revolving handles, and USB-powered fridges just big enough to hold a thimbleful of milk or a single sperm sample, causing them all to collapse like dominoes. Three policemen were arrested.

READER: Shocking. It’s simply not worth cutting corners just to save a few bob. I once bought a lava lamp there, which was still active! Luckily for me I was out shopping when it erupted.

MYSELF: That’s nothing, when Poundsavers first opened I bought my kids a bouncy castle, which turned out to be haunted.

 

RIVAL PIER PROPOSAL: COUNCIL DECIDES

Vladimir Novichok, a billionaire businessman with “no connection to the Russian Mafia”, has submitted plans for the construction of a brand new second pier in Hastings which, he says, will “knock the other one into a cocked hat”. Over 5 kilometres in length and 1,000 metres wide, the ambitious structure will house, according to the billionaire’s blueprint, a helicopter pad, a runway for private jets, 500 luxury log cabins featuring sauna facilities, nail bars, vape shops and affordable junk food, as well as responsible gambling facilities for all the family and a self-service coin-operated money laundrette.  “This is going to be the mother of all piers,” said the oligarch, “I wouldn’t be surprised if it won an award”.

A council spokesperson warned however: “A pier of this length is highly likely to interfere with shipping in the English Channel. Mr. Novichok may be a respected member of the Russian kleptocracy, but this does not exempt him from UK planning regulations.” adding, “We accept that proposals for a cyber-zoo containing 2,000 life-sized radio-controlled animals, including crocodiles, pterodactyls and herd of elephants programmed to stampede on the hour, will be a huge visitor attraction, but would point out that it may raise a significant number of health and safety issues”.

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SPORT: DIM AND DIMMER

Upper Dicker Memorial Hall has been announced as the venue for the long anticipated return to the ring of fresh-out-of-rehab heavyweight face-puncher Typhoon Anger. His opponent will be Mexican veteran Mickey “Chihuahua” Gonzales (53), 23 years older, 11 stone lighter and 9 inches shorter than Anger and furthermore, his critics claim, “a pushover”.
Gonzales’ manager, José ‘No Way’ Huevos hit back: “Pushover? Don’t underestimate The Chihuahua. Looks can be deceiving. My boy’s like a miniature combine harvester on steroids. He will reap The so-called Typhoon like wheat, bag him up and leave him all over the ring in black plastic bundles. His footwork is a blur. One round will be enough. The difference in height means nothing. He can jump like a grasshopper. His flying uppercut will be the angry bull in Typhoon’s china-shop jaw.”
Ron Maserati, Anger’s manager, countered: “The Chihuahua doesn’t stand a chance. Typhoon’s in tip-top shape since his withdrawal symptoms wore off. He’s down to two bottles of gluten-free vodka a day. His arms are like legs. His right hook is like a shoal of jet-powered piranha fish wrapped in cement. Don’t even mention footwork,” he railed, “One of the judges on Strictly described Typhoon’s feet as ‘like two tiny hovercrafts’. I’ll give Chihuahua two rounds at the most.”
Dubbed “Brawl of the Century”, the bout will take place on September 14th. where the two brain-damaged ex-alcoholic sociopaths will battle it out for a purse thought to be in excess of £500.  

 

POLICEFUL DEMONSTRATION
Hastings’ latest dressing up and getting drunk event took place last weekend. Like Pirate Day, Constable Day, now in its third year, has captured the Sussex seaside resort’s imagination. This year’s event was a resounding success, and saw Hastings shatter the record for the total number of people assembled in one place dressed as policemen, WPCs, or non binary officers. On a blistering August morning, the town quickly filled up with ‘officers of the law’, and by noon, the previous record-holders’ total of 8,710 (Taunton, 2017), was easily overtaken. Even after the judges disqualified 54 ineligible plain-clothes detectives and a confused couple from Suffolk who arrived wearing artists’ smocks and carrying easels and paint brushes, Hastings’ 2021 turnout easily outshone that of their west country rivals. Hastings’ new mayor Medved Oligarki praised the effort, saying: “The townspeople, as always, got into the spirit of things 110 %, which is coincidentally also the figure Hastings chief of police Hydra Gorgon has given me for the regrettable spike in petty crime which occurred that day as hundreds of intoxicated ‘policemen’ emptied the shelves of clothing stores and off-licences, leaving a trail of confused shopkeepers across the town.” 

 

SOCCER SETBACK: THE CAMELS ARE NOT COMING
The popular new owner of Hastings & St. Leonards Warriors FC. who claimed to be Sultan Abdullah Muhammad Shah Habibullah, a well-connected oil-rich millionaire member of the Saudi Royal family, has been revealed as a fraud. It turns out he is not an Arab sheik, but Podraig Ballycuddy,  an Irish chef, whose previous job was flipping burgers at the Upper Dicker branch of Calories R Us.
Warrior’s captain and midfield enforcer Nobby Balaclava told us, “This is a bitter blow, particularly in in view of our relegation to the Nuclear Waste Disposal Solutions League (South) last season. The lads are inconsolable, particularly as we had all ordered 4-wheel drive cars and got measured up for Armani suits in anticipation of £200,000 a week salaries and boot sponsorship.”
“It now looks as though the promised Olympic-sized stadium with its own money laundry facilities and jumbo jet runway is not going to materialize,” he continued,, “along with the luxury yacht marina and the new away strip.” As we went to press, Mr. Ballycuddy’s telephone number appeared to have been suspended. His caravan, parked in a layby on the outskirts of Herstmonceaux, was deserted when our reporter called. The FA have cancelled the purchase and given the club 30 days to find a new owner.

 

 Sausage Life!

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“Sometimes you just need a tool that doesn’t do anything”

By Colin Gibson
 
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from Terraces

 

*

 

Key to unlock the energy stuck trusting that material will declare itself. Changing the relationship to the feelings in the memory, taking responsibility for past fear across the bridge of dreaming. This too will pass texts between two couples – calling in a shadowy fixer to take the edge off joy. Against beliefs which structure misery I am sharing my knowledge of the connection between earth and air. Look after your heart – silent and deep.

*

 

Breath leading to a purging in revisiting the situation. I spoke out, giving dignity to it, rolling my hands around the globe of the group. I am not a victim of this story any more. Losing the stops in the breath, a crystal placed on my solar plexus, felt the floor flowing under my back. Part of me didn’t want to return, to face the memory out of the circle. Could I think of the future of the poem only for the time I was writing it?

 

*

 

I resisted the pull to presence, critical of the performance that pollutes my joy. Fitted fingertips together horizontally making an ascending vertical stack. Coming off the floor into expansion, I noticed my body contracting, arranging itself for the next movement, so I went more fully inside with it, before expanding again. Shaking feet and legs whilst keeping toes on floor, shoulder to shoulder, head to head, a squeeze of uplifted hands in the memory of touch.

*

 

Went through the high, black turnstile. Hard to accept imperfection, the idea of death. I was drawn to the fire: curious, if naïve. When I faced it again later, the gesture was two hands – one going out from the torso, the other going out but coming back at once. The animals went in two by two into my heart, gave back another layer, an old criticism. The whole is operating.

 

 

 

 

Scott Thurston is a poet, mover and educator. He has published fifteen books and chapbooks of poetry, including three full-length collections with Shearsman: Hold (2006), Momentum (2008) and Internal Rhyme (2010) and, most recently, Phrases towards a Kinepoetics (Contraband, 2020). Scott is founding co-editor of open access Journal of British and Irish Innovative Poetry and co-organized the long-running poetry reading series The Other Room in Manchester. Since 2004, he has been developing a poetics integrating dance and poetry which has seen him studying with dancers in Berlin and New York and collaborating with dancers in the UK. Scott is Reader in English and Creative Writing at the University of Salford where he has taught since 2004.

Picture Rupert Loydell
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Marcus Aurelius Goes to Glyndebourne/ Title Deeds of Marcus Aurelius

 

MARCUS AURELIUS GOES TO GLYNDEBOURNE

I forget the opera now –
No doubt it was ‘Romantic’ where
Joy and tragic circumstance
Too often seem synonymous –
Can lovers never find a middle way?

Here is the leading man
His head is in his hands
All he desired has tangled into chaos
And so he grasps the final gist
In which we too must empathise –
At the end he is most certainly alone

But then the heroine
The love he has disdained and set aside
Appears from high above
Descending on a starry stair
Her course set slow and stately
She bears a cool clear glass of water
Purely lit and quite transparently
Offering both healing and renewal –
A waterfall that issues to his desert
A slanting globe of rain

Water is not wine of course
Champagne nor any type
Of liquid the Romantic
Bohemian might otherwise prefer –
Though for the greater part
It is the substance by which we’re composed
Sustained and satisfied
Baptised and re-baptised internally –

Water so might summon
All beings to accord
World access to clean water
Was once my Roman ideal
Legions leaving irrigated trails
The flow of ancient springs renewed
As I sit in your genteel English rain
In my plastic pac-a-mac meditating

 

TITLE DEEDS OF MARCUS AURELIUS

When you earn the titles
‘Modest good and true’

Do not change them for others
Considered cool-outrageous or in fashion
Don’t customise your spirit for the market

If you should ever mislay them
Return to them at speed

With documents as these
You need not press for fame

You need not fear acclaim nor life nor death

.

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

.

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REASONS TO BE FEARFUL – PART ONE?

 
 
 
Afghanistan/Taliban have made their own assonant poem;
Something the great Ian Dury would have concocted with ease
Into verse. As the West continues to betray everyone we see
Who is Christ and who Judas, and who in truly stereotypical
Fashion has allowed an already open wound to grow worse.
 
The rats have deserted the ship, as well as the town square,
And now the shape of peace has been crumpled, folded with ease,
A bad draft, to be no more written over, or used, than Detente was
For the Kaiser, or Chamberlain’s supposed unlocking of Hitler
Before he bunkered down with the bitter, to whittle away
 
At Warcraft. Meanwhile, Dominic Raab, over here
Has the temerity to talk about care and conscience
As demonstrated by him and unPriti, who has as much concern
For the lost as the sea that swallows men whole, and which,
Let us not forget sucked back Atlantis, perhaps mankind’s
 
Last place of promise before the potential we spurned
Paid the cost. And so we have witnessed the world on the turn –
Which could mean for the worse, beyond Covid; as now it seems
What is avid is all of the former contagions thought quelled.
All Queada for one, and as a true number two; Bore-is Johnson,
 
Ridiculed in the Commons before a premature exit,
Saved him from the delayed ejaculations of spirit, dealt by
Those in his party who kicked at the prick as scorn swelled.
People like me write to convey the distaste such airs give us,
And yet it would appear we’re no further in finding new recipes
 
For either the real or the most sought after dream dinner;
Where we might all sit down together and discuss in some way
How to please – the need we all have to clear the feast of its spectres;
To invite all, ignite interest and to even share side and slice
If not from the plate then from experience, the world over,
 
As cuisines combine the cheese sandwich and the lavash
Fill all twice.  Believe it or not, this is no ‘I’d like to teach
The world to sing’ kind of moment; it is a lament, prayer,
A poem that wants to be something else: no doubt a rallying
Cry that washes clean the world’s witless and which sets
 
A new table for measuring human health. The toppling
Goes on as we fail to break bread together. At the back of me,
Ignorant neighbours, who have no concern for the street
Fail the free. We do not know what to believe as now Bob Dylan
Has been dragged into question; it is as if nothing we knew
 
Could be relied on, or is able to stand, easily. Ian Dury would laugh
And then he would have got fucking livid. He would have penned
The right missive as missile to blow them all back into place.
Unsteady of foot as he was, due to his condition, his wit
And humour, his honour would have looked at our so called
 
Leaders and thrown these Effin’ Cees on their face. ‘There Ain’t
Half Been Some Clever Bastards, he sang, but then he took them
All with him. Reasons to be Cheerful part four is unwritten.
Afghanistan is now groundless. The Times they are-a-changing.
But into what, Robert? Down here we look shifty,
 
While up there Ian, Harold, Heathcote
And even William Blake
Growl and wait.
 
 
 
                                  David Erdos 19/8/21
 
 
 
 
.
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Photographed in a Dartmoor sculpture park

 

Photographed in a Dartmoor sculpture park. Assemblage of moss, glass, dust, moisture and reflections. Enchanting. 
 
Photo Jan Woolf 

 

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WAYS AND MEANS

You can write about anything
unless it’s just happened
or happened after the war
or you’re disinterested or
your pen’s run out, the web
is down, the signal’s lost.

It’s hard to write about
most things. I’d rather not,
prefer to read or research,
put it off and come back
later, whenever, not at all.
I mouth a question at myself

in the mirror of language
and try to come at subjects
from the side, anything to
avoid the obvious, having to
work, or sustaining injury.
Summer’s overdue, spring

has just begun, months late;
I am still deliberating, am
not engaged. I always have
a notebook in case I need
or want to write things down.
It’s empty, still like new.

 

 

© Rupert M Loydell

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Dear Grzegorz Wróblewski

I am reading your poems and have been

reading them in English now for years. I bought
your book Wybor (there should be

an accent over that o) but didn’t know it’s all

in Polish, so sometimes I just look at it, occasionally
look up a couple of words. Some of my ancestors

lived in Poland, but that was well over 100 years ago

and I can’t remember if I ever knew where they lived
there. Before I began this I was thinking

that one of the things that you do
that I enjoy

is talk about various news stories, and I suppose

I will tell you about a story I read today about
Nathan Wayne Entrekin, who wore a Roman gladiator costume

to the January 6th, 2021, riot in Washington, D.C. He
was arrested, finally, on July 15th, 2021, for two misdemeanors:

  • knowingly entering or remaining in a restricted building, orgrounds, without lawful authority, and
  • violent entry and disorderly conduct on Capitol grounds.

You may find it heart-warming to learn
that he stayed in touch with his mother during his adventures,

shooting videos of himself that he narrated. “I’m here, Mom!”
“I made it, Mom. I made it to the top. Mom, look, I made it

to the top, to the top here. Look at all the patriots here.
Haha, if I can make it up that, anybody can.”

This boasting to his mother during the crime sets him apart
from, say, one of the newsmakers you have immortalized,

Bryan James Hathaway, who you note (in your book
Kopenhaga) was arrested for having sex with a dead

deer. I imagine that if Hathaway did go to prison he tried
to keep his crime secret, whereas Nathan Wayne

put his exploits on the internet for his mom, who
perhaps complimented him at one time or another

for his gladiator costume. At one point he says
to his mom, “I wish you were here with me.” Impossible

to imagine Bryan James videoing his mother at the scene
of his crime, though

I suppose there are stranger things that have happened
here on Earth. (Are there?) Anyhow, it has been fun

writing this for you, though if my mother were still alive
I don’t think I’d want her to read it. She wouldn’t need to know

about Bryan James Hathaway.

 

 

John Levy
Painting: Gregorz Wróblewski

 

Gregorz Wroblewski is one of Poland’s major contemporary writers. He was born in 1962 in Gdańsk and grew up in Warsaw. Since 1985 he has been living in Copenhagen. He is the author of many books of poetry, drama, and other writings, a number of which have been translated into English. And as a visual artist, he has exhibited his paintings in galleries in Denmark, Poland, Germany, and England.

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Late Night Escapade

It’s night!
It’s 12 o’clock!
A stagnant city life-
Sleeping their last sleep.
A full moon-
Spreading horror!
I feel you in my head.

Bright are the stars,
And my scars-
Leaving the past behind.
A loud cry-
Accompanying me.
A frightening shadow!
And I feel you in my bed.

Empty paths!
Late night dogs!
A very few thoughts coming in mind.
Pair of eyes-
In their dreams,
Pair of hearts,
That never lied.

Love is love;
No matter how it is done.
A spiral breathe,
Or a toxic kiss,
Whatever but bliss.
Just make sure that-
It’s not half made.

Mutual touches,
Through veins all the feeling passes.
Mutual pain is taking place.
Endless tears-
Are ending their waits;
Making the night-
A successful escapade.

 

 

 

Tiyasha Khanra

 

 

 

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BLAKE’S BOUNTY

                                                                 

 

On William Blake vs The World by John Higgs (Weidenfield and Nicolson,2021)

 

From William’s walks down the Strand through time’s stream, John Higgs
Has brought Blake back to burn brightly, as in Weidenfield & Nicolson’s wise
Volume, all of Blake’s former bounty is here, and his life. William Blake is
John Higgs’ totem, its clear, as he should be for us all. This book proves it.
As the world’s Visionary in Chief, we’re just flickers seen in those Leonard Cohen
Cracks that let light in, and which Blake dealt with fully as he sought to illuminate
And alleviate, too, earthly strife. In Eighteen chapters John Higgs shows
How Blake discerned each dimension, from love and light, through religion
And into modern science and space.  He was the living proof of God’s point
And possibly became man as portal, as his work and way made the methods
To truly unify our torn place. This short, and overweight, evolved man,
Is physically revived in these pages, where Higgs warmly human prose, poise
And reason recalibrate Blake as star.  From the age of eight, or ten where
He glimpsed a tree full of Angels in Peckham, straight to God’s mansion,
Blake, that great One man Movement truly understood where and what it is
We all are.  In his biblical score Blake epitomised vision which Higgs seeks
To detail in scientific ways  free from myth. By examining the theories of
William James in 1901’s Varities of Religious Experience and Eben Alexander III
A century later, the noetic state and poetic fuse from  Blake’s tutelage
As mind gifts. The self is a mental creation in thrall to the higher realms
William witnessed, as he received information that would see the modern view
Fail all tests. He grasped the four modes of insight where we have only one
That time blinkers. Blake, as transcendant and true progressive too,
Saw souls crest. Higgs proves the point further  still as he explains Marchus
Raichle’s  fMRI scanners, showing how those former angelic orders
Eequivocate sleeping brains who communicate while at rest, lighting the dark
Like engravings; the sort that Blake himself innovated within his childrens
Books and gold frames.  In a poem written at the age of fourteen he even
Championed the Transgender, roaming English fields as a woman as he sought
To become everyone. For in Blake’s cathedral of mind God is securely housed
In the body; a fact he shared and defended as he endured accusations
Of madness and more. Each word stunned. And yet through it all, he shaped
Peace and gave it a place and state for becoming;  ‘the sweet moonlit space,
Beulah’, where, as Higgs has it, every seeker could gain ‘a post coital embrace
from the whole universe.’ So Blake was both science fiction and fact, as much
As he was social comment. He was history and religion, advance and art,
Coin and purse, An expenditure not of the hand, but of the full mind and spirit,
Spending himself for a future that is even now far behind. Blake was another 
Jesus, perhaps, humbly born, and a craftsman, working within a tradition
That defies the tattered one we now find. Higgs proposes that Jerusalem’s
Famous lines may well be journalism and that Joseph of Arimethea brought
Jesus to walk on England’s  ‘green and pleasant land’ in his time.  Higgs positions
Blake at all points in this vital book, a new classic, which after Ackroyd’s is part
Biography and part Bible in which The Marriage of Heaven and Hell is the treatise
And map for the ascent that awaits all mankind.  And yet Blake took no side.
He is neither Dawkins or Chopra. He was not Ayn Rand, or James Lovelock;
Contrarieties for him contained truth.  Which makes William Blake Quantum’s
King and a forerunner too of H. Pinter, for whom  reality shifted under falsity’s
Weight, free from clues. Higgs adds his own poetry through the poetic elegance
Of his writing, as talks of ‘the qualities of birdsong, guitar chords and laughter’
We see a writer whose emphatic prose deserves raise. He is one of the best teachers
We have, as he eloquently elucidates all he studies, from the KLF to Tim Leary,
To the Twentieth and this century, his words raise – both interest, hope and the heart
As John conveys Bill’s breadth and full bounty. Comparing Emmanuel Swedenborg’s
Partial vision, heaven formed,  with Blake’s take on Hell is one stance. But there is more,
So much more about this artist as individual antinomian working freely, separate
To time, matching Angels with Chimney Sweeps through art’s dance.  
From the Enantiodromial approach that Carl Jung saw, Blake built fresh futures.
In shaking Blake in this volume the experience encyclopedia props all doors.
As the words written here complete Blake’s Eighteenth Century vision to create
One for the Twenty First still to follow,  John Higgs delivers through this artful
Enterprise, truth reports. He has found a way, finally to make Bill Blake a new hero,
For an age in which a restarting needs a union from both below and above.
And so, John Higgs sets the scene and tells the only tale that needs telling; 
That we need Blake’s informed innocence at the centre of all advance
And experience.  Are we grateful? This, at last, is the lesson and applies
To this book once you buy it: Mankind is found guilty if He, She or They

Do not love.          

 

                                                                David Erdos 23/6/21

 

Published on 1st June 2021 by Weidenfield and Nicolson in Hardback, ebook and audio £20.00

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And sometimes

In the middle of some story
You’ve told me before but
Then tell again, sometimes,
When you’re pausing for breath,
Head tilted slightly just to one side,
Sometimes as you’re sipping chilled wine And every smile that you utter begins with Your eyes, it’s that moment before the first Time we spoke and I’m falling in love,
All over again.

 

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

 

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp

 
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How He Wrote Us into Existence – A Fiction 16

Time ate away uncle’s sight. At first nearness became his extension, and then the light dimmed and the field narrowed down a thread. On that thread ropewalked a few books we gave him on the occasion of his birthdays or Christmas or a day we made special because we felt penitent for letting him leave on his own, and hence we bought casseroles and books. I read him the regular prints. I often changed the endings. I pared down the character details to the ascetic essence the author had intended to, and then kept feeding more details to establish his point. I turned the comedies into tragedies I turned thrillers into social commentaries.

We sauntered into cafés and ordered the bare minimum. I would watch the people around our table. My description would be challenged by my uncle. Later I realised that his reverse osmosis worked on my lacunae. He put fleshes on my skeletal expositions and annals.

I told Prisha that in one way I had the same right over my uncle’s dilapidated property that his plants had over the plot of land they grew up on, and if, in this dire need, we should perish somewhere, there would be no better building to house our ruin.

Elora shouts, “Got them.”

We rush. She points out at the cat and its kittens.

The eggs or the creatures inside those are yet to be found.

My uncle whispers from his conspicuous corner, “You should add more to what you see. You can see the creatures. You cannot describe them because you are lazy.”

I shake my head, tell Elora to let the Cat handle her kittens and the feline must find her own safe-place for her progeny. The cat approves. Prisha says that she have seen cats shift their children at least thrice between the time of their birth and the time they begin to eat solid foods.

Now, I ask all what can happen to a creature that comes to this world by the mean of eggs as their vessels. The creature will be vulnerable, even if it is one of those dragons Elora reads about these days.

We step inside, and Prisha closes the door; I insist all should wash, as I do since the outbreak made my OCD an asset and an attribute.

We gather downstairs. Poet never worsened the puzzle the basement has been since we arrived here.

We combed the place. Poet’s tablet. Poet’s laptop. Poet’s dresses in a heap on the bed on the floor. Done. Now we search the darker arena of discarded cardboards, magazines my uncle used to read, books and an unused santoor.

The crawling feeling I have shrieks when I reach beyond the dusty wood ladders and stools meant to be used for lime paint and whitewash the house. I watch the tiny fledglings behind the heap of discarded painting brushes. How did they move from Elora’s temporary hatchery made from two plastic boxes and blazing light bulbs? Prisha touches my left shoulder, and because I have read about these terrifying moments and I have seen such scenes in several cinematic expressions her icy fingers do not flinch me, but I forge juddering and twitching the upper part of my body nonetheless as if I am startled because surprise and fear seems real, typical, normal and sane.

I extend my index finger and say as if not about those one winged bird-like creatures, but about the worrisome political pandemic we are encircled in I state, “Rise of the right wings.”

Behind me, others have gathered their emotion. Poet says, “Those too, represent the pointers of a significant but ephemeral dot in the timeline of history.” The miniscule, orange all skin-yet-to-grow-any-feather mortals raise their one wing, the right ones, to protest against the world so dissimilar to their own balance.

Outside rain pelts every hard object. I hear my uncle guffaw the laughter of a decent human life unleashed from all its shackles of decency after its death.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Ilustration 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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Blue Train

that wayward blue train
upon wrong gauge tracks
longing to learn the language
of a desolate landscape
so it can apprise all of all the
gerrymandered windmills
it has challenged & dueled in the
netherlands of la mancha

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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Dumpton

 

 

What if this 21st century crappy country infected the idyllic Albion of Gordon Murray? It might look something like this…

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Owl

                                                        

I see at night
do not see during the day

After dinner a spell of sound sleep
Then my ribs chat with
the shards of the bed

The unseen faces of day
come wafting one by one

In bed I toss and turn
and do not get sleep
always

In all twelve months I hoot
in more than a dozen voices

Someone says it brings happiness
Someone else says it brings sorrow

*          *          *          *          *

 

 

   Guna Moran
   Tr.© Nirendra Nath Thakuria

 

Bio : Guna Moran is an international poet and book reviewer. His poems are published in more than 150 international magazines,journals,webzines,blogs, newspapers, anthologies and have been translated into thirty languages around the world. He has three poetry books to his credit.He lives in Assam,India.

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Old World, New World – Teaching the World to Sing & Dance Again!

 

Alan Dearling recovers (slightly) from the English Post-Freedom Days of unreality…

Travelled down by a bus and two trains from the (relative) Wilds of Eyemouth in the Scottish Borders to join in with so-called ‘Freedom Day’ in the Upper Calder Valley of West Yorkshire. It felt odd. A bit surreal and unsettling. Todmorden – my Alternative Home. Over four weeks, I’ve watched, listened, danced, supped cider and taken pics at a host of gigs, mostly indoors. Hardly a mask in sight except for some on public transport and probably a few more in super-markets.

Saw five pub bands, (four at the Weavers Arms’ Monday Music Club: https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=weavers%20arms

Bands such as: Sneeky, Bite the Dust, The Chain and a Covid-reduced, Backup Band) purveying mostly well-executed ‘covers’ – you know the sort of thing: Beatles; Stones; Survivor; a lot of Fleetwood Mac; some still ‘Daydream-believing’; a few ‘Stairway(s) to Heaven’; even more ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door; ‘Hey Joe’ (is it really you?) and good to see you back, ‘Hey Jude’, too… Then there was Neil and Almighty Sound playing a Sunday set outside the Tod Market Hall and the wonderfully eccentric one-man band inventing new songs on a street corner. All good to witness. Old and New Life Returning.

No more ‘mitigations’. No more yelling garbled messages through mouthfuls of mask or face-coverings, and across the great social-divides between segregated, socially-distanced tables. Many more smiles, hugs, dancing and generally Good Vibrations.

And down at the wild and wonderful Golden Lion (GL) pub and music venue, life has kicked back into gear. A nice mix of punters of all ages, genders and sexual orientations. Plenty of ‘sounds’ from all around the globe. From EDM to World Party Music; punk to indie; folk and reggae – new music/old music. Bands travelling many miles to share their love, enthusiasms and music with bouncing, having-it punters. Glimpses of freedoms that have been sorely missed. This pub is Haven and a Heaven for the Freedom Seekers and Experimenters. But, for many older folk too, it is their Club House. Their Home and Refuge insulated from the many unpleasant realities of Covid-times.

If you’d seen the posters for quite a few of the upstairs and downstairs gigs at the GL and on-line publicity, it was sometimes hard to work out which were Dj sets and which were live bands. Many performers were kind-of incognito, performing with friends and unusual line-ups, away from pretty well-known bands like Biffy Clyro, The La’s; Cardiacs, Zutons, Gong, Cast and more. The punters at the Lion are a substantial sub-strata of The Party and never-ending Carnival of Life.

At the end of the day, these Freedom Days have re-affirmed the positives. Some Kindness, some rock ‘n’ roll. Dancing away the blues and back into the Dance of Life!

Here are a few more pics from the Golden Lion. The really rather wonderful, Silent-K band – with a bit of luck, good support and management, they should go far. They have the material and I’d really recommend them ‘live’, and do look out for their videos, songs and album as they hit the web-waves. How should I describe them? Powerful, something unique. Heavy-ish. Psychedelic, punkish, not-Prog, but with proper tunes, melodies and catchy, punchy hooks. A must-see band…from Liverpool. I want to get my hands on their album – now, but am making do with the T-shirt, for the present.

Two Silent-K videos, in the mean-times:

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=299533867344815

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1069619863434376

Silent-K: https://www.facebook.com/thisissilentk

Likewise, Heavy Salad look good, with a lively, psychedelic sound. Stylish with an odd, full-on vocal presence with three Priestesses providing a powerful choir-sound to the proceedings. Their videos look a bit more folksy. Live, they need a bit more time to get back into full-power mix-mode, post-lockdown.

Heavy Salad: https://www.facebook.com/heavysaladsounds

Video: ‘It’s OK to Bleed’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VXRZsP3fS5U

Music continued downstairs on the stage in the GL bar with troubadour, Barry Sutton, the singer/guitarist best known from Cast and The La’s, offering warped covers and originals, entertaining the revellers. Superb.

Video of ‘Once in a Lifetime’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FomNR_o9Yo

A highlight of Freedom Days was Mike Vennart’s Walpurgis – a celebration of Black Sabbath music, kicking off with a magnificently, ear-shredding and classy rendition of the ‘Paranoid’ album. A truly magical evening – noisy, friendly, smiling, laughing. Boogie-and air-guitar time. Big Love to Mike and his mates…a ‘special’ occasion. Mike was once in ‘Oceansize’, but has also contributed to many other musical outfits including his own ‘Vennart’ and as second guitarist in ‘Biffy Clyro’. He was joined in Walpurgis by Ben Griffith on bass and Joe Lazarus on drums:

Rat Salad Live at the Golden Lion: https://www.facebook.com/JoeLazarusDrums/videos/417222219716915

Walpurgis War Pigs in rehearsal:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mqdU7wK3wlg

And, it was fab to see Kavus Torabi join Walpurgis on stage, and later on, performing from the Dj-booth. Kavus seems to pop up every-which-where, including music and a new book, ‘Medical Grade Music’ with Steve Davis (snooker ace/muso/dj), Gong and Cardiacs. He’s a bit of hippy-prophet in my book!

Cemetery of Light video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u_YbgWDWtbY

Golden Lion Todmorden. More a Way of life, than a pub!

There are quite a lot of Facebook sites for the GL ‘Family’. Sometimes, a bit confusingly! Here’s Richard’s and then Gig’s.

https://www.facebook.com/richard.walker.3950

https://www.facebook.com/hanuman.thai.9

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He, an Inamorato


The sleep in eyes
The dew drops are only you,
The thirst of lips
The hope to live is only you,
The blurred shadows on my thought
The morning rain is you,
A little of me, a little of you
Lost in love.
I, I wake up in my sleep for you
Why every happiness smiles only for you?
I am your face, you are my mirror
Come erase all distances,
A little of me, a little of you
Didn’t fall apart.
Why do you talk about me in my thoughts?
Why do you live like this in my question?
Your perfume smelled so good
Like a fresh red rose,
I, I wish you were mine, you stay mine
Turn on the light, remove the darkness,
A little of me, a little of you
Lost in love,
A little of me, a little of you
Didn’t fall apart.

 

 

 

Trijit Mukherjee
Illustration Nick  Victor

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CHECKOUT GIRLS & OTHER SUBVERSIONS

‘And the checkout girls sing a song for the world
That goes round and round’
   – Ricky Ross

Checkout 19, Claire-Louise Bennett (Jonathan Cape)
Textual Non Sense, Robert Crawford (Beyond Criticism Editions / Boiler House Press)
A Shaken Bible, Steve Hanson (Beyond Criticism Editions / Boiler House Press)

Claire-Louise Bennett’s first book, Pond, was a collection of short stories about the lives of women in Ireland. It was careful, considered and paid attention to the everyday and mundane, making them and her characters’ thoughts the focus of the book. You could – indeed I did – read it as a discontinuous novel, which is exactly what Checkout 19 is.

Bennett’s new book is a meandering walk through her narrator’s mind: she leapfrogs associatively from the present to the past, from detail to concept, from here to there, and occasionally back again. Sometimes it is obsessive writing, with a topic being picked apart for several pages; in other places it is almost slapstick memoir, particularly some of the crushes and bad behaviour remembered from school. When she wants, Bennett can be downright hilarious, but mostly she is droll and considered.

The novel as interior monologue is hardly new, but Checkout 19 offers something different, and is a long way from the modernist experiment of, say, James Joyce or William Faulkner. Despite the way the book leapfrogs along, Bennett’s prose is polished and pared back, even when fixated on a memory or topic for several pages. It is also self-aware, and as much about reading and the act of writing, of being a writer in the world, as a story (or collection of stories). It is clever, readable and innovative.

Boiler House Press have started a new imprint, Beyond Criticism, to engage with ‘radical new forms that literary criticism might take in the 21st century’. All well and good if, like many readers and lecturers, you question the idea that criticism should mostly consist of quoting quotes from others who have quoted other quotes… And if you are questioning the notion of literary criticism, it’s just the name given to understanding and thinking about literature – which is pretty much anything these days, from radio script to graphic novel to poetry to blogs. In a world where we have had over a century of formal and informal experimental literature, where the idea of the canon has mostly been abandoned, high and low culture have merged, and the digital has replaced the analogue, surely there must be new ways to critique and write about stuff?

Well, there are. Remixology has given us a theoretical basis for collage, juxtaposition and sampling; and has been seen by some as a basis for questioning the so-called ‘crime’ of plagiarism. The arts and sciences have found new ways to relate to each other, for instance with the biological structure of the rhizome offering a way of thinking about the world in a non-hierarchical way. And, of course, colonial and post-colonial studies have trickled down from academia into the real world and helped raise questions about history, and even the statues and road names around us.

Robert Crawford wants more humour in critical writing, and also wants to see less divide between critical and creative writing. I’m in total agreement: literary criticism has yet to actually find innovative ways to deal with innovative writing, and despite the fact that good critical writing does not have to be pretentious, awkward or mannered, much of it is. The introduction of some humour might be welcome.

Unfortunately, Crawford’s Textual Non Sense is more like a schoolboy snigger than a serious attempt to subvert lit crit. It’s not often I get to the end of a book and think ‘I could write that’ but I did after the thirty minutes it took to read. Yes, it produces some laughs, and I enjoyed some of the asides, puns and subversions, but really it belongs in a cheap pamphlet, not a paperback from the University of East Anglia. It’s the sort of thing writers conjure up in the pub together, usually (and thankfully) with little follow through. The latter half of the book takes potshots at the research culture which governments (of all sorts) have instigated as a way of policing academia and reducing funding for arts subjects, but it’s an easy target and won’t convince anyone who thinks otherwise. (They won’t read Crawford’s book anyway.)

Steve Hanson’s A Shaken Bible, in the same series, is an interesting work that juxtaposes the Authorized Bible with Ranter and other dissenting texts to question belief, religion and society. Unfortunately, instead of simply letting the texts do the work he felt compelled to not only rewrite – taking out any references to god – but also ‘translate’ it into Yorkshire dialect, wanting to make a contemporary text for what another academic has called ‘the broken middle’, a term which feels as outdated and useless as ‘everyman’. Whilst I admire anything that questions what is given and subsumed by authority, and that is interested in how society works, I can’t but feel that Hanson has merely muddled things and denied himself a possible wider readership.

I’m a big fan of collage and juxtaposition as a form of criticism, and am not worried about texts being ‘difficult’, but I think novels such as A Clockwork Orange and Riddley Walker have done a much better job of questioning social norms and political structures in new languages. The latter, especially, questions and critiques myths and rituals, with its post-apocalypse creation story that mixes up St Eustace, nuclear fission and Punch & Judy, all told in a broken and deformed English by surviving tribes in what was once Kent. And of course, there are plenty of other theological, a-theological, pagan and dissenting works that rework the Bible and other ‘sacred’ and political texts.

In the end, the clarity and precision of Bennett’s storytelling offers much more of a critique and questioning of creative writing than Hanson’s and Crawford’s books do. Checkout 19 gets the reader questioning when fiction becomes non-fiction, how digression and asides function as the focus of writing, and how literary asides and allusions to other authors and books might be useful and creative. Crawford and Hanson may talk about a place where critical and creative writing meet, but in the end they have retreated into respective (book) corners of silliness and obscurity.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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Young as Trees Begin [an extract]

 

This poem of young trees battling for survival and upper fellside revival is based on research done on Young Wood (on Bowscale Fell near Mungrisedale in the Lake District, UK). This ‘awkward remnant of shrubby sessile oak’ is thought to be the highest Atlantic-period semi-natural ancient oakwood in England. It has never appeared on any map old or new and was assumed to be a sporadic colonising by oak, gorse, bilberry and crowberry on south-facing slopes and rocky outcrops. A large area around it was fenced in 2008 (my double backslash divisions perhaps echo this) to see to what extent this type of woodland can spontaneously re-establish and expand in an area now free of sheep-grazing.

Rudimentary accession of trees \\ how can such stalled youth fit the land? \\ in such sticks butting it?

Not strutting across terrain but implanting its pick of arrival struts, their risings in green slur

Guest juvenile shelter in quest of the ordinary for growing into cover

A breast of fells falters its bareness, rebevels, gawky at conserving the slope’s latest soft rabble \\ earliest squabble of blown Atlantic leaf

Juvenile relief reseasoning the groping rubble of edge, a pinned shroud of beginning life

Needs to hear the young greens sheer of chewed surfaces \\ not just airfaces curdling the bare mountain-tongue but its slighted foothill crenelation

High altitude, low-growth set at wind-sweep, youth of it beyond the edge of tree connectives

Awkward remnant of shrubby sessile oak \\ this unprevented wood, itself a ground habit undiminished at grub-hedging to miniscule provenience

A patchwork of stubs in cropped grass at their sticking point (travestied youth), become the thatchwork of clothing a sill

A fate of trees beyond a wood but so young in speculative pitchings, will not be isolates, consoling what there is for gusts to stroke

Kiddish ankle-cramps, jejune in tangle but a common testimonial \\ a triangle of corners recessioning (buttressing) shelter

Nothing like the age of earth, so young in flurries of delay-limb, of the same era as transitioning dust

Naked unraked ground prematurely slaked, these child trees must be earlier than every other resistance \\ leavings (callow-remote) of natural woodland

Too young to the infill, juvenile flickers crouch vertically, hold to loose couch

Starved for a maturity they don’t yet get, will fill their adolescence with figures of arboreal rebound

How earth lives off them by being raised one degree, this is an offground razing chivvied alive to exact leaf-shape
Here below nothing near fell-summit, already a taller horizon acts up its leaf-shadow stairs, swabbed verticals purer at each stunt

How can the young of a tree-flock trans-graze the ousted (oakless) soil? \\ premature root-jolt across ungraftable incline

Tots of tree at a mildness of ground-touch (susceptible cauls of soil) instantly revisit what is tottering \\ sway now is all verticals ahead, infancy of beginner generational (inferential) bedding

Puny as they are to begin here these tree-quips are sprung to a major defence \\ can such juvenilia be local seed or the import-crust off some elect conservation shield?

Brinks to beget connotation, counter-attract trails of grit around currents of stem

Only at such infantile rootlet can prayer stall enough to have landed a preserve on its future \\ mature forest would be this micro-grace fresh to new seams of underlying spoil

Defining an ancient infantile canopy, stunted in full brunt of inexperience but expertly immature

Unfavourable recovering creeps to the living stores of its non-repair, lisping in succulent leaf

A slenderly greater abundance, diversive earthworms vindicate the edge of low canopy

Fragment of Atlantic oak impoverished but wholly scouring (seed-mapping) its beginnings, any quittings will undershoot their residue

Impertinent whorls of greenery, the intrusion that this belongs where it can will only just reckon the effort, organs of curtain effect

Altitude won’t shrink except at granule cracks for a seed even smaller, pioneer trances (rinses) of grass

Skip any sparking between trees too young for the embers of full grant, can only dance their untaught going-at

At all drop it’s a matter of trapped stealth, where an acorn trips the wind’s sloping this is a reset \\ young in strands of reseaming the cessations

Or is a re-missive scantness, a message of clinging the slope sent to plenary summit \\ a desert until it comes to fetch how trees serve it a fore-habitat they never reach

Trying to crystallise the rim of a semi-ridge, at crouching light where shade begins dimmer

Struggling to be unfree in a loam of its own, future tree pines for its size-beginner in diminished adult, the youth-resin still at full tilt

Bold tatters of rubbed-down wood, batterings are the wizened shape of youthful forms in sole profile

A share of incoming weather co-habiting the one given ledge to score leaves, nestles the common scope

Prayer no longer steep where it commends the cramp \\ a young tree knows this as ascension pressure in itself, stripling verticals were never overdue this height

 

Peter Larkin

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FOR AN ANXIOUS GENERATION

MISTY COAST: PSYCHEDELIC TROUBADOURS

WITH A PSYCH-POP SURVIVAL GUIDE

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

Scuse me, while I fall from the sky. Is this the fourth or fifth arboreal psych-wave, after the Paisley Underground, Teenage Fanclub, Shoegaze, Dream-Pop, Noise Spectrum and all the other acid-revivalists? I lose count. But Misty Coast make a wish. And the wish gets cladded in metal and jewels, and it flies, it’s a machine like half a thousand great watches all ticking and whirring, one inside the other, a machine that quivers and trembles with ethereal harmonies located beyond the sky at the very tenuous edge of the atmosphere. Intro as well as outro-spective, in a dream continuum that ‘Electronic Sound Magazine’ calls ‘sonic gorgeousness.’ The single “Do You Still Remember Me?” is downright strange. Subtle swoops woven into textures going deep into the curve of ripples until your ears are buzzing. Although even their Lock-Down front-room performance retains the sky-clad haunting quality.

That unplugged set shows just how strong the song is when it’s stripped of studio effects. ‘Thanks!’ says Linn brightly. ‘Yeah, most songs on the album can actually be done stripped down, and still make sense somehow. A few of our release gigs this springs are duo shows, and will be done in this vibe. But probably not on acoustic guitar though.’

Misty Coast are the heavenly synergy of spaced-out Norwegian Indie duo Richard Myklebust and Linn Frøkedal. She has long centre-parted hair. He has a tidy beard. There’s an illuminated world-globe beside the record-player turntable on a unit beside the wall crammed with vinyl albums. The light of the world. A potted plant with huge green succulent leaves. A triad formation of three white lights shining at the plush red chair.

They’re in the room where they made that acoustic demo, so you get a visual image in my mind. ‘Correct. We’ve been here most of the time since corona.’ But they have books. They have music. What are they reading? What are they listening to? ‘Right now we’re both reading Norwegian literature. Richard: Seshan Shakar ‘Tante Ulrikkes vei’ and Linn: Pedro Carmona-Alvares ‘Refrenger’. Lately we’ve been listening a lot to bands like Mint Julep, Big Thief, Fucales, Orion’s Belte and old classics from The Byrds, Mazzy Star, Flaming Lips and Nick Drake. We will never get tired of listening to the Byrds.’

We’ve been writing together since we started recording music with out previous band, The Megaphonic Thrift. We also live together, so it’s easy that way. Our first album was self titled and was released in 2017 she explains.

Is there a good scene in Norway that supports thier spacey Psych-kind of music? ‘As you probably know, Norway is not huge, HeHe, but the experimental music and psych scene is strong in the biggest cities.’

Following their second album ‘Melodaze’ (2019), assisted this time around by drummer Kim Åge Furuhaug (of Orion’s Belt)… ‘I think most people updated on the Norwegian music scene knows Orion’s Belte by now. They are great, and are making lots of really interesting instrumental tunes.’ Together they’ve create a machine made of gold and steel and rubies and pulsing light… with ingots and rods, crystals and carved shapes, swirls and curls of preciousness. There’s more here than meets Steven Duke’s melting eyeball cover-art in Linn’s enticingly ethereal wisps of suggested sonic seduction. “In A Million Years” has the harder edges of Cardigans velocity, tweaked by the production skills of Emil Nikolaisen. ‘The song represents a recurring theme on the album’ they explain, ‘and it lingers in thoughts about whether we should choose to ignore the reality outside of what we experience as our world – or if we should dare to seek a larger, perhaps unpleasant truth.’ Yes, exactly. Richard up-fronts vocals on the labyrinthine sound-swooshes of “Sugar Pill”, after all, the pill ‘that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all.’ It’s a rabbit hole that swallows you up then spits you back out again. The title track, inspired by the universal sensation of dream-falling, creeps up on the back of your mind unawares and mugs you with a blown storm of electric dandelion seeds. A survival-guide to the anxieties of living, exploring communal unease, the press hand-out announces an ‘album’s Psych-Pop dreamscape grounded by themes of loneliness, insomnia and social anxiety.’ And for once the hype is for real. ‘Hey Andrew, thanks for listening to our album! We are really happy you are enjoying it.’

Endlessly renewing. Misty Coast are smooth therapy for anxious times.

WHEN I FALL FROM THE SKY’

by MISTY COAST

(April 2021, Fysisk Format) www.mistycoast.no/

Side A

(1) ‘Switch Off’
(2) ‘Transparent’ with Blank Blank Film invisible man video www.facebook.com/mistycoast/videos/290731485739984

(3) ‘In A Million Years’ lifted as single

(4) ‘Ghost Town’

(5) ‘Jet Lag’

Side B

(6) ‘92’ with guest Hilma Nikolaisen

(7) ‘Sugar Pill’

(8) ‘Fun’

(9) ‘Do You Still Remember Me?’ lifted as single

(10) ‘When I Fall From The Sky’

www.facebook.com/mistycoast/?ref=page_internal

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SAUSAGE LIFE 193

 
 
 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano
a random collision of events narrated by baboons

READER: I see in the Express that Britain’s economy is booming.

MYSELF: Yes. And if you close your eyes and hold your nose you can fart through your ears. In the same issue, the Express also printed the following headline:
LACK OF TROUSERS LEAVES MEN WITHOUT TROUSERS

READER: Is that true?

MYSELF: About the trousers?

READER: No, about closing your eyes, holding your nose and farting through your ears.

MYSELF: Of course.

KEN LOACH EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW!
We have been given  exclusive access to the trailer for PURGATORY! ex-Labour Party member Ken Loach’s latest star-studded 5-part drama-documentary series about The Roman Catholic Church’s post-mortem waiting room,

VOICE OVER 1 (Ex-Dr Who, Tom Baker):
Often described as the church’s own Guantanamo Bay, Purgatory – neither heaven nor hell – hovers midway between the two, like a tightrope-walking ballerina suspended over a bubbling volcano. We were granted exclusive interviews with some of the inmates of purgatory-although we have been expressly forbidden by the Ecumenical Council of Innocent Bishops to reveal their identities………………..

INTERVIEWER: 
What are you in for?

MAN: 
I recently converted to Catholicism in order to marry my wife – if only I’d known.
INTERVIEWER:
How long do you expect to spend in purgatory?”

MAN:
No idea. Nobody gives you any information down here, or are we up? its worse than being alive

INTERVIEWER:

Like Groundhog Day?

MAN:
Yes, but much longer, and without Bill Murray. We just lack the basic things. Human contact, empathy, beer.

A PALE WOMAN DRIFTS BY, DRESSED ANACHRONISTICALLY, OBLIVIOUS.

MAN:
See that? They can’t hear you. You can’t hear them either, we’re all just bumbling around like bees. Lonesome bees.

INTERVIEWER:

Have you read Kafka’s The Trial?

MAN:
I would if I could, but they don’t give you any books down here. No books, no magazines, no newspapers. Nothing.

INTERVIEWER:
Some of these people look like they’ve been here for centuries

MAN:
I know, It’s a worry. I don’t quite know what I’m in for, or how long I got for it.

INTERVIEWER:
So you don’t even know how you got here?

MAN:
Sin, obviously. only it couldn’t have been mortal sin, otherwise…..

INTERVIEWER:
Straight to Hell?

MAN:
Exactly. So it must have been original.

INTERVIEWER:
How do you suppose that happened?

MAN:
Well you’re just born with it.

INTERVIEWER:
Born with it?

MAN:
If you’re Catholic, you’re born with it. Its like a silver spoon in reverse.

INTERVIEWER:
Are there any other religions in here?

MAN:
No, only Catholics

INTERVIEWER:
Wow, what a bummer”

MAN:
You said it pal.

INTERVIEWER:
So how do you manage to survive?

MAN:
With increasing difficulty since my death. The one thing about Purgatory is that everything stays more or less the same as when you were last alive. Hunger for example – I would advise every Catholic to have a good meal before dying. The same goes for thirst, and sexual desire-so don’t say I didn’t warn you.


MUSIC:
 Purgatory Suite for Unprepared Piano by Jean Michel Jarre

VOICEOVER (The bloke who used to say “probably the best lager in the world”):

PUR-GA-TORY…..Channel 5… Thursdays…..the long wait is over.

 

DICTIONARY CORNER
Unclear (adj)  More uncly than some of your less uncly uncles

Cross dresser (n)  Bad tempered piece of bedroom furniture

Robust (n)  Reinforced bra specially designed for the 1936 British Olympic ladies coxless fours.

TV NEWS
Channel 5, sold by pornographer Richard “Dirty Des” Desmond to multinational conglomerate Viacom in 2014, have announced a brand new sitcom, which they claim will “blow Netflix out of the water”. Opium All Hours, is to star Russell Brand as Derek Bargepole, proprietor of an all night grocery shop with a secret back room concealed behind a bookcase in the storeroom. Tongues start to wag after Derek hires a mysterious Chinese assistant, and long queues begin to snake around the block far into the night.

SOAP CATCH-UP
Eastenders
The police are called after Tracy discovers a six- fingered glove in Harry’s caravan.

The Archers
Trouble at Ambridge Comprehensive where angry parents have gathered to accuse headmaster Mr. Gallstone of being anti-semantic after he refused to condemn a badly-written essay by Rafifi’s daughter Sensimilla. 

 

NEW LOCKDOWN AVERTED

Doctors have warned of a serious epidemic striking the South East, where clusters of Munchhausen’s Syndrome by Proxy have broken out over a wide area of East Sussex.
In Cockmarling, after a man with his leg in plaster boarded a bus, a polite student who stood up to offer him a seat was immediately overcome with intense pain, fell over, and was thrown off by the driver for being drunk. A similar incident occurred in Upper Dicker, when Ron Anchovy, a local jockey who is partially sighted, chastised a group of tourists on an exchange visit from Hartlepool who were blocking the pavement. Within seconds they were all struck blind and staggered into the road, causing a 30-tonne French juggernaut laden with goose paté to swerve into the path of a coach party of Swedish theatregoers who had just attended the Wealdon Amateur Dramatic Society’s performance of Noel Coward’s burlesque farce, A Scotch Egg in My Bra.
There were no serious injuries apart from a paramedic who sprained an ankle after he slipped on a patch of spilled fois gras whilst attending to the concussed truck driver. One coach passenger, a lady fish processer from Målmo who had become trapped under a pile of accordions, had to be cut free by firemen.
A senior NHS spokesman added, “There is no cause for alarm. The epidemic has peaked and should have disappeared by the end of the month. Until then, my advice is to avoid standing next to anyone with an infirmity, wear a mask, use braces rather than a belt, wash the back of your neck and always make sure chicken is cooked thoroughly by getting a friend to try it first.”

 

FOR NATIONAL POETRY WEEK
Sylvia, by Alistair Milqueflote

I was having a bath
With Sylvia Plath
When my winkle popped out of the water.
She observed that Ted Hughes
Wore a size nineteen shoe
Though his whelk was considerably shorter.

I was rinsing my hair
With Sylvia still there
And remarked that the water was scalding.
When she told me that Ted
Kept his clothes on in bed
(He was secretly short fat and balding).

 

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guano poundhammer
From the album Domestic Bliss

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Steam’s Groove – (episode 13)

Steam Stock

Tracklist: Dorothy Ashby – Soul Vibrations
Solomon Burke – Get Out of My Life Woman
Jimmy Smith – I’m Gonna Love You Just A Little Bit More Babe
Jean Knight – Mr. Big Stuff
Lonnie Smith – I Can’t Stand it
Lonnie Liston Smith – Space Princess
Cold Blood – I Just Want to Make Love to You
Muddy Waters – I’m a Man
Mary Jane Girls – All Night Long
Funk Inc. – Message from the Meters
The Meters – Sing a Simple Song
Sly and the Family Stone – Thank You for Talkin’ to Me Africa
Charles Earland – Revelation

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SAUSAGE LIFE 192

 

 

 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE by Bird Guano
The column with the nice soft fabrics, sustainable biscuits, a lovely cup of tea and a Valium

READER: I’m pleased to see Boris is finally getting his point across.

MYSELF: In what way exactly is the brain-fogged overprivileged slacker “finally getting his point across”? And please stop calling him Boris like he’s an old mate of yours.



READER: Why so? Boris has the common touch. I feel as though he’s speaking to me personally when he says he’s going to “prick the lid and whack things in the microwave at gas mark 8”, or when tackling “the mattresses and the yeast” of complex social issues.


MYSELF: Well apart from revealing that he doesn’t know the difference between a microwave and a gas oven or how mattresses work, the only relevant word I see in those lame attempts at amusing the gormless corpses who support him, is the word “prick.”


READER: Are you seriously suggesting that Boris is not possessed of a coruscating, razor-sharp wit?


MYSELF: On the contrary, as a humourist he’s right up there with Edgar Allen Poe and Anne Widdecombe.


READER: My point exactly.  He is subconsciously funny – he just can’t help it. 

MYSELF: As Dr Freud ought have warned us, the subconscious is an undomesticated beast which is best kept outdoors.

READER: Brilliant! Do you mind if I use that?

MYSELF: Be my guest. As long as you are aware that it’s security chipped, watermarked and coated in a thin veneer of my own DNA, as well as being registered with The Patent Office, National Geographic Magazine and Alcoholics Anonymous. 

WENDY IS ON HOLIDAY
Wendy, our regular agony aunt, is currently enjoying a well-deserved camping weekend in the Antarctic. Psychic Doris, the clairvoyant mystic, has kindly agreed to stand in at very short notice, although oddly enough she didn’t seem at all surprised.

PSYCHIC DORIS 

Predictions, dream interpretation, tap lessons
Before we begin, just a gentle reminder to those who wish to peek into the future with me via the tea leaves: Tea bags do not work.


In reply to an enquiry from Mrs. Labya Thwang of Babelehurst;

Dear Mrs. Thwang (may I call you Labya?),
First of all, let me say how sorry I am to hear from my Native American spirit guide Two Dogs Fucking, that your husband has (predictably) run off to Panama with a tango dancer. On your main point however, I’m sorry to have to tell you that, due to Covid and Brexit restrictions, subscriptions to my road congestion tarot predictor app come at a fixed premium price. Good news however! My special introductory offer on the popular Here comes summer traffic congestion avoidance app  is valid from now until August 31, which means that all this month you can outmanoeuvre local and national traffic delays by having your tea-leaves interpreted at no cost or obligation whatsoever! Simply send a complete cup of tea (not just the leaves) to PO box 437, Luxembourg, and remain in the car until help arrives.


This one came from Felicity Panquake of Lower Herstmonceaux;
Dear Doris,
I have always grown my own vegetables but the other night, during a very lucid dream. I looked out of my kitchen window and saw, standing in my back garden, a horse – eating my carrots! When I woke up the dream was still fresh in my mind, so I went straight into the kitchen where out of the window I saw, to my surprise, that there was a horse in my garden, but it was eating my broad beans. What on earth could it all mean?

Dear Felicity, (is it OK to call you Felicity)?
What you need to decide is which one of these equestrian experiences was the dream. Maybe it was both of them? Perhaps you are dreaming now? I’m getting a Malcolm or a Douglas. Have you ever been to The Isle of Man? A couple of homeopathic tarot sessions and a Turkish massage should sort this out once and for all. My normal rate is £159 + VAT for the hour. Or you could pay me in vegetables.

 

IN THE COURTS
Hastings Crown Court was the scene of an unpleasant affray last Thursday, during which His Honour Lord Justice Karman-Mirandah (presiding), had to order the public gallery to be cleared. The defendant, Arnold Strangler (53), an unemployed juggler, was accused of the theft of two pints of Jersey Gold Top Milk and a carton of Greek-Style yoghurt from an unattended electric milk float operated by the plaintiffs, Ludlow’s Dairies Ltd. When the case resumed after order was restored, counsel for Mr. Strangler entered a plea of not guilty, citing the precedent of Ribbentrop Surgical Supplies vs Angus McAlnwyck (Glasgow Assizes1952), where a similar plea was accepted by the court on the grounds of puilly quo prosne, and furthermore ad hoc distemper regis, relating to the…

 

READER:  Courts? Latin? What’s going on here? Where’s this all leading?

MYSELF:   Philistine! Have you no interest in the wheels of justice?

READER:  I didn’t get where I am today by being interested in the wheels of justice, nor for that matter , in the crossbar, the pedals or the handlebars. Just get to the juicy bits.

MYSELF:  As you wish. I will cut to the chase:

…During Mr. Strangler’s cross-examination, intermittent gasps could be heard from the gallery, as the following exchange took place:

Ms Oskar Hammerstein QC (counsel for the prosecution, sneering): Mr. Strangler, you claim that you attended a bestiality party the night before the alleged offence. Can you tell the court what took place?

Strangler: Regretfully ma’am, I was drunk. I don’t know what came over me.

After a stunned silence. uproar broke out in the public gallery. As the judge waved his hammer and called for an adjournment, relatives of Mr. Strangler let off fireworks and threw vegetables at the barristers. During the brouhaha, Mrs. Molloy, the lady who does the fast typing, was struck in the face by a flying cauliflower hurled by Mr. Strangler’s girlfriend, the non-binary actress Lulu LaRue, which required hospital treatment.


READER: Blimey that’s more like it! By the way, is that how you got that black eye?

MYSELF:  That? No, I was punched in the face by a waitress in an Italian restaurant.

READER:  A waitress punched you? A waitress? What brought that on?

MYSELF:  I’ve absolutely no idea. All I said to her was “do you shave your Parmesan?”

 

SMELLS LIKE METHYLATED SPIRIT
Calamari Parsimony the film actress recently divorced from Meat Raffle guitarist Tit Bingo, appears to have consciously uncoupled from reality. Her company, Fool and his Money which markets bipolar exploration kitsatomic irrigation and scented candles infused with the perfume of Calamari’s own lady parts as well as an aerosol called Psychic Zombie Repellent and soap made from her own faeces. Her hit TV show Ladies Who Lynch promotes global warming crystals and novel methods of castration. 

 

Sausage Life!

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POISON PEOPLE

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From the album Domestic Bliss

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the prince

the prince is back in ravenna
walking behind himself through the black dust, blocked fountains
early christian monuments,
who is at the door?
some pleasure delayed, withheld
when you are in the arms of the prince
walking ahead of yourself through the black dust, flowing fountains
early christian monuments
my arms work with all the cards
when there are no cards
the prince is floating
collecting colours on his tunic
laughter of the princess
we’ve only got a minute

 

 

Charlie Baylis

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A NEW HOWL

 

Sex ‘n’ drugs ‘n’ poetry are a powerful combination.

As I learn to my cost…

 

‘Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night…’ I’d chew my left arm off with my own canines if I could scribe something one-tenth as good as that’ I groan into the laptop.

‘Ireton Soames, you’ve penned some wonderful poems’ simpers Stephanie Bangs from the beanbag. ‘I love that one about how you’d pluck the moon from the night, and toss it back and forth like a Frisbee.’

This is the day I destroy the world.

Stephanie had come out of substance-dependency issues. She’s sucked four cocks this morning. She does not think it too many. She could work at the Call Centre. She could get a minimum-wage position at a Supermarket checkout. But those are tedious options. She’d rather hang with the whores and hookers for a quicker profit turn-around. For me to write, knowing the rent is being provided for. That’s what lovers do, lovers use each other.

‘Every poem I write is pledged to you’ I lie. ‘You’re my soul and inspiration.’ She likes to hear that kind of think. You can see her drinking it in, like a cat slurps up cream. She has black elfin hair and elfin ears, Bambi-eyes like polished splinters of black gemstones, and the kind of breasts that prove biology outwits gravity – at least for a clutch of years. She has jackdaw blood in her veins, she’s attracted by shiny trinkets. When we kiss, I taste other men’s cocks on her tongue.

There are 470,000 words in the English language, with maybe 20,000 in common usage, going down to around 5,000 in conversation. You’d think all you need do is rearrange those words in new permutations. Add incandescence. Internal skipping reels of rhyme. Some allegory, a little alliteration. How difficult can that be? Describe how the sunlight pours in through a crack in the cane-blind… as rich as molasses, no – that’s just to steal from Joni Mitchell, the sun pours in like butterscotch. Is that permissible? Will anyone pick up on the theft?

Our mattress on the floor is heaped with tapestry-wove from India and silk-tessellated cushions from the antiques & curio emporium under the dark arches, they lie beneath the psychedelic wall-poster, the erotic Aubrey Beardsley print, and the collage of snippets inching across wall-space left to right, cut-outs from old magazines, slashed headlines and mutated ads ripped and reconfigured, super-glued into constellations. The aroma of patchouli oil and exotic herbs. Piles of old books and magazines, some stacked in attempted order on a shelf constructed from stacked house-bricks on a white melamine plank rescued from a skip.

We walk. The asphalt is a skin under which animal muscles flex and tension. People are corpuscles in the street’s bloodstream, in the swift torrent river of light with the brilliant glare of cars gliding that river. The moon is trapped between aerials and chimneys, balanced on tower-blocks. We meet Rich at the Burger Bar, he’s dark and thickset, with sad eyebrows. He recently split from Lorraine. They’d seemed good with each other, although he’s not the easiest of cohabits. Stephanie buys the vegeburgers and fries. She’s the only one with ready cash. That’s how things operate. I write. She hangs out on Call Lane, servicing sleazy guys. That’s how she contributes to arts and literature. She supports me. My writing. My poems. She believes in me. Which is more than I do. I don’t even believe in myself. I don’t know what I mean by that. I just say what I feel. I like that luring thump of little magazines ejecting through the mailbox as they cascade onto the welcome mat. Those smudgy explosions of insurrectionary art and words crammed to the seams with incendiary violence. Flick-flicking pages through to find my own tight shrapnels of spiky verse. They look different on the page, set against those of other people. Thinking fuck, theirs is better than mine. I bleed to write like that. Or – yes, that’s pretty good. I like that. Nothing is ever neutral.

Rich seems relaxed, totally at ease, until he begins into his spiel, and you feel the burning quality inside.  He’s working through a new routine to use at tonight’s open mic. Homer Simpson discovers Springfield is a ‘Matrix’-style digitally coded-simulation controlled by evil Mr Burns. He can rewrite the script, select and delete at will. Who will he eliminate? God-bothering neighbour Ned Flanders? Surely not wife Marge…? Will the freedom of bereavement be worth the loss? How can you calculate that equation? The joke, of course, is that Homer Simpson is already an animation, created by Matt Groening. Rich thinks that’s so very cool. But, given the chance, who would you choose to delete from reality? Apart from obvious political targets, Game-Show hosts and Boybands? The editor who rejected my poem?

‘For me’ says Stephanie Bangs, turning the full intensity of her quasar eyes up to max, ‘I’ll delete everyone else in the world ‘cept you and me, so no-one can ever take you away from me.’ That’s not quite in the banter spirit of the game. But I smile all coy in contrived bashful. She likes that.

Rich looks at me. He fingers the knot of his silk scarf in a vague shutter-eye glimpse of Oliver Hardy. I seem to see a flicker of something in his glance, something I can’t put a name to, a disturbing thing like the gleam of jealousy or resentment. Rich lives the creative pose, a cultivated dandy bohemianism, neck-scarf worn with flourish, turquoise nail-varnish, hat with peacock-heart feather in the brim. He wrote a long comic-satire about Jesus born a woman which worked pretty well. His long theme-narratives draw an audience in, instead of my rapid-fire scattershot of shorter pieces. But that can work too. Catch them unaware.

Stephanie stays. We head for the venue upstairs at the Tawny Owl, stepping over snogging couples of various gender combinations strewn across each step. That’s just to random sketch the venue’s ambience… When I started doing this I assumed intellectual credibility would impress, with cultural references to Dostoevsky and Kierkegaard. I get swiftly disabused. That misapprehension doesn’t last long. But mention something about the cast of ‘Neighbours’ and there’s an instant recognition factor. Your references must relate. Yet poets should advocate anti-materialism, so how can we use catch-lines from TV-ads, ‘shoulda gone to…’, ‘simples’, ‘I’m not confused, I’m…’. Yet they evoke instant response.

Rich is a difficult act to follow, but I follow, get sniggers in all the right places, and come out of it with some positive ripples of applause.

‘Mr Northern Poet’ says the girl at the bar, ‘I just loved your set. Are all those things you say true?’

‘I’ve been accused of many things, but seldom truth’ I poke back at her. ‘Not a scintilla.’

The music breathes softly through night air. She is Veronica Speedwell, she tells me. I offer ‘Perhaps all is truth, and we are the lie?’, as though it’s playfully profound. Her depths are no more interesting than her surfaces. So why do it? You do it because it’s offered. Even when you know you shouldn’t. Even that niggling conscience-pang is good, it says ‘bad to the bone’, it says you’re getting away with it. When it’s there it’s impossible not to taste. Human nature is an old friend. There’s no guilt if you’re not found out. We have werewolf beast-genes. The human race would not have got far if we’d not been horny throughout history, and prehistory, and our frisky pre-human progenitors even before that. Some species have a narrow time-frame designated the ‘mating season’ when they suddenly go into an orgiastic frenzy for ten days, before quietly settling down again to grazing and eating nuts and berries. Humans just keep on fucking regardless of the time of year, and let’s be grateful for that. When a cock gets the pulse that can’t be resisted, and a pussy gets hungry to be filled, there’s no feeling better in the world… We’ve lived through too much history, we’ve outgrown too much sin. There’s nothing left to believe in, only the touch of flesh in a bitter world.

When she says ‘we are going on, there’s a party. You too?’, the world falls away on either side as we go out through the door without awareness of even opening it. Out into a stone forest city that melts into the sky. Its unstable outlines waver and brighten, while passing cars reduce to coloured lines that wheel slowly, keeping that focus always steady on the single point. The abrupt side-street is a walled-in canyon. The scrawl of tree-shapes hiss and surge above us. It’s a student house. I should have known. There’s a spatter of gravel that glistens and scrinches. A clamorous throb of noise. Rich is with someone who might be called Norma. Veronica has most definitely decided she’s with me. I have no strength to argue. I can’t invent anything clever to say. I never know how these things are done. I ask her stupid questions, don’t listen to her replies, and instantly forget what few words I do catch. No-one listens to what anyone else says anyway. There’s a medical skeleton in the hall wearing a bowler hat. In the kitchen they’ve fashioned hash pipes, the air all dreamy a-swim with hallucinogenic particles. In the adjoining room they’re laid about like corpses in a serial killer atrocity although there’s Hip-Hop vibrating the architecture.

I have an equivocal relationship with artificial energies. I’ve never, seldom purposefully… well, not very often purposefully gone out seeking it. But, like sex – if it happens to be there and available, impossible to turn away. She passes me a joint, it vibrates like something alive. Sparks and embers glimmer and burn in quarkness and strange. It sings against my touch. It trembles like skin. I dream theorems that guide me through the dance of constellations. But love is the drug I’m thinking of. Her mouth on mine, her red-snake tongue. The scent of her surrounding lightness, the pulse of blood beneath her skin. Neither small-boned nor slender. But with the kind of unquenched energies that produce this very strange weaknesses at the back of my knees. Rich watches us, sunk into the couch as if he’s grown tired of carrying his own weight. She holds my hand, leads me, we climb the stairs, try this door then that one. I swear she’s sniggering. Into a kind of luminous moon-gloom room. There’s no way I can resist such luring enticement. Her black hair uncoils, her eyes wide, threaded with fire. T-shirt falls away, a revealed skin whiteness, the pale pear-shape curve of breasts. A butterfly tattoo hovers above a well-tended goatee of pubes.

Staring, mesmerized, nerves in bits. I’m wearing Pink Panther boxers. Then I’m not wearing anything. We’re giving our skins an airbath. We should open the window, it’s getting gross in here. Listen, you can hear mould growing on the wall. Sick with darkness deep within belly and brain, flowing as smooth as corpuscles of blood streaming through my veins. I’m not gonna bore you with gruesome details.

‘We’re in bed and all you want to do is snog?’ Like she’s challenging me. Her breath smells of olives and peppermints.

‘I like snogging. Nothing wrong with it.’

Her fingernails tease and explore, delicate, insistent. Erupting a storm of moths in my scrotum. I go from flaccid to rigid in an instant. I distrust flesh. I push into her liquescence harder and faster than I should, before it fails me. She gasps and moves up against me, smoothly sinuous, vaginal muscles clasp, squeeze me hello. Her legs curl up around me, drawing me in, trapping me there. We both inhale the breath of relentless skin, a moist well of fire. She glows. Time is an empty place that opens up for our slide of bodies, the flowing back-and-forth, then closes in behind us as we pass. Time is a flexible thing, infinitely long yet also compressed into a very short space. If this one night is all we ever have, I’ll stretch it out to infinity. I try to hold back time, and it takes me forever. Feel the bed beneath us, try to believe in its solidity as we sink into each other, the springs groan, or maybe it’s my exhalation? She’s on fragrant fire. A burning woman, above me now, riding me, I swear the butterfly in her groin takes fluttering flight, I inhale a wind of interstellar dust, she falls across the galaxy of my body and we absorb in its deeps. It goes on, this way and that. Perhaps it’s the spores of chemistry ripping me, but once erect it refuses to rest.

It’s morning light when we half-wake. The covers are a hard and rumpled mess. Her groin is in my face, I stare intently, as if to count each frizzled pubic hair, as soft as feathers. She squirms around and smiles, ‘Mr Northern Poet. Will you write me a poem when I’m gone? Will you?’ And I drift. She’s gone when I wake a second time. Morning light. Dress and stumble down. Nora looks up from the kitchen, with knowing tease. ‘You’ve been with Veronica, her husband won’t appreciate that.’ She shoves bitter-strong coffee. No sweetener. I’m just looking for clues at the scene of the crime.

‘She implied they were separated.’

‘I don’t believe her man sees it that way. They run that hairdresser salon across the street.’

Rich leers. ‘Don’t worry. Sometimes a one-night stand is all you both need.’

‘She was great.’

‘She was hideous’ he gurns. A snappy one-liner. We both crack up.

We wary wend out into the chill, autumn’s last spasm, a Quasimodo-hunch in drizzle with an icy sting, the street digests us, a fidgety glance sideways up the direction towards the hair salon. Stooped, urbane gorillas who walk faster than strictly necessary back onto the thoroughfare. Swallowed into a huge poignant emptiness of city. It’s over. Done. No more to come. Except… of course, that there is. For this was the night I destroy the world.

Because then, casually and with ease, she drops that hand-grenade.

I make pasta. Dice rich shiny red peppers, dark mushroom-flesh, layers of onion, and courgette sliced in neat cubes. A shaker of herbs and spices. When Stephanie Bangs comes in off the street. And she’s crying. Long black streaks of smudged eye-shadow. ‘You fucked her, didn’t you? I know you did.’

‘It was nothing. It meant nothing.’ I have pasta-sauce as red as guilt on my fingers.

‘He told me. Rich told me about the party. About what you did.’

‘I was stoned. I wasn’t in control. And anyway, you have other guys.’ When I touch her it’s like touching a shadow.

She turns demonic. ‘That’s different, and you know it. That’s commerce. I do that for you. I do that because I care. I can’t even believe you’d use that against me.’ She’s crying, and I hate to see her cry.

I eat the pasta alone. She’s gone. She’s with Rich. She has jackdaw blood in her veins, she’s attracted by shiny trinkets. Now she has him. Now he has her. Perhaps that’s what he planned all along? In the night I see her black elfin hair and elfin ears, her Bambi-eyes like polished splinters of black gemstones, her breasts that prove biology outwits gravity. Memory gurgles like indigestion. And I feel this vast end-of-the-world desolation opening up beneath me.

Perhaps I’ll take a stroll down Call Lane. Just once. Just for old time’s sake.

 

ANDREW DARLINGTON
Montage: Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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Journeys from the Heart of the Street Writer – Part Six

Now, me and N2 talked a lot for the first month over messages then I suggested we should go for a coffee in a Starbucks in Derry.

When she picked me up she told me she was shitting herself while getting ready and telling her friend this in the process.

I just smiled and told her she had nothing to worry about!

Eventually we would start seeing more of each other for another month but nothing happened.

I never tried to kiss her or make love to her.

She would be in town with her friends – I would be finished a gig and sitting at home eating and watching TV and she would land up and talk, but I knew she wanted more and… if I am to be totally honest: so did I!

After a couple of months of being good friends – I was sitting one late afternoon in that winter and I decided to text her and say this: I’m not looking for a relationship but, would you be interested in being friends with benefits?

I got no reply and I ended up sending 2 or 3 more messages apologising if I upset her by what I said!

A couple of hours later she replied and said: I love that idea and you didn’t upset me… my phone was dead lol!

Oh, fuck… this was happening!

She came down straight away from the Port to my home… and when she came through the door I just told her to say nothing and I took her by the hand and by God it was so fucking amazing to be mad about someone again while making love!

Now, she was just out of a long complicated relationship like myself and that’s why she was happy with the agreement like myself…

We had sex all the time and everywhere!

We fucked in the dark (midnight) beside a pond in between our local forest and a well-known hotel while I stood outside her car door and she was inside the car doing her from behind.

We did it in her mum’s house in her bedroom so silently you could hear the moonlight bouncing off the windowpane as I silently mouthed ‘fuck yeah!’

We would walk in my door and go into the living room and she would drop down on her knees, I would turn off the light as she unzipped!

She even gave me a quick blowjob in her friend’s bed…

(I would write and a poem about this called ‘Hashtag’ and put it out publicly and she wasn’t mad, but she would like for that to not happen again)

I even said I would give up writing that night and she told me: don’t to be silly you’re a great writer!

There was a changing point for me when we were getting Chinese food in the little town she lived in outside of mine for her, myself, her mother and her sister and her boyfriend!

We were picking it up when all of a sudden we bumped into an old school friend of mine and his girlfriend was an old friend of hers.

We were sitting like we were all a couple and shit got real!

I really liked N2 and I knew she liked me but, this was what we were trying to avoid!

We continued hanging out and having sex but I felt like feelings maybe getting in the way!

I’ll never forget the last night we were together and freaked out and text her it was over!

The last night we fucked I was forcing myself to cum, but I made sure I did because I knew it was going to be the very last.

Just before she left later on that night – I was starting to drift off (I did this a lot after my night time tablets) but she leant over me and kissed me gently and said: goodnight!

When I heard the door close I got up and wrote that message I was dreading to write!

I said: I can’t do this anymore and I’m sorry, love you!

She didn’t take it bad at all and replied: that’s fine, love you too!

Now, my mum was mad about N2 and thought I was a complete cock for finishing it with her!

Lo and behold – I would stay friends with her (even up till now) and I would tell her how stupid I was for ending it and tell her this truth: I was starting to fall for you and I totally freaked out!

But she would not reciprocate my love and just say: thank you!

So, never leave it too long to tell someone the truth and never leave anything unsaid, even if that means it is not paid back!

(Poem)

Cumming close to love

 

Sex

Has been

Difficult

Since

My last

Failed

Relationship

But

When

I pulled

It out

Of her

From behind

And

Came

On the backs of her feet

I died

Because

I was close to love

And

I didn’t say a word

 

 

PBJ

 

 

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Eat, Purge, Sleep, Repeat

Atlanta Wiggs

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Psychedelic Rock

This show features tracks by

The rolling stones, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Cream, Donovan, Strawberry alarm clock and more.

 

 

Adam Kvasnica

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Just past the village. Elegy for Dave Greenfield


Is a road that gets thinner.

Follow it for a winding while
Until you come to the fret
Rising through dank empty fields
Hemmed with trees already fading.

Go on until you reach
A deserted prom.

As the fret thickens
Feel your way
Along dripping rust scabbed railings,
Find the jetty.

Stop there.

Stand still.

Close your eyes

And listen.

 

 

JJ Burnel’s elegy for Dave Greenfield, who died of/with Covid

 

 

“If Something’s Gonna Kill Me (It Might As Well Be Love)”

Innocence has left this house
To wander among the stars
To light the path before us so we can see

You wake me up one morning and the world has changed
It’s war and the Martians have arrived
The world goes in meltdown and I miss you
The world goes in meltdown and I miss you
Earthquakes may happen
And the heavens open
If something’s gonna kill me
It might as well be love
One more gone to join the legions far away
Our ranks are getting thinner by the day
Our glory’s far behind us and I miss you
Our glory’s far behind us and I miss you

Innocence has left this house
To wander among the stars
To light the path before us so we can see

Earthquakes may happen
And the heavens open
If something’s gonna kill me
It might as well be love

Earthquakes may happen
And the heavens open
If something’s gonna kill me
It might as well be love
Might as well be love
If something’s gonna kill me
If something’s gonna kill me
It might as well be love

The Stranglers

 

 

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Every Passing Scene

I stare at the passerine
without seeing it improving
this neighborhood scene,
albeit the leaves of dust and
those sleeves of concrete
seem the bright second draft
of my nextdoor writer’s.
The rain, last night’s, has cooled
down everything my skin
by quite a bit. I punish
my elbows by pressing those
against our veranda railings.
Should an epiphany hit
my awakening it is way late,
almost nine AM, and I
stand still in this space
without standing here,
not belonging.
Far below the kid who lit
up his mummy to see
how fast alcohol in bloodstream
burns whistles by.
I drop my heavy coffee-mug.

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Words and picture

 
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

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

 
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GOOD VIBRATIONS

Extensions Out, Plus: Four Poetry Books, Sun Ra ($50, Corbett vs Dempsey)

Jazz composer, band leader and musician Sun Ra claimed to be born on Saturn and only visiting planet Earth. Some have suggested he pushed this to extremes as a way of diverting racism and hatred: better to be weird than black. Others suggested he was deluded, crazy, or brilliant at marketing; whatever the case he made some of the most far out music around, managed to keep a big band going for many decades and ran one of the first ever independent record labels, releasing myriad albums in many versions with different tracks and handmade sleeves: a record collector’s nightmare!

Sun Ra was also a fine poet, producing freeform texts which mixed spaced-out lyrics with social observations & critique, re-presenting black spirituality as a mix of alien gnosticism and heretical christianity. The poems drew on early American spirituals, Bible stories, Black consciousness, the counterculture, science fiction, hallucinations and visions, messages from space, and interior thought to riff on a multitude of obsessions, observations and obscurities. They were often printed on album sleeves, read or chanted over improvised music, and were occasionally gathered up into lo-fi mimeographed books and pamphlets. Now Corbett Vs Dempsey have obtained permission from the Sun Ra estate to produce four publications in a limited edition of 1000 copies, carefully reproducing the originals.

First up are two thin pamphlets first issued with early Sun Ra LPs. The small square (CD size) stapled booklet for Jazz by Sun Ra mostly contains recording details from the album, along with notes about the music and three poems, one of which is interrupted by a plea to America:

   There is a great need for America to give all of its CREATIVE ARTISTS a chance.
   I believe that America is big enough and broad enough to realise that it is not
   possible to substitute anything for ART & CULTURE.

The same piece goes on to declare that ‘America must not be afraid to face the future, because the hope of this country is the future’ – and we all know how that turned out!

The future is also the subject of some of the work in the ‘liner note poems’ for 1959’s Jazz in Silhouette:


   THE SPACE AGE CANNOT BE AVOIDED

   The prophets of the past belong to the past,
   The space prophets of the greater future
   Belong to the greater future.

   […]

   Skilled culture is the new weapon of nations,
   The new measure of determination as to whether a nation
   Is ready to be a greater nation is art.

And one of the great arts is music, which Sun Ra declares to be ‘a plane of wisdom’ and ‘a universal language’.

Early Sun Ra music is fairly accessible, drawing on the likes of Duke Ellington and other 20th Century bandleaders to create complex variations of tunes with powerhouse ensemble playing and featured soloists. It must have been strange to find Sun Ra’s exhortations and declarations within your album sleeve, though it might perhaps have sat with the American dream of space exploration and jet-set design at the time.

Sun Ra’s music would later encompass not only big band jazz but avant-garde composition, noise, improvisation, early synthesizers and electronics, chants, songs and demented cover versions, with something for everyone if you knew where to look. Many didn’t, which meant punks picked up his mainstream jazz releases when they were looking for noise, and the opposite for mainstream jazz audiences. Albums came in and out of print, legally and illegally, with both major and obscure labels; some weeks the racks were full, next week they were in the cut-out bins, then they were gone. Some albums got renamed, some were so poorly recorded they were unlistenable, others would startle and shake the listener with their innovative sonic exploration. Whatever the state of play with regard to the ebbing and flowing of cultdom and the availability of music, Sun Ra and his Arkestra kept on playing and touring; and Sun Ra kept writing.

The two volumes of The Immeasurable Equation are the most important publications by Sun Ra. They have been reproduced in various forms over the years, as well as excerpted, repackaged, anthologised, sampled and plundered. It’s good to have them in these definitive versions, although it has to be said that previous paperback editions are easier to read and carry around, particularly with regard to volume II which is republished here as a massive side-stapled brick of paper printed on only one side!

Just as the music got weirder and better, Sun Ra’s poetry also changed. Ra lived his life as a Saturnian in exile, an alien visitor, and his poetry is often written from that point of view. It is rooted in an infinite cosmos, with multiple planes of existence, and endless visions of both past and future. Sun Ra observes, exhorts, declaims and encourages us Earthlings to change our world for the better, using music to transform and improve things. Like some messianic figure, without any desire to be worshipped, he often talks not only of knowing more and of being wise, but also of going ahead:

   In some far off place
   Many light planes in Outerness-Space
   I’ll wait for you.
   Where human feet have never trod
   Where human eyes have never seen
   I’ll build a world of otherness . . .
   Other-abstract-natural design
   And wait for you.

Some have seen this kind of aspiration to a heaven elsewhere as an excuse to avoid civil rights issues, others as simply escapism, whilst many see it as a playful subversion of christianity and utopian idealism. Others accept that Sun Ra really was from elsewhere and maybe could see other planes of existence, that he offered humanity a rare view of the cosmos, offering hope and possibility, be that literal or metaphorical. Sun Ra’s angels, humans and gods are bound together through music and its vibrational powers: powers that can heal, unify, uplift and encourage, that are bigger than humankind’s problems.

There’s no doubt about it, Sun Ra was a visionary, a one-off original, who managed to produce a huge amount of startlingly original music and writing that continues to confuse, confound, challenge, bewilder and delight those who engage with it. These beautiful poetry books may be an aside to the music, but they help explain and contextualise it, help us to listen to the world around us. As ‘The Sound Image’ poem says:

   Endless sound is a universal language because that is what the music is

   […]

   This the music is like a journey
   Which is endless

   […]

   The music is not only just music.

   […]

   The music is the living mirror of the universe.

 

Rupert Loydell

Further details and purchase information at: https://www.corbettvsdempsey.com/books/extensions-out-plus-four-poetry-books-19591972/

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THE MASQUE AT HAVENGORE

 

 

A C Evens

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 Postmortem

I have an injurious heart,
Longing for millennium.
Two full burnt smoky lungs,
Almost turned into fossil.
Liver is the victim of waywardness.
Kidneys are half damaged.
Viscera has no clue.
Brain is beyond repair,
Deeply rooted in anarchy.
Eyes convey an eye-catching past.
But fortunately no mask found-
In my bloody face.
Lips are parted with truth.
Cheeks are squeezed with betrayal.
Nose is battered.
Forehead scarless.
Love is intact in ribcage.
Spine has the trace of backstabbing.
Voice sabotaged throat.
Vein gave up in vain.

Although, soul is beyond any postmortem,
It was null with fantasy.
Fabricated with thousands dreams.
A spirit fought to save the last breathe-
And successfully failed.
Galib, it’s but a fatal phenomenon.

It reported suicide.
Which is part true and part lie.

This mumbo jumbo postmortem-
Is an error.

It only beats around the bush and-
Precisely no truth comes out.

 

 

.

Tiyasha Khanra
Illustration Nick Victor

 

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The Food Chain

Society is impossible
A collection of individuals
Who when all meets up
Feel strangely alone
With only oneself to decide
Or choose someone to defer to
As if the action decided itself
Edged on by a little stimulus
Formal procedures
To offset the resort to force
If you’re not careful
That anarchist dream of your’s
Will become crypto fascist
It’s not a free for all
Some needs are greater than others
How can you justify to me
Why you won’t wait
Sure the State
Resorts to force
As an underpinning
But it is nominally accountable
Half the problem may be
That you are too old now
To recognise
What really moves me
Delegating down the chain

 

 

.

Clark Allison

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Thrift and honesty

With my sore knee I thank him
for the stay-cation parking in his yard
and assure him I popped the stated fee
into his box tied on the 5 bar gate.

High on the cliffs I count linnets, swifts,
rock falls. I note foxglove, bluebells.
While fat cows munch rich pastures,
crops are greening ploughed fields.

At the lowing cattle shed I calculate,
multiplying the number of cars here by
by the days of this strange tourist season.
I wonder what he tells the Accountant.

 

 

 

Finola Scott

 

 

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Catching up with Brinsley Schwarz

 

 Brinsley (the man, not the band) chatting about life, music and his new album, ‘Tangled’ with Alan Dearling

 

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

Alan: Really nice to get a chance to chat with you. Gerry Ranson was very kind enough to send me an advance copy of your new solo album, ‘Tangled’, due to be released by Fretstore Records on 3rd September. I thought we could talk a bit about your recent musical excursions and then do some good old fashioned reminiscing!

So, to kick-off, I believe you’ve been back playing and pre-Covid touring with Graham Parker and the Rumour. How’s that been going? It’s just so hard to plan at the moment. Are there more dates for the future?

Brinsley: Hello Alan, thanks for your interest and nice to meet you…    Yes, Graham re-started GP and the Rumour back in 2010. He had written a bunch of songs which he thought would make a great come-back for the band.  We all got back together in New York State, with the Catskills as a backdrop and The Big Pink and Woodstock just down the road.  We had a couple of days to rehearse and then recorded ‘Three Chords Good’.  It all came back to us as if it was yesterday, we laughed a lot and played with nothing to prove, just played the songs.  We also had a small film crew with us during that recording and during the subsequent touring, adding to the documentary of the story that started in the ’70’s. That documentary ‘Don’t ask me Questions’ was finally released…as was the movie, ‘This is 40’, in which we had a small part, although Graham had a ‘starring role’.   The following album ‘Mystery Glue’ (one of my favourite GP+R albums) and the tours were so good to do and the reaction from the fans made it so worthwhile and, like the whole seven year experience, so  unexpected.  I finished up on some Duo tours with Graham and it was thanks to all of that, that I began to think I could make a solo album. And my two albums ‘Unexpected’ and ‘Tangled’ are the result.  I guess Covid has been the final obstacle to further touring, which always has its financial difficulties as well.  Graham is in the States with some solo touring ahead in the Autumn.  And I am looking at the possibility of touring myself in some way.  But at the moment I guess we’re all back doing as much of what we were doing back in 2010 as we can.

Alan: You have featured Graham Parker’s song, ‘Love Gets You Twisted’ on the new ‘Tangled’ album. How did that come about?

Brinsley: It’s always been one my favourite GP songs.  I was playing around with it one day and (unlike the original) quite naturally fell into the two repeated choruses after the guitar solo, not only did that seem to work musically, but the chorus lyrics flow together as one as well.  So I dared to try, slowed it down a bit and had the Everly Brothers and Roy Orbison in my mind.  Graham (in photo, right) said he likes it, so I’m chuffed.

Alan: You are probably best known for your fine range of guitar sounds. There’s quite a lot of reverb and wah-wah on the new album and almost hints of Shadows’ licks and perhaps the ‘feel’ of Traveling Wilburys? Or, even the Notting Hillbillies? Is that a reasonable observation?

Brinsley: Well, wah-wah on ‘He Takes Your Breath Away’, but there is some delayed plate reverb on guitars, and on the vocals too. James and I like delayed plate reverb, the reverb comes after the initial hit of the note, so it doesn’t swamp the music, it’s not like being in a cathedral.

 I don’t think I’ve ever not been influenced by Hank Marvin and for a long time I’ve tried to hold the song in the forefront of my solos.  It was Graham who wanted wah-wah, on a track from ‘Mystery Glue’, on his demo he got to the solo and said ‘wah-wah, it’ll be fun’ and he was right, it was!  Guitar-wise, I still feel that I’m influenced more by The Beatles, and Little Feat and Steely Dan and The Band, and, of course, Larry Carlton and Robben Ford. (I have three Zendrives, Robben Ford’s favourite overdrive pedal, on my pedal board.)

Alan: The second track on the new album, starts with the lines:

“And You, Drive Me to Drink…until, I Just Can’t Think…The Games You Play, Tear Me Apart.”

Have you really been, “turned inside out”? Or, is just a bit of poetic licence?

Brinsley:  Having spent most of my life being a guitar player, I think I missed a lot of how songwriters write songs.  And when you’re in a band with a songwriter as good as Graham Parker, your own faltering utterances can seem, well let’s just say, you’d rather keep them to yourself. And that’s without the thousands of great songwriters and great songs out there.  On tour with GP I used to sound check my guitar and microphone with a song which is on ‘Unexpected’,  ‘You Miss Again’, a song that started out being about a well-known footballer,  but then it became about anybody who has tried, failed and got up to try again, and about the frailties or strengths that failure can bring.  One day I was surprised when our tour manager asked me who that song was by, he really liked it…that was a big step up for me, someone liked one of my songs enough to tell me.   But doesn’t poetic licence mean you can take something very general and make it personal, or, take something very personal and make it general or about something completely different, or, all of that.  It can be up to the listener to say what it means to them.  So, haven’t most of us been turned inside out at some point in our lives?

Alan: I think my favourite track is probably ‘Stranded’. Heartfelt, emotional lyrics and a soaring guitar. It generates a sense of ‘loss’. And feels autobiographical, but not necessarily recent…A really great song and recording…

Brinsley: Thank you, it was one of the two songs written and recorded during Covid lockdowns.  I think I’ve become more and more emotional and alternately angry over the past couple of years.

Alan: You are quoted as saying that this album offers, “songs of richness and maturity from decades of experience”… but it also strikes me as quite up-beat, with some rollicking boogie-woogie too and plenty of sentimental songs. Lots of potential catchy, live ‘crowd-pleasers’, methinks.

Brinsley:  Ah no,  I think that quote is Gerry talking, but yes, there’s a mix of feels on ‘Tangled’ which I think is down to the passage of time.  ‘Game On’ was written in the 1980s, ‘Crazy World’ earlier this year, and the songs definitely have changed as the times, sometimes unexpectedly, have.

Alan: ‘Crazy World’ is a very personal postcard to a friend (and the locked-down rest of human-kind). Some tender moments of kindness. In style, it reminds me of Paul McCartney. A song that sounds as if it has resonated in our heads forever and then some.

Brinsley: Yeah, I don’t know, I see a nurse in ICU with tears in her eyes or just plain worn out, or Captain Tom or Greta, or just good people helping out where they can, and I have just wept.  But seeing a polar bear looking for ice has the same effect, it seems like climate change and the pandemic along with the countless injustices in this world have all joined up like a cloud of dementors hanging over us.  I don’t know, politicians just don’t seem to get it, the time to be one world is now.  Well this is the other song written in lockdown, it was a real struggle to record but worth it.   (And if it reminds someone of Paul McCartney, then that’s got to be a good thing….)

Alan: Did you have guest musician friends play with you on the album? I gather it was recorded with James Hallawell, who has enjoyed an illustrious career with the Waterboys as keyboard-player and as the producer for the late, lamented Scots’ singer-poet-raconteur, Jackie Leven.

Brinsley:  Yes, couldn’t have done this without James, he did the recording and the strings on ‘Crazy World’ and played great keyboards, (although I played a little organ on ‘You Can’t Take It Back’). We mixed and mastered together. Ralph Salmins and Ben Niblett played drums (although I played drums on ‘Storm in the Hills’) and my friend and co-chandler, guitars-repairer, Andy Eales played great rhythm guitar under the guitar solo in ‘You Drive Me To Drink’. (By the way, James played on GP’s album ‘Mona Lisa’s Sister’ and toured with us in the ’80s.)

 

Alan: So, perhaps we can now get down to doing a bit of that reminiscing? I started going to live gigs in the mid-1960s and then festivals like the ones at Isle of Wight in 1969 and ‘70. I was at the University of Kent 1969-72 and probably saw you perform there, but definitely saw you and bands like the Pink Fairies at Harmony Farm Festival in 1971. What are your memories of those fairly wild, early festies?

Brinsley: Well, all a long time ago, but I think we had a pretty mixed time of festivals… saw the Stones and Blind Faith in Hyde Park, from half a mile away!  Brinsley’s played at Bickershaw supporting The Grateful Dead, the Melody Maker’s front page headline ‘the Dead Stop The Rain’ was not quite accurate and despite the ‘Dead’ refusing to move their back line a few feet back so we could be under some sort of cover, the days of persistent rain stopped halfway through our set! GP and R played at Reading when we had the power pulled halfway through our encore, Steve Goulding (our drummer) didn’t stop though and our ‘turn the power on’ chant was taken up by the crowd and forced the power to be turned back on…and Blackbush, where the jack-socket came loose and almost fell into my (semi-hollow Gibson 335) guitar body two minutes before going on stage. It was just rescued in time by our manager, Dave Robinson.  Rumour guitarist, Martin, waited just a touch too long to pick up courage to go say hello to Bob Dylan sitting in the food tent, Bob got up and walked out just as Martin picked up the courage and stood up. Still, he got a lot further than me!

Ups and downs at festivals…Glastonbury, we built a great PA system out of ours and all the other bands’ Hi Watt PAs and were halfway through a really good set when we were hassled off stage so the kid guru could speak.

Alan says: Here’s a rather amazing vintage video about the Bickershaw Festi in 1972: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCEPizIV2xc

Alan: I moved to work in London in the early 1970s and as a band, Brinsley Schwarz were frequently labelled a ‘pub rock band’. A band with a mixed pedigree of prog, folk-rock and some psych-influences from Man, Help Yourself and the Frankie Miller Band. I was a big fan of Dr Feelgood’s high energy-fuelled performances, of Mick Green with the Pirates, and Chris Spedding. You were involved in Dr. Feelgood and Ducks Deluxe, weren’t you?

Brinsley:  After the New York fiasco we got a big house together, built a rehearsal room and played.  We continued to play colleges and town halls but we were enticed by the idea of playing with close-up audiences, New Orleansy and Band, Stones type r’n’b, and when we saw Eggs Over Easy at the Tally Ho pub we thought we’d try that.  Dave Robinson and I toured round London pubs, persuaded some landlords that it was a good idea to have us play in their pubs by offering to play for nothing for a month, if it worked, we’d carry on and get paid.  It worked (better than we thought it might) and other bands joined in.  The press called it pub rock, but it was just bands playing what they played, where they could.  And the music had a wide reach, but I’d guess that for a while at least, long guitar solos were not part of pub rock!  But I didn’t really have much to do with playing with anybody else until after the Brinsleys broke up.  I remember playing sax one time with Dr. Feelgood and I joined The Ducks for a few months before they, too, broke up, after which Ducks guitarist Martin and I were in The Rumour.

Alan: ‘Pub Rock’ was a fairly misleading label, perhaps? Was it apt?

Brinsley: Oh, oops, sorry, I guess I answered this one question earlier.

Alan: Dave Edmunds, Nick Lowe, Ian Gomm, yourself and Graham Parker, Geraint Watkins were some of the stalwarts of the pub scene along with about to be mega-star, Ian Dury, who managed to morph seamlessly into the Rock Against Racism, punk and reggae scene. What are some of your memories of the mid 1970s’ music scene? You seemed to work with a lot of bands and musicians…through the 1970s, ‘80s and beyond.

Brinsley:  mmmm, I don’t think Dave Edmunds had much to do with pub rock and Graham has always been ‘surprised’ to be included, GP and R played the Newlands Tavern, and The Rumour have to give thanks to the folks there for letting us rehearse for months for nothing more than a promise to play our first gig there, and we played a couple of out of the way places as a warm-up before our first tour. But GP and R didn’t really play pubs. We did play a lot of support tours during the first 18 months here and in the US. We were playing or recording pretty much flat out, four albums with Graham, two Rumour albums and more.  I missed most of the seventies, working.

Alan: Quite a lot of my friends have always loved the ‘Greasy Truckers’ double live album. It’s almost the seminal, UK end-of-the-hippy-era album. Recorded at the Round House in Chalk Farm in 1972. The ‘Brinsleys’ were one of the main performers along with Man and Hawkwind and the loose-cannon, slightly-bonkers, Magic Michael. I guess you must have some amazing memories of that session…

Brinsley:  You are pushing my memory here, we played the Round House a few times, once with Dr. John, he was terrific and I remember more about him and his band than I remember about us.  Quite likely that the Greasy Truckers was the Round House gig when I got a pretty nasty electric shock…my amp went down, I got hold of a live 240volt bit and couldn’t let go, can’t remember how I did…That’s  probably why I don’t remember much about that evening.

Alan: Over your long career, what have been your own favourite musical moments and the albums that you have been involved with?

Brinsley: Blimey, well seeing The Shadows at the Opera House, Tunbridge Wells in 1962 and The Beatles at Hammersmith Odeon.  Cream, The Band, Ry Cooder, Van Morrison, all were great nights.  Sitting at the PA desk watching Albert King three nights in a row, just terrific… watching The Last Waltz two or three times a day in a cinema in Auckland, NZ, every day for a week while we got over jet lag before touring Australia, Japan and New Zealand.  Sometimes, in the afternoons, I was the only person in the cinema…Thrilled to have The Band rehearse at our barn rehearsal room by our house in Beaconsfield and standing round Garth’s Lowry as he played.  For me and the albums I’ve played on, nailing the solo in ‘This Town’ (on ‘Max’, the first Rumour album), same with the solo on ‘Coat Hangers’ (on ‘3 Chords Good’).  Playing ‘Long Emotional Ride’ on Jools Holland, a few years back, that was really special.  I’ve enjoyed playing on the 40 odd albums I’ve played on, of course I have favourites,’ Max’, ‘Mystery Glue’ and ‘Tangled’… we’re pretty damn lucky getting to make albums, they’re all journeys that will remain.

Alan: Being part of The Rumour with Graham Parker has been quite a mainstay. Four decades, I think?

Brinsley: 46 years since we all met up for the first time, I was with Graham for fifteen odd years ‘till ’89, and then seven odd years on and off up to 2017.   It has been emotional.

Alan: I think you also worked as guitarist with Kirsty Mac Coll. She always struck me as a loveable and feisty character? What are your memories? Did you work with Shane McGowan as well?

Brinsley:  You know I’m pretty sure that I just played a little sax with some of the other Stiff Records artists, just one-off sessions. Those days were very busy.  But I do remember playing on and co- producing Carlene Carter’s album, and The Rumour supported and backed her on tour. I toured with her again in the ’80s.

Alan: Any other favourite Brinsley Schwarz tales you’d like to share?

Brinsley:  Well there have been so many fun and not so fun times, but since this is my and not the band’s story, I could own up to something…  Sometime during GP and R first tours of the US, Graham was having to do a lot of radio appearances. They involved some chat, a plug for the show that night, play the record and do a Station ID. He was often busy with interviews or just needing a day off, so occasionally the band members stepped in for him.  I did a few, turned out to be enough, though, to grow really tired of being asked the question, ‘How did the band and Graham meet up?’ Apart from having to answer this same question over and over, the true answer was too long a tale for the short radio chat.  So, somewhere, I was sitting across from this radio DJ listening to him ask the question yet again, and suddenly I was telling him about how we’d been driving to a gig, stopped to get petrol, and the pump attendant (an American thing) came out and was washing the windscreen, singing away as he worked. We thought he had a good voice and asked him if he wanted to join the band…he said ‘yes’ and that’s how GP and R got together.  The DJ said, ‘Wow, what a great story’, and that was that.  It was, of course, a complete fabrication and I never thought anyone would believe it…but next time I did a radio chat, the DJ asked, ‘So the band and Graham met up at a gas station!’  And it carries on.  It never happened, folks, I made it up.

Alan: I think that there are a number of Brinsley Schwarz (the band) compilations. What would you recommend?

Brinsley:  Oh definitely ‘What IS so funny about peace, love and understanding’.  A live set on Hux Records.

But enough of the old stuff,   let’s recommend ‘Tangled’, it’s what I’ve been doing for the last couple of years, I’m hoping people will enjoy it, maybe revisit my first album ‘Unexpected’, and look forward to some gigs and the next album.  I am, after all and as it says at the top of the page, ‘the man and Not the band’…’Yes..Tangled.’

Alan: Many thanks for chatting…hopefully now the Covid lockdowns are potentially lifting we’ll meet up in some pub or muddy field, err too long!

Brinsley:  Thanks Alan, and yes hopefully that’ll be soon… see you there…

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

Lots of links to explore, courtesy of Gerry Ranson. Enjoy!

 

Brinsley – Storm In The Hills:  https://youtu.be/xI_tLdy_9hc

Brinsley – You Drive Me To Drink: https://youtu.be/4yP5yHOBAWo

GP&R – Passion Is No Ordinary Word: https://youtu.be/35Pb9xlfND0

GP&R – Hold Back The Night:  https://youtu.be/8kQXko2W0sU

Brinsley Schwarz (band):  https://youtu.be/R9Env3GEsWg  

Brinsley Schwarz: https://youtu.be/X_O0uNTYAoY

 

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/BrinsleySchwarzMusic

 

‘Tangled’, the new Brinsley Schwarz solo album: https://linktr.ee/tangledalbum

 

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Gavin Turk and work in progress

 
 
 
I visited Gavin Turk in his Canning Town studio and asked him about what he’s up to these days. ‘There’s a lot of shouting going on in the art world,’ he said,  ‘and sometimes it’s hard to be heard if you make quiet art.’
      ‘Which you do?’
      ‘At the moment.  Coming out of lockdown there’s a cultural vacuum. For artists to re-populate that space they need a renewal of consciousness of their effect on the planet.   It’s wonderful have Deborah (Deborah Curtis his partner) on the other side of the studio working on The Great Imagining project, planning a future for children’s education.’
     ‘What are you working on?’  
     ‘Several things, here’s one of them.’
     ‘The brown flowers?’
     ‘Yes,  it’s called, work in progress.  I found these out in the street, I thought it was funny, with that Mercury messenger logo,  and perfectly complemented my other dried, brown flowers.’
       ‘Like the one’s in the beautiful bright vases?’
        ‘That’s right. These flowers have a different kind of life . They are changing, not static.’
        ‘Creation, maintenance, destruction – these things must happen – yes?’
        ‘Yes.’ 
        ‘Are you planning to exhibit soon?’
         ‘I am,  in my studio.’
Watch this space.  May I come and review it?’
         ‘Certainly.’ 
 
 
 
 
Words and Photo: Jan Woolf 
 
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Out in the mid-day

                Along this wall
                Stones sun stoked
                To frying point
                The lizard
                Green as a leaf bud
                Newly opening
                Insinuates himself
                Three steps forward
                Stops
                One step slowly back               

                Three steps forward

                And then again
                Three more

                Pausing at my shadow’s hem

                Scurries under

                Looks up at me
                With a sidelong glance
                As if to say:
                “Fucking hell, it’s hot to-day!”

 

 

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann

 

 

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Endangered species

‘Adopt an at-risk species’ said the ad. Marcia clicked on the link, which took her to a catalogue of endangered life forms. By donating a few dollars, the site claimed, you could help keep these creatures from extinction. The choice of which life forms should be preserved was left to the donor. ‘That one looks cute,’ said Paulo, her ten-year old son, pointing to the image of a small newt-like animal. ‘Axolotl salamander’, she read from the screen. ‘Is it real?’ he asked. ‘It looks like something created in CGI. You know, for Disney or whatever.’ Marcia scrolled on down the list. The number of animals and plants was daunting. ‘Depressed river mussels,’ she read, ‘Oahu tree snail, corpse flower.’ ‘What’s a corpse flower?’ Paulo asked. She clicked on the photo and a text box opened with a description and information about conservation efforts. ‘It gives off a scent which smells like decomposing flesh,’ she said. ‘Cool, that has to be worth preserving,’ Paulo said. ‘Let’s sponsor that one.’ ‘Make a list,’ Marcia said and continued scrolling down. ‘What about this jewel beetle,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ The image showed an iridescent, pale blue-green bug. Paulo wasn’t impressed. ‘Here’s one you’ll like, hornet robber fly…lives near dung, and feeds on grasshoppers, beetles and moths.’ Paulo gazed at it for a moment, the large black eyes and hairy thorax, then added the insect’s name to his list.  

 

.

Simon Collings

 

 

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If Memory Were Bruce Wayne

 

My mother samples the tilth of the soil
before sowing her family jewels.
Half of the town is down under a spell
of rain; ours stand on a higher ground.

If you dwell in a dream for far too long
your gray cells begin to swell up with its details –
how rain falls nowhere near your mother
and how it cordons off everything from her 
existence and those pearls – now some seeds

for something silver. The blood and flesh
of the town’s nether part perfects the fertilizers,
spreads a bone meal. Meanings, meanings
leave minute prints across the garden.

 

 

.

Kushal Poddar

 
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

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

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TURNING COSTS TO EARNINGS – THE NON-MONETARY ACCOUNTING SYSTEM.

 How THE Parallel Non-Monetary Economy Is created – (paid for with labour).
Potential realisation:


“I am a refugee living in Kutupalong refugee camp, Bangladesh. I am 15 years old and lost my parents and home. A representative of our camp said it has adopted The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy (PNME). She told me the time I spend finding water, food, caring for my cleanliness and sanitation and helping my family and others in the camp – has been assigned some virtual figures in an individual non-monetary account like a bank account. It is called a ‘Universal Basic Income’ based on statistics the camp has agreed upon regarding the amount and nature of the work my daily life entails, (it also includes a measure of rest). If I decide to use more time in education, or employment, that is also measured and creates additional income. All other individuals and businesses have these non-monetary accounts (alongside monetary ones) and when I transfer numerals from mine to theirs it can purchase services or goods to the level of numerals society has agreed upon. This is not money and has no material value, so I cannot exchange my units for anything else. I can only use them in PNME accounts. The goods are exchanged simply through the non-monetary units kept on a cloud storage system. So, now, I do not need money or anything to do this with. I only have to press a scanner with my thumb and immediately the numbers are created or transferred! Many suppliers are now moving in to the camp and we do not need to rely on NGOs. I can now choose what I want to eat, clean and clothe my family, and myself, and my aunt can get her medical supplies. Even my younger sister age 7 earns from her activities. I thanked the representative but she said it wasn’t her or anyone else giving it to me, I was already earning it from the moment they adopted the PNME, it is mine. I asked where it came from and she said nowhere – my daily work made it.”

This Parallel Non-Monetary Economy is not merely for refugees. It is a system that can be applicable to all, indiscriminately, as an immediate solution to economic disparity, so we can collectively take back control of the global economy and our individual choices and future.

Formative steps:  

1 – form a decent size collective that can dictate terms of a market or supplier; OR use EXISTING organisations – NGOs, charities, aid & campaign networks.

2 – agree the terms and standards that suppliers have to meet.

3 – agree what forms of activity (constituting work / labour) are
rewarded by PNME units.

4 – agree what tiered rates of numerical units are earned for what incentives and prioritised work (sanitation, food production, health care, individual career choice, education, creative work, conservation to brain surgery etc). Also, set a Universal Basic Income / Living Wage (base-rate that removes cost burden of those less able to work and as an individual human right for home / familial / self-care etc). The units only have virtual numerical significance for the sake of transaction, not value, and can incentivise less attractive and/or essential work by paying more than money can, requiring less hours to be spent doing that work. All labour will be cost-free to employers, so it will accommodate beyond-optimum employment, as earnings are self-generated and do not deduct from existing budgets. Also, formal employment can attract a small premium as an incentive for employers choosing PNME workers.

5 – agree what those units can exchange for (compared with the monetary market in a fictional sense, not as value or an equivalent, it should always outperform money but can reflect scarcity or specialization).

 

(In any circular economy, all participants would agree the medium and its value – even if trading with used matchsticks).

 

Once a decent collective have formed, they hold economic power. They choose what form the non-monetary economy will take and what rates are applied to various types of labour, or they can set a rate for all labour. This is best if it is done with international accord, for there to be one universal PNME requiring no exchange calculations, but it can accommodate unilateral systems without exchange rates, (if one is aware how that system differs affecting choices in different localities) – so various PNMEs might exist but remain usable to anyone in that static location; (this is less desirable as it mirrors the monetary system of differing currency values globally). Since the PNME is not a cost and is a benefit to the economy, it avoids many injustices and economic impositions if it does not alter from location to location,. This is one superior quality and universality above money, affecting the artificial manipulation of price rates.

6 – agree an accounting system that is de-centralised, regulated and reported (if necessary) by part of global society on rotational or random basis.

7 – set up measuring mechanisms (these are best if they are automatic and do not require hands on maintenance and policing).

Many are sceptical of surveillance technology and tracking, (Big Brother) but most people globally already condone it from government and corporate imposition and even with their valuables, private details and wealth, through apps created by companies like Google, Apple and Microsoft. Once you have the PNME collective with immediate and rapid accumulating wealth, it is entirely possible an existing company, or a purpose formed company, can create the necessary system for collating all individual PNME income, through open-source technology. Some suggest civic states and community or cooperative banking, but all monitoring must be INDISCRIMINATE; so, already successful blockchain and other accepted forms of technical tracking along with statistical demographics for basic needs is preferable – regulated by a global random consensus, which means it is secure and not easily abused / misdirected. We are all used to payments made through card transaction, but there is something better at our disposal when we trust its regulation is for civic benefit, not commercial manipulation. Use of this technology means nothing material need be carried for transaction purposes and any monitoring receiver – like a watch, phone, fob, bracelet or pendant – does not lose individual monitoring data if it is lost or damaged; (stealing someone’s equipment would be futile as it basically only registers individual bio-metrics and isn’t used in trading). People in the worst circumstances could immediately afford to acquire such a unit, or statistics applied for such circumstances would eliminate this need. 

HOW WILL THE PNME FUNCTION? (please see Illustrations). 

Generating income: 

1 – Blockchain technology already automates income successfully (though through monetary-generated crypto-currencies and pyramid schemes). It is not a currency system, it is a METHOD OF VERIFICATION where all users have a random automated share in verifying transactions in the cloud-based hard drive system.

2 – Bio-Metrics already measures everyday activities for us relieving our minds from mundane calculations – step counters, heart monitoring, etc. We already trust our mobile device, computer and bank account access to fingerprint or face-recognition. Other technologies could be more adaptable to different functions, temperature monitoring, for example.

3 – Magnetic Sequencing, bar-coding etc. already scans our products and transactions, does progressive stock counting and automated re-ordering. Amazon GO was the first primitive example of a store that needs no checkouts. Emphasis will shift to quality of customer services.

4 – Global Positioning System, we already trust for our maps, advertising and retail searches, purchases and deliveries, rescue search and verifiable activities, such as rental vehicles, haulage, forensic evidence etc.

5 – Laser, Light, & camera technology (QR codes for example) already used in scanning, security, positioning, architecture and even Wimbledon line tech and VAR in sports.

6 – Peer verification; computer records and online activity – we already accept from employers, voluntary organisations, social media, computer system logs and personal browsing history.

7 – Statistics may help with less quantifiable and monitored activities – child rearing, self-care, (7 years mental process in research for writing a book for example could be paid, even if nothing ends up being published). So as human beings we already have what we need to generate income. The only equipment necessary for transactions are various scanning machines.

Even though these technical facilities are generally developed, controlled, or bought by monopolising companies to make profit; when you have a global collective with greater cumulative wealth than any monopoly, society can set the controls and always defend against corporate take-over. Also you can collectively dictate political decisions and set up a civic state, decoupled and independent from monetary and corporate dependency. And since PNME units have no value, they only work as a transaction for exchange that is also in the interests of corporations to maintain as impartial, because it also protects and liberates their economic performance and options. They have so much to gain from engaging the PNME it is unlikely any will not welcome it, but the choice is there. The 99% can make law that guarantees preservation and security of that individual connection to those virtual figures so they cannot be stolen. Also, there could be a caveat of actionable consequences and removal of access to the PNME if individual or collective action impedes another person’s right to use the PNME. There would be personal IDs, business and location IDs that all clock transactions made and activities generating income. We already have this technology. Any elite 1% monopolising this process to compete for superiority and sustain atrocities over the 99% will be outlawed. But because it is not money with any exchangeable value, it is inflation-proof (see following example).

The term ‘value’ is necessary for measurement, but for PNME transactions it is a misleading term and one we can ditch in society, when it comes to economic exchange. For most economists, this is inconceivable. But this is what Marx referred to when he projected beyond how to “abolish prices” and “revolutionise the bourgeois economically.” This does NOT mean we need to dispense with prices, whether they are monetary or non-monetary. But this process happens with money anyway, wherever you happen to be – a bottle of water someone possesses in the Sahara versus the same bottle in a Tunbridge Welles news agents will have maybe an equivalent retail price, but someone may trade his or her entire wealth for it in the Sahara. The re-sale ‘value’ to the individual is what dictates exchange level – and the world over gets negotiated for fluctuating levels of figures fictionalised by accountancy risk-management, as if the calculation and transaction was as solid as the articles being negotiated for – on a promise to repay – debt and credit. But what price you could place on the millions of kind freely volunteered acts that happen ever day throughout the globe, often between total strangers? Another reality of abolishing price. Not cost. But how does the PNME achieve for everyone what Marx proposed, where ‘work’ loses its formal meaning and relates to everyday activity?

      Illustration: a group playing cards decide to use matchsticks as indicators of success – so matchsticks determine the transactions from playing a numbers game, but the matchsticks have no value other than as numerical indicators. The numerical values assigned to the cards in the game determine the value not the matchsticks (it is a related parallel system with no value – they could be playing for single units or a kitty, the quantity of which is irrelevant). So, compared with the monetary system and how cost of living is linked with inflation, which does or does not affect wages, production costs, scarcity, price etc; it is entirely possible to have a separate but parallel accounting system with only the agreement of exchanging those units at levels set by the group – separate to what is materially exchanged. In the end, what is traded or exchanged is neither the goods nor services nor items that hold the value, but simply the symbol of exchange or success.

      Example: so society in the form of various organisations, or even just a collective wanting a civic state, decide they want this economy and sit down to determine what it can do. “What of we agree 2 minutes basic unskilled labour can acquire 2 PNME units, which can buy 1 apple” then you’ve got “ah but 2 minutes of this more specialised skill level, or unpalatable job, lets say generates 8 PNME units which can buy 4 apples” – economists are always going to be working out the cost of the apple in relation to all the parameters money assigns to productivity and price as stated earlier. They want an equivalent, so, 1 apple = 0.20 GBP (which = ??? in various other denominations) meaning 2 units = 0.20 GBP – now we have something to pin the PNME down to. 0.10 GBP = 1 PNME unit. So, some supplier getting greedy says – well I’m raising my stock to the value of 0.30 GBP, which means you have to pay me 3 PNME units. But the collective of the PNME economy turn around and say – “raise it all you like, we’ve agreed to keep the PNME as it is so you can either reconsider or lose our business.” raising of the monetary value of an object results in raising the power of the PNME not diluting it. Yet the PNME can remain unchanged or society can forever adjust it against any monetary comparison. So the PNME remains inflation-proof BECAUSE it has no equivalent material or monetary value – only a numeric one between PNME users; (not even a tempting barter exchange value). Society has just simply formed a negotiating economic force to play a numbers game and agreed to use matchsticks or symbols. On top of this we have to factor in the seismic influences of the PNME labour economy reducing monetary production costs to zero in practical terms and hence the knock on effect to material value will be radicalized – “revolutionising the bourgeois economically.

Fundamentally, the units forming measurement from productive or purposed labour is 1 – kinetic energy, 2 – mental effort (some expressed and measurable, some not) and 3 – time (including some rest time); but trying to tie this in to some fixed static economic equivalent is not essential and if it was, it only replicates the issues affecting the monetary system, (what economists and accountants are obsessed with and which is ALSO subject to fictional imposition). Trading in the monetary system is all about perception, scarcity and projection, sheer guesswork and risk. There is no set value between one transaction and another in one place and another and sometimes not even calculated risk, but an individual’s mental assessment of a transaction. Add to this the workings of financialization, loans and interest rates, debt, national debt, fiscal deficits, foreign debt ownership and interest rates – insurance on that and interest rates on the money gained from that, plus trading and contract speculations and unredeemable debt (loss).

Firstly there is nothing to prevent the figure assigned to labour (having no equivalent value to anything) accessing products and services and the natural world, which are artificially assigned value in the monetary economy: (for a comparison, see International Times article; http://internationaltimes.it/covid-capitalism-or-corvee/). This is key: the PNME mirrors the transactional process of computer figures currently assigned value as currency in sales and purchasing, (which is far easier for people to get their heads around), BUT – and this is the biggest but – the PNME figures are a fiction, like assigning points to scrabble letters. So what are accessed within the PNME economy are goods and/or services (which are also generating their individual fictional numerals) – what is exchanged in ACCOUNTING are merely the disconnected valueless PNME figures.

Some wish to relate this to Marx’ Labour Theory Of Value. In principle the PNME can create ‘ownership of the means of production,’ but essentially doesn’t necessitate it and hence removes the conflict of costs and profit with capitalist employers; or it can do this merely as a majority micro and macro market that can dictate terms. (See International Times articles – http://internationaltimes.it/the-end-of-money-part-1-the-cost-of-everything-the-value-of-nothing/ & http://internationaltimes.it/the-end-of-money-part-2-a-new-labour-theory-of-value/). It is a mistake to compare it with Communist, Socialist or Libertarian economies, none of which have produced lasting solutions but more deferring of wealth control. Yanis Varoufakis is now proposing a central community bank of crypto-currency, separate to the monetary banking economy. It can work, but only if its regulation is trustworthy and guaranteed de-centralised. Reliance on a governing body would make it vulnerable to manipulation. And, what is going to fund / generate income in this separate community crypto-currency system? Even Varoufakis anticipates elite capitalists will “resist this with all their might.” The PNME relies on collective monitoring, but most is automatic and is NOT reliant on collective moral ideology. The other advantage being it empowers the individual directly (or rather they empower it), not a body that regulates legal processes to distribute wealth, subject to some of the conflicts and dynamics monetary control is. It offers NO resistance to capitalists except its green agenda and caveats.

 

This empowers the 99% with the means to outnumber and overwhelm any oppressors and reduces the incentives for oppression, (see International Times article – http://internationaltimes.it/covid-capitalism-a-case-for-high-street-resurgence/ ). The PNME is already under our noses in practical terms; this is what neoliberalism has forced – IT IS WHAT WE ALREADY DO & RELEASES WHAT WE KNOW WE HAVE THE INDIVIDUAL AND COLLECTIVE POTENTIAL TO DO, that is being strangled and held to ransom by monetary control and dependency. This prospect can ONLY be offered by the 99% PNME, as employment Is no longer dictated or competed for. They offer it on their terms and earn the rate they or society have collectively decided.

 

 

FOLLOWING ILLUSTRATIONS:

1 – How the PNME inverts neoliberalism;

2 – Generating PNME wealth alongside monetary economy: personal to Macro level;

3 – PNME earnings v monetary costs through individual life;

4– the PNME accounting mechanisms.

 

 

 

Conclusion

1 – The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy already exists and works, exploited without payment by capitalism.

2 – Forming a collective of scale by the 99% transforms this collective into a market dictating economy (corporations always follow the market).

3 – This does not require any money.

4 – This empowers every individual to have an active, self-generated economic stake in his or her future from an early age onwards.

5 – This empowers collective representation and decision-making dictating politics, rather than corporate agendas.

6 – The is enables people to offer their chosen form of employment (most likely part-time for the agreed PNME rate set by society, or by themselves for specialisation or where resources are scarce) and removes welfare state for those who are incapacitated or limited.

7 – This does not eliminate money but eliminates dependency upon money, reducing monetary power to dictate circumstances.

8 – This can be formed quickly and at scale and enables rapid green industrialisation and resource-based development and production to address climate emergency at greatest speed and scale.

9 – This uses existing technology and systems.

10 – This reduces economic conflict and competition, eliminating debt & poverty; encourages international accord and cooperation.

Finer details and analysis of the PNME can be found in the book ‘A Chance For Everyone: The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy’

(Entails 6 year research of 66 Authors; 649 global networking NGOs, charities, self-sustaining networks, anti-poverty, relief & environmental campaign organisations; political social empowerment and protest movements; NEMs, 70 alternative, complementary, circular and crypto-currencies; non-monetary & free sharing economies).  Copyright – Kendal Eaton. (Sounding Off UK Publications 2020).

Document copyright – Kendal Eaton 01 August 2021.

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Thanks to Frank Bromley – (Sidney, Australia) for hammering it out from differing perspectives.

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Wheat-scape 1

 

Ingredients

Camera
Printer
Primer (emulsion will do)
3B pencils.
Cobalt blue and yellow ochre acrylic for backwash.
Assortment of oil paints.
White and blue oil pastels

 

Method

Walk the South Downs from Eastbourne to Alfriston and find a wheat field with landscape and sky.   Proportions – 4oz wheat field and 2oz each of sky and land.
Photograph it.
Print it out at home – A4.
Scribble all over the back in soft 3B pencil.
Prime a breadboard with emulsion.  (Or any other board, but breadboards are good as they come already framed – and wheat is to do with bread.)
When dry lay the image on top and trace the proportions of wheat, land and sky onto it. Your board may be bigger than A4 so just extend it.  This is not cheating, but saving time.
Cover with washes of ochre and blue acrylic.
When dry work into it with small brushes and oil paint.  Draw into that, paying some attention to the original image.
Scribble accordingly with white or blue pastel.
If moved to do so, draw into wheat field with pointed end of brush.
Now forget the original image and make of it wheat you will.
Go and buy a new bread board.
Repeat recipe with any ingredients you fancy

 

Jan Woolf

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Butterfly  (Yesterday)

 

The white butterfly alights by the flower
Becomes the hidden, still, brown leaf
Yesterday was alive: Imogen on the mandolin;
Leonie’s dreams, Excelsior, a fine picture;
William, a poem of the hot sun & us beneath;
Godfrey describes the wind, we listen, win 

Our world; hearts warmed sitting ‘round
Alice sings; memory melts, silent, still
Gentle release, words, desire, let go
This moment I belong to you.  A sound
Softens fragile colours to one, and will
Join flower, meadow, tree, you, me; sow 

This harvest is a simple one
Beneath the clear and baking sky
Our food and drink from each of us
Comforts shared by friends, father, son
Mother, daughter; all see this butterfly
Shine, flicker, be still; our life ever thus

 

© Christopher 2020/2021

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The obsession to perfect

The obsession to perfect brings to
focus nausea destitution selfish traits
with reckless ways, compound pains
beyond share an idea of completing

a lock jaw of the cognitions
to look what at what can be felt
in a morass even when alone at supper
measured slices of the moon

mourning for one year was enough
then felt easy without sweet food at breakfast
deaf to strains of music, without evening cushions
dressed for an alternative to indulgence

the active and contemplative life
moderated answered by years of mourning.
study that cannot accompany action
collaboration with construction

flowers concede to berries
concede to bird baths
wind rush blur of horizon
in this place thought without distance

the relation of compass and set-square
procedure as part of the process
held to discard the trivial
in favour of the twisty

a plumb-line swings in the half light
becomes that which always wavers 
or wobbles in the calm of a fusion
an opera imploded diversion

Allen Fisher

Allen Fisher, proceeds from the garden, verso 5, after Dante, Paradiso, 2021

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Caaaaaaakkkkkee

 

Atlanta Wiggs

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LEAVING

It was a great culture and it faded.
They always do – in the failing is 
their glory. Shining uniform clouds 
to populate a sky over autobahns
and genitals scrubbed clean, laws
to regulate coughing. The girls just love
English but speak it like good Kraftwerk 
lyrics. In truth, there are vast symmetries
of boredom, flaring to violence and then
reclining on a 3pm beach of gold blue 
where nothing happens until a shutter 
opens – a gorgeous waft, fine cooking,
eaten over hours.

You would argue, who’d reject this? 

The bookshelves in the heat, process
endless to the channel. There comes
the welcome rain, not ugly nor angry.

As an idea, I hate it – only the reality
worked, untrammelled, unstable as
cities built with water for walls – the 
blue and white encircling but perfect.

.

Paul Sutton

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THIS BOMB



This bomb fell on the playground.
Badly aimed.

This bomb got the deserving
killed or maimed.

This bomb? This bomb,

something of a misunderstanding

but ‘just’ and for the good of the weak.

This bomb – for the greedy:
‘Good riddance,’ it said,
Though it couldn’t speak.

This bomb blew off the roof
and this man beneath it’s head.

This bomb fell on the graveyard
And it blew up the dead.

 

 

.

Phil Bowen

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Un-Revolutionary Behaviour

1990

 

            In the warm kitchen of a remote farmhouse on the flat lands of northern France, the telephone rings. An old man stirs in the chair next to the blackened range he grew up tending. His daughter in law, herself now in late middle age, wipes the flour from her fingers, on to her apron. As she crosses the kitchen to where the telephone hangs on the wall, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, leaving a streak of white across her cheek.
            Too soon for anyone to hear, she says ‘Hello’, as she lifts the receiver. The coiled cable is tangled and she sighs and tuts as she tries to loosen it. ‘Hello, bonjour’, she says again, now ready to talk.
‘Marie-Pierre?’, says a woman’s voice.
‘Oui, this is Marie-Pierre’.
‘It’s Valerie’
‘Bonjour Valerie, Ca va?
‘Yes, yes I’m fine, are you OK?’ Marie-Pierre sensed concern in Valerie’s voice.
‘Yes, I’m fine, why?’
‘Its just that’, Valerie took a deep breath and began, ‘whilst I was driving along the main road this morning, I saw someone crossing the fields towards your place, and you know, what with the rain, and the fields only being ploughed last week, and what with all the horror stories you hear on the news,  I mean why would anyone cross the fields? They are so muddy, and that mud sticks like nothing else. My Grand Mama said as many soldiers died in the mud as were shot. So I saw this person crossing the fields and, and….well my mind it just went in to over drive, with all sorts of possibilities, you know?’
Marie-Pierre waits for Valerie’s frantic energy to pass through her.
‘Oh Valerie’, she says, laughing slightly. ‘You have nothing to worry about. A stranger did call at the house this morning.  It was a young man, well a child really.’
‘What did he want?’ Valerie, ever impatient cuts in.
‘He was hungry’. Marie-Pierre laughs a little louder now. ‘It was ever so funny’.
 Marie Pierre’s laughter is infectious and Valerie’s voice smiles down the phone line.  ‘Funny how?’ she asks.
            Marie-Pierre begins her story. ‘We were having a usual day. Father was in his chair dreaming and I was folding the linen I had brought in from the line. I managed to get it in just before the rain, but it still felt a little damp so I was hanging it on the rack over the range. Just as I was pulling the rack up there was a knock at the front door. It took me quite by surprise. I don’t ever remember anyone coming to the front door in all my years of living here. I stopped for a minute to consider it, and there is another knock, harder this time. So hard it wakes Father from his sleep, and he sits up in his chair. A little afraid I think. We look at each other while there is a third knock.
            I go to the window, but can not see anyone, and anyway the rain is so hard, you saw how it came down, I can barely see beyond the glass. In front of the door is a big pile of boxes, goodness knows what it is, it’s been there so long, so I call out, ‘Go round the back. Use the other door’. But, they ignore me and knock again. By now I am becoming agitated and father shouts, ‘open the door, open the door’, ‘OK, OK’, I say, ‘It’s not that easy, look’, and I begin to push the boxes away from the door. There is another knock. Why they don’t just go round the back, I do not know. ‘Wait a minute, yes, yes’, I say, ‘I’m coming, for goodness sake, just wait a moment’. Eventually I managed to pull the door open. Father and I could barely believe our eyes. It was ever so funny, we are still laughing now, all these hours later. I’m dying for Lionel to get home so I can tell him’.
Valerie joined in with Marie-Pierre’s laughter. ‘What was it?’ she asked, ‘What was so funny?’
Marie-Pierre gave a musical sigh to end her laughter and shook her head. The old man smiled in his sleep.
‘So, after much huffing and puffing. Straining and pulling, I manage to pull open the door.  Outside the rain is pouring off the roof by the bucket load. (It must be flowing over the top of the gutter). And there standing before me is the sorriest sight I have ever seen. A boy, maybe sixteen, seventeen, skinny and pale, his long hair stuck to his face. Dressed only in trousers and a t-shirt. Thick in mud up to his knees. Oh, goodness me, it was funny.’ Marie-Pierre laughed again.
‘That must have been who I saw. The person walking across the fields’, interrupted Valerie again. ‘What is so funny?’
Marie-Pierre continues. ‘Father and I are stunned to silence. I look at father, he looks at me, I look at the boy. The boy looks past me to the room and father in his chair. This is when it gets funny, the boy holds out his hand with a one franc piece in it and he says ‘I  very woman, do you have the bread for me?’ Father and I look at each other and we both roar with laughter. ‘Pardon?’ I say. He repeats, ‘I very woman, have you the bread for me?’ Again we laugh and laugh. Day after day we live in this house, never seeing another living soul, then, when finally someone comes along…well goodness me, we’ve not laughed like that for years. Again the boy says, ‘I very woman. Do you have you the bread for me?’ The rain is still pouring down, he looks like a drowned puppy. Father and I look at each other, I lift my hands and shrug. Not knowing how to respond. ‘I think he is English’, says Father. ‘And not women but hungry. I think he wants to buy some bread’. ‘He wants to be in the bakery then, not here’ I say, ‘everything but our bread for the day is frozen’. ‘Tell him that’, says Father, laughing. So I turn to the boy, and trying not to laugh I say. ‘I have only frozen bread’, to which the boy pleads, ‘S’il vous plait. I very woman.’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘It doesn’t matter how much a woman you are’, I say ‘the only bread I have is frozen’, which has Father is in fits of giggles. ‘For goodness sake’, he says, ‘just get the boy a baguette from the freezer’, I can’t take any more. So, I shut the door and with both Father and I laughing and repeating the boys words, I go off to the back room and take a baguette. from the freezer.When I return and open the front  door again the boy has walked away, he must have thought I had told him to go or something. Anyway I call through the rain and he comes back. I hold the baguette. and wait for him to give me the franc. As soon as he gives it to me and I give him the bread, I shut the door. I didn’t want to see his face when he realised the bread was frozen, and anyway I was getting wet.  I ask you Valerie, what sort of a fool is out in the middle of nowhere without a coat in the pouring rain, with no food and not even being able to speak the language? Honestly, what an idiot. He was so funny. We are still laughing now, aren’t we Father?’
Marie-Pierre turns to face the old man in the chair, who sure enough, is chuckling away with his eyes still closed.
            Marie-Pierre hears the latch on the back door being lifted.  ‘Valerie, I must go. Lionel is home. Au revoir, au revoir’. Without waiting for the reply she hangs up the phone, and anticipating the fun she is about to have with her husband, straightens her apron, and fixes her hair. 
            Lionel comes in to the room, dressed in his railway uniform, tosses his hat on to the table and sits down. Without greeting him, Marie-Pierre places a half full bottle of red wine and two glass on to the table in front of him.  Rubbing his hand across his balding head he says to the room, ‘I saw the saddest thing today’, he shakes his head and pours himself a glass of wine. ‘It is un revolutionary, I tell you, to see such a thing in modern France’.
Marie-Pierre crosses the room with a glass of pastis in her hand and passes it to the old man, who takes it without opening his eyes. Lionel, lifts his glass to the air, makes a silent toast and takes a sip of wine before placing his glass, carefully, back on the table. ‘A young lad, in his prime of life. Drenched to the skin, mud up to his knees, sat, shivering on my train. Peeling flakes of bread from a frozen baguette. When I asked him for his ticket he just shrugged like he didn’t understand, I didn’t have the heart to throw him off, so I bought him a ticket myself. 
‘Ha’. Says Marie-Pierre, ‘That’s him. The same boy. He came here, that was our baguette’.
‘Pardon?’ asks Lionel, reaching over to his wife’s face, smiling slightly, as he wipes the flour from her cheek.
‘He must have left here and walked to the station’, says Marie-Pierre, warmed by her husband’s affection and pouring herself a glass of wine. ‘Honestly, it was so funny’.
            Lionel sat and watched as Marie-Pierre acts out the story for him. Crossing the room, opening the front door, imitating the sorry excuse for a boy she and Father had encountered that day. Doing the best she can to copy his voice and language. After his second glass, Lionel forgets his pity for the boy, appreciates the comedy of the scene, and is laughing along. Just as he would at every family gathering for years to come as Marie-Pierre tells the tale of the ‘very woman who wanted the bread’.

 

 

 

Ben Greenland

 

 

 

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COMMEMORATIVE COIN

 

I made a commemorative coin which you can now order from my shop. They’re £9.99 each or £16.49 for two (1649 was the last year a monarch was beheaded in Britain)

 

 

Darren Cullen

spellingmistakescostlives.com

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SAUSAGE LIFE 191

 

PUBLIC INFORMATION FILM: CLICK ON BORIS’S FAT FACE

 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano
The column which believes that where there’s a turd, there’s a polisher

 

READER: The Olympics – I’m lovin’ it

MYSELF:  I can tell by the amount of junk food you are ordering and the increasing strain on your trouser waistband. Wasn’t that a Supersize bacon ‘n cheese extra cheesy double MacDogwhistleburger that the man from UberEat just delivered?

READER: Yes, with extra hormones. There just isn’t time to mess around preparing and cooking stuff when there are so many Olympic medals flying about. What about that gold in the pommel horse event? Who pommels horses better than Team UK?

MYSELF: Apparently, pommel horses are flying off the shelves at Sports Direct. All the kids want one.

READER: There you go. Horse Pommeling is the UK’s fastest growing sport – would you prefer your kids to be pommeling horses or working as mules for some ruthless gang trafficking class-A drugs to minors?

MYSELF: Sorry, but as usual you’re only getting half the picture. You really don’t want to hear this, but pommel horses live short, brutal lives. Once they have ceased to make money for their owners, they are packed into trucks and transported to Eastern Europe where they are shot and sold off to be processed into dog food.

READER: I really didn’t want to hear that.

MYSELF: I warned you.

 

MOVIE PREVIEWS

Top Gear – The Movie (Carp Pictures)

Following the huge box office success of Waiting for Godot –The Musical, the fledgling production company now has a high-tech, big-budget flick in pre-production. Top Gear – The Movie boasts a roster of top stars with Hovis director Ridley Scott at the helm. Thanks to the latest deep fake techniques, the movie will feature stunning stop-motion special effects by the late Ray Harryhausen.

Former Top Gear presenter and school bully Hugh Jarce will be played by Scientologist ex-jockey Tom Cruise. Long, CGI-generated legs will be added during post-production. The dim, short one whose name no-one can remember will be played by a 3-D hologram of the late ex-Monkee, Davy Jones.

James May will play himself as a cameo of himself, as he has done for many years. Shooting starts in December at Pinewood.

CARP PICTURES IS WHOLLY OWNED BY HUGH JARCE

Suck! Dyson with Death (Silibili Films)

Controversial cult film director Erik Von Pirate has an exciting new project in the pipeline. The protagonist of his latest low-budget epic is a cordless Dyson V11 vacuum which mutates and goes on the rampage after being used by a cleaner in a pregnancy testing laboratory.
SUCK! is about climate change and diversity, like most of my work,” said Von Pirate during a speech at Sunderland’s Last Chance Independent Film Festival, where a retrospective of his work is being shown, “although with some of my earlier films, such as Tits Out for the Lads! or Moby’s Dick, I would respectfully leave it to the viewer to make up his, her or its own mind. Art, like truth, is subjective.”

WARRIORS: “NEW SIGNING WILL WOW FANS”

So declared José Pypebahn, the feisty Spanish sausage millionaire and controversial new owner of Hastings & St Leonards’ Warriors FC, in a move he hopes will patch up his recent clash with angry supporters, disappointed by a string of 8-0 defeats. It is hoped that the purchase of pink-booted Albanian centre back Glaxo Zog from Herstmonceaux Cannibals FC, will shore up the Warriors goal-leaking defence. “Zog is no one-trick pony,” said Pypebahn at a press conference. “He is not only able to operate as a roaming midfield dynamo whose blistering bursts of speed have been described as “brief”, but he can also juggle with 3 balls and is learning to ride a unicycle. He can play on either wing, as long as it is not on the right, and his ruthless finishing has often been compared with Ronaldo’s, although unfavourably”. When questioned about Zog’s transfer fee, rumoured to be in excess of £1,000, the Catalanian chorizo magnate chose to remain tight-lipped.

TV PICKS

Inspector Twollet
Netflix
Season 46 Ep 112:
 Holocaustic Soda

When an unidentified body is discovered in a down-at-heel transient motel, crushed between the jaws of a Corby trouser press, Stanley Twollet, unconventional detective inspector on the verge of retirement is assigned to the case, and must put his complicated domestic difficulties behind him in the search for clues. A chance meeting with a former fiancée recently released from a secure psychiatric institution triggers unpleasant memories which Twollet struggles to suppress in order to pursue the investigation to its violent, unexpected conclusion.
(dir: Zig Zaggersen)

HORROR FEATURES
Jaws XII 

Saturday 10pm ITV 8

A prize won by a small boy at a funfair is flushed down the lavatory by his strict Mormon parents who disapprove of goldfish. Cast adrift in a Victorian sewer system awash with toxic chemical waste, the terrified animal is constantly pursued by carnivorous newts and giant mutant alligators. Finally, the goldfish itself begins to change, developing enormous jaws full of sharp pointed teeth and deadly poisonous barbs. Due to a leaking sewer pipe, the mutated monster is pumped into a reservoir, where it begins to mate with the carp population. Local fisherman Ray Palooka smells a rat when the half-eaten corpses of local teenage windsurfers begin washing ashore.

LETTER LOSS
For reasons of space I am able to publish only the 
replies to reader’s letters this week, not that it makes a great deal of difference

To Mrs Andrea Haiku of Babylon, Kent.

That is as it may be, but what a lot of people forget about is warm revenge. If you’re having a barbecue in November say, or if you’ve just been rescued after falling through thin ice on a frozen lake, a bowl of warm revenge, served perhaps with a glass of mulled Schadenfreude, can be just the ticket for restoring the equilibrium and bringing a warm glow to the cheeks.

To Brigadier Damien Gargoyle of Upper Dicker

No, I am afraid that is an old wives’ tale. To put it simply, toads are like slinkies in reverse. When confronted by a flight of stairs, bufo-bufo will instinctively form itself into a ball, secrete anti-gravity mucus from it’s parotoid gland, and roll upwards. In 1959, a Natterjack toad was placed on the first step of the Eiffel Tower, and reached the top in a record-breaking 21 days 7 hours and 10 minutes.

Sausage Life!

SPONSORED LYNX

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

click image for video

 
 

MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

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CLICK FOR VIDEO

 

SPONSORED ADVERTISEMENT

“Sometimes you just need a tool that doesn’t do anything”

 
By Colin Gibson
 
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‘In Response’ Exhibition

 

‘In Response’ Exhibition

Nunnery Gallery 31st August – 5th September 2021

In a unique year, a group of 29 London artists connected by the Turps Art School Correspondence Course 2020/21 worked in a back and forth dialogue with their mentors, not unlike the motion of an artist’s paintbrush across a canvas. 

United by this and an interest in furthering questions of what painting and making could mean at this time, they present their first group show.

 

Private View Thursday 2nd September 6-9pm

 Nunnery Gallery, 181 Bow Road, London, E3 2SJ

 

“Imagine you are in a very, very remote place and post takes a couple of months to arrive. Or you are above the arctic circle! You send images to an esteemed colleague and await response. The response comes months later. You are unable to ask questions of what you just read because it’s a letter, no Internet, no phones. What then happens is that you slow right down, you listen to and digest every last drop of sense in that letter. You sniff it, you sleep with it under your pillow and you constantly re-read it until you suck every last ounce of anything useful from it. You then make work and any accompanying comments that are posted off with your next work upload will be very deeply thought about. That’s it, period! Babbling, garbling impatient ‘I must know now’ hysteria has ruined people’s ability to absorb and reflect. In doing this course you have enabled a slightly different process to take place. You learn from what you already know. The mentor is a guide. You do the work. It works! Read, reflect then make!”

Marcus Harvey, Director Turps Art School

 

In Response Exhibition (@cohort.art) • Instagram photos and videos

www.instagram.com › cohort

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Left Foot Forward

Saturday, 10 July 2021

Paris Commune – a revolution of more than its own time

A revolutionary tradition has always been strong in France. “From childhood,” wrote Eugene Varlin, a member of the 1st International, “people are brought up having revolution glorified … boys who cannot work out their own pay, who do not read newspapers, rush out as soon as there is any disturbance in the street.” This applies to Parisians most of all who are still proud that they destroyed the Bastille in 1789, leading to the execution of King Louis XIV.

When war broke out between France and Germany in 1870, The International Workingmen’s Association called for a General Strike against the war in all countries of Europe. It was just a hope as workers were gripped by patriotic fervour while Emperor Napoleon III was half-hearted in his attempt to check a German advance. On 9 August 1870, a large crowd gathered in the Place de la Concorde to demand the Emperor’s abdication and the arming of the people. 

The defence of Paris now lay with the National Guard, the armed militia which had sprung up after the fall of the Bastille. Their allegiance was to the people rather than the State and the government was more frightened of  the people than they were of the German army. One minister said that there is a fear that “the agitators would use their arms more for social upheaval than for national defence”. With Paris under siege from the Prussian army, by the end of the year, 300,000 Parisians were under arms.

The government proceeded to to make peace as soon as possible and on 3 September 1870 the French army surrendered to the Germans at Sedan. The Republic was declared, supported by the old bourgeois parties who acted to prevent a social revolution.  The people of Paris, however, were demanding defence of their city, universal elections and municipal freedoms. A “Commune” was declared by delegates from the arrondissements in January 1871 and the Revolution was about to begin.

The Paris Commune was the first revolutionary upheaval in France in which the working class played the leading role. “Its true secret was this,” wrote Karl Marx. “It was essentially a working class government, the product of the struggle of the producing against the appropriating class, the political form at last discovered under which to work out the economic emancipation of Labour.”

The government moved to Bourdeaux, headed by August Thiers who had suppressed workers revolts in Lyons and Paris in 1834 and 1848, referring to them as “that vile multitude”. Paris was defended by the Commune, with cannons placed on the Montmartre hillside. The army attempted to move these guns on the night of 20 March, but the officers in charge forgot to bring horses to draw the guns away and the populace was alerted. They fraternised with the soldiers and drew them away from their commanders. The army retreated to Versailles, but the Commune made its first and most fatal mistake. They failed to pursue them.

The Commune had two months to make its mark on history. “Time,” Marx said, “was not allowed to the Commune.” The political spectrum of the Commune was wide: Jacobins, socialists, members of the International and anarchists. The provinces supported Paris so long as municipal liberties remained a Commune demand. The more revolutionary Commune characteristics found strong support in the larger French towns, such as Lyons and Marseilles (where there was a short-lived Commune). The countryside remained antagonistic, a conflict that stretched back to 1848 when the peasants had supported Napoleon III against Republican Paris, helping to assault the city’s barricades. 

For many Communards the Commune was not revolutionary enough. Some wanted to seize the National Bank. “The appropriation of the Bank of France would have been enough to put an end with terror to the Versaillais”, declared Marx. But the Commune supported the setting up of workers cooperatives which resulted in ten large factories taken over by their workers. The socialist paper Affranchi called this, “The glory of the Paris Commune, rallying and bringing over definitely all workers to its side.” But the attempts by some of the Commune’s delegates to take over the monopolist factories for the workers were not taken up.

Decrees on educational reform were ambitious although little was accomplished. The poet FB Clement faced the issue in the pages of Le Cri du Peuple. “What will remain if the people are defeated?” he asked, “if not the principles enshrined in its decrees. They can kill us if they wish, they can rip down our posters and remove all traces from the walls, but the principles that have been affirmed will still exist, and whatever is done, whatever is said, they are monuments that the Versaillais cannot destroy either by strokes of the pen or shots of the cannon.”

In Lenin’s words the Paris Commune was “a festival of the oppressed”  which lasted long enough to show mankind a possible new future. Direct democracy of delegates replaced the parliamentary representatives. The Commune declared that “those elected by the people have the duty of keeping in constant touch with their electors in order to give account of the mandate they have received and to submit themselves to questions.”

The fighting for a total involvement of the people in their own democracy gripped Paris. The newspaper Rappel declared, “Today Paris has become truly pictureaque with the cries of its paper-sellers from dawn to dusk. It is a permanent concert, a sort of perpetual fair.”

Debates took place, at the Hotel de Ville, and in cafes and clubs. At the Club St Lieu they discussed  ‘Whether the rich should be shot or simply made to give back what they had stolen from the people.” The vote taken declared that they should first surrender their ill-gotten gains and then be shot. A woman at the Club des Proletaires suggested that as a last line of defence women should march to the basrricades with their children. “We shall see if the solders fire on them. Perish our children if necessary, but the Commune must live.” The League of Prostitutes met and declared that, “We are 25,000 and we will rip open the guts of the Versaillais.” Some took up arms, others became nurses. Many died on the barricades.

In the words of the historian Stewart Edwards, “The Commune was a truly revolutionary event, the breakthrough into a new order where what seemed to be barely possible, however fleetingly, became actual.” 

Neverthelees, a gap existed between the demands and hopes of the people and the actions of the Communards. Eduard Vaillant, editor of Affliche Rouge, expressed this difference when he wrote, “Instead of a revolutionary Commune, Paris had an elected Commune. It did its duty and it did its best. But because of its electoral origins, it could not have the unity of action and the energy of a committee arising spontaneously, from a people in revolt.” A Communard, August Malin, was later to admit, “The men of the Commune were not up to their task. One is never up to a people in revolt.”

The army broke into Paris in the last week of May 1871. A massacre took place. Le Figaro spoke of the need, “to purge Paris. Never has such an opportunity presented itself for curing Paris of the moral gangrene that has been consuming it for the past twenty years. What is a republican? A savage beast … we must track down those who are hiding, like wild animals. Without pity, without anger. Simply with the steadfastness of an honest man doing his duty.” Le Monsieur Universal said that the Communards should be treated as “the most appalling monsters ever seen in the history of humanity.” Le Bien Public spoke of the need for a “Commune Hunt”.

Paris was put to the sack by 130,000 troops. Upto 30,000 people were slaughtered with corpses thrown into the River Seine. Blood ran down the streets. Bourgeois women  poked at bodies with their sunshades while their husbands boasted to theit wives and children of the numbers they had killed.

The dead took their revenge. The large numbers of corpses in the streets threatened pestilence. There were over a thousand piled outside the Trocadero. Outside the Ecole Polytechnique the bodies were three deep in a line one hundred metres long. Limbs were sticking out of the ground in Place St Jaques. Flies were everywhere. Even the London Times condemned, “the inhuman laws of revenge under which the troops had been shooting, bayonetting, ripping up prisoners, both women and children, during the last six days.”

As well as the 30,000 killed in this way, a further 25,000 were exiled to island prisons where many died. The ruling class exacted their revenge in the only way they considered appropriate, with a bloodpath.

Once the city was subdued, the national government celebrated its victory by constructing a monument in ‘expiation’ for the crimes of the Commune – the Sacre Couer, a white basilica dominating Montmartre, which had been the centre of Red Paris.

If you visit Paris and the Sacre Couer think of why it is there and think of the people defending that hill at the end of their short-lived Commune. In the Jardin de Luxembourg visualise the corpses heaped there by the troops after the carnage on the barricades of Rue St Michel. Then take Metro Line 2 to Philippe-Auguste station and visit Père Lachaise cemetery, Of course pay homage to Oscar Wilde and Frédéric Chopin, Gertrude Stein, Molière, Marcel Proust and Jim Morrison. But don’t leave without a visit to the momument to the Mur des Fédérés. On 28 May 1871, 147 Communards were put against this wall, shot and thrown into a trench below.

Tweny years ago, I was standing at this spot when an old man approached me and said that his father had first taken him here on his shoulders. “Tourists come to Paris, and they know about the 1789 Revolution, but how many know about the revolution of 1871? How many of us French even  know?” He was silent for a long time, then raised a clenched fist to his temple. “The truth about what happened here has been hidden for too long. It was a revolution of more than its own time. And it is our duty to keep their struggle and sacrifice alive.”

Walking back to the Metro station, I remembered a Mexican proverb, “They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds”.

 

 

 

This is written on the 150th anniversary of the Paris Commune

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The launch of The Electric Garden/Middle Earth

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Preganziol Suite

 

goldfinch sings softly
amongst leaning sunflowers
harvest ecru seeds

gooseberries
once precious
jewels
amongst
hedges
along the dirt
road now devoured
& forgotten
mislaid  seasons
& careless memories

hedgehog meanders
fear not for she is too stout
ripened raspberries

 

.

TERRENCE SYKES

Preganziol is a village on the mainland above Venice Italy

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  Imbecile

 

 

Had a cousin insane and was himself 
Insane before, has that restless
Hesitating way of a dull weak minded Tawdry child and fancies
Rawcliffe Hall is rightly his, becomes Incoherent when told to justify this
Claim, says he need do no work now
But can spend his days in idleness…

I had faith
In thold squire,
Faith that eed do
Right by me,
Recognise his only son,
D
o right, as well,
By my old mam
And if this is all my fancy
Explain the three Queens
Who hailed her as sister,
Explain the three Kings
Who knelt before me,
Explain the angels
Who sing me to sleep.            

He was once fallen from a cart,
His skull left so deeply dented
I can insert my finger knuckle deep,
Was committed by his brother who fears Him turning violent and asks that he be kept Here as
long as he needs be.

 

 

 

.

Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

 

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp

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Split

What if I die today?
The sun will continue to rise every morning.
The river will take its regular course.
The birds will chatter.
The winds will blow in its direction.
No difference will take place.
And what if I live today?
The world will split into two.
In one part, the sun will rise.
In another, my hope will fall.
In one the river will flow and-
In other the heavy pain.
In one someone will start to dream.
In other my heart will stop to beat.
In one the birds will chatter and-
In other my cry will go through and beyond.
In one the whimsical wind, in its way.
In other my breathe will fluctuate.
Life and death! Life and death!
What if I die tomorrow?
The world will earn me some grief.
And next day it’s all memory- –
My heart, my breathe, my cry and me.
Only the sun is perfect and I’m pieced.
Only the river is deep and I’m so hollow.
Only the birds are free and I’m stuck.
Only the wind is permanent and I’m lost.
World followed! I failed!
And what if I live tomorrow?
My scar will have no effect on the earth.
The earth will go on and on and on.
My will for live, will not reach to the sky.
The sky will remain unreached for ever.
My melancholy will not turn anyone.
Not anyone will take a share of it.
It will die along with me or It will live if I……

……so! What if I die today?
Or I live tomorrow?
The world will split into two:
One, unchanged!
Another, upside down!

 

 

 

By, Tiyasha Khanra
Photo Nick Victor

 

 

Bio – Tiyasha Khanra is a poet, live in Kolkata, India. Poetry is her alter ego. She lives in poetry, feeds in poetry and dies in poetry

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Number 9 live

The Beatles/arr. Matt Marks Alarm Will Sound – from multimedia show “1969”

 
 
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Stoned Circus Radio Show Best of 20/21

Stoned Circus Radio Show – Garage & Psychedelia from all over the world (from the 60’s to the 00’s) Freak out the jam !

he 60 minutes long show superbly highlights psychedelic music, garage punk, , mods, Rock’n’Roll, Rockabilly, punk rock, psychedelia, acid-rock, beat, r’n’b, soul & early funk, space-rock, exotic sounds with sitarfuzz from the 60’s to NOW !

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Splinter – a lost melody (or two)?

A  few reminiscences from Alan Dearling

Co-founder, Bill Elliott, of the vocal duo, Splinter, passed away in June 2021. At one point in time, back in 1974, he and his musical partner, Bob Purvis, edged into the limelight of fame with the single, ‘Costafine Town’ from their debut album, ‘The Place I Love’.  Another potential hit was ‘Drink All Day’ (Got to find your own way home) which was a very catchy ditty, but it was deemed too risqué by the Beeb. Without enough airplay it became something of a musical casualty.

However, the main reason for the music-business buzz around the band was former Beatle, George Harrison, who mentored the two-man band that was Splinter. Indeed, for their first album released on George’s own personal Dark Horse label, George actually is credited more times on the sleeve notes than either of the Splinter boys! But, George was always a Dark Horse and his credits include:

Moog synthesizer: P. Roducer

Guitars and dobro: Hari Georgeson

Percussion: Jai Raj Harisein

Producer: George Harrison

And the other musicians included a considerable roll-call of the great and the good, including Klaus Voorman – bass; Alvin Lee – guitars; Organ – Billy Preston; Piano – Gary Wright and Jim Keltner – Drums.  

A really rather fab black and white video collage for ‘Costafine Town’ displays the talents of some of the UK’s finest photographers. Featuring the stunning photography of John Bulmer, Colin Jones, Don McCullin and Bert Hardy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBkQ6kzissM

The songs and images of Splinter were deeply rooted in their own Geordie heritage, especially from in and around South Tyneside. The scenes and sounds of pubs, pits, heavy industry and working class life. A little geographical puzzle still surrounds the location of Costafine Town. According to John Simpson Kirkpatrick on Youtube:

“Costa Fine Town (real name Corstorphine Town) was named after business man Robbie Corstorphine, who settled in South Shields, but hailed from Corstorphine, a village west of Edinburgh.”

I think that ‘Drink All Day’ would have been a great sing-along-Beatles’ ditty. And it features some characteristically stunning George Harrison guitar licks:

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

According to Wikipedia:

“Bill Elliot (one ‘t’) was featured on an Apple single (#1835) ‘God Save Us’ b/w ‘Do the Oz’ both written by Lennon/Ono and under the moniker of: “Bill Elliot and The Plastic Oz Band” on the A side. The B side was the “Elastic Oz Band”. Elliot was also featured on the 45rpm picture sleeve.”

Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b0qz-FJbuWk

 

 

 

John wrote both songs in support of ‘Oz’ underground magazine and as a protest about the implementation of the UK’s obscenity laws. I think Bill and John both sang on the A side, which was originally entitled: “God Save Oz”. This sounds pretty much the same in a Liverpool accent.

Wikipedia comments:

“In 2019 both members of Splinter, realising their recordings were not on the market and had not been for some considerable time, decided to commence a Legacy Project, thus ensuring that unreleased material will be made available to fans.

There is an official website:  https://www.splinterlegacy.com/

and a new album titled “Never Went Back”, was issued October 2020. This album is a straightforward acoustic album, capturing the duo in the studio as they would have been heard live in concert. (Gonzo Multimedia, Cat No 207916).”

A second Splinter legacy album, ‘Live in England’ is currently due to be released in 2021:

https://www.gonzomultimedia.co.uk/

Splinter’s output was better known outside of the UK, especially in Australia and Japan, where they actually recorded in Japanese! In addition to ‘The Place I Love’, their discography from Wikipedia lists:

1975: Splinter (Dark Horse DH2) Promo album of acoustic demos released in plain white sleeve. Said to have been limited to 100 copies.

1975: Harder to Live (US Dark Horse SP-22006) (UK AMLH 22006) (Japan King GP-270)[16]

1976: World Popular Song Festival in Tokio ’76 (Yamaha YL 7615)

1977: Two Man Band (US Dark Horse DH 3073 or Warner K 17009 ) (UK DRC 8439) (Japan Warner P-10425D)

1979: Streets at Night (Columbia YX-7228-AX)

1979: Our Favourite Songs (Columbia YX-7240-AX)

1980: Splinter (Bellaphon BPLP 002)

1981: Sail Away (Columbia Japan YX-7292-AX)

 

 

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Gilded


Quail on the cusp of darkness
explore between the grass blades
for remnants from yesterday’s rain
while clouds face off
against the sunset. The mysteries
are flying home to roost: is light
the universe’s way to suggest
that mountains have a soul? Is it
music transcribed
when the ridgeline is a fingerboard?
Or the alchemy by which
the flicker, opening its wings, scatters
gold dust from beneath them.

 

.

Words and image by David Chorlton

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Roelof Bakker Interview


The Spots That Never Went (Spectra Polaroid, elastic band, screws) Roelof Bakker

 

I have known artist/photographer Roelof Bakker for ten years, since he produced and published Still (2012) a book of his photographs from the disused Hornsey Town Hall with accompanying short stories. Each writer was asked to choose a photo and I chose a clock stuck at ten o’clock, which somehow brought forth a story about Napoleon and the ten-hour clock: but enough of that. Roelof Bakker’s work is tender and sinuous, with beauty and sometimes menace. I asked him a question for IT.

JW –  Once you see something, and it strikes you as a possibility for art, what are your internal processes? Do you start with an idea and look for a corresponding image? Or does something you see in the world jump-start something in you? What happens first? 

RB – Thanks Jan… Interesting question, it’s a tricky one because with each project, or with individual works, I use different approaches, it’s a random process – it’s about surrendering or responding to a feeling or emotion, to a thought or a question, to a memory, to self-reflection, to the subconscious, to an event, to a text or words, to a physical thing (a work of art, the natural world, a sign), to a person, to a place or often to process itself.

My work always has a personal connection, from my statement, ‘With my creative projects I process life experiences and events, playing with form and format, exploring issues relating to health, history, queerness and the environment.’

The project The Spots That Never Went evolved from a Polaroid photograph I took of a rotten, spotted, apple held tenderly in the palm of my hand. It reminded me of a press photograph of Princess Diana holding the hand of a man living with AIDS in 1987, an event helping signify the end of misinformation about how HIV could be transmitted. The spots on the apple connect visually to the appearance of Kaposi’s sarcoma, a skin cancer which manifested itself in the later stages of AIDS. The Polaroid image and the connection to the Princess Diana photograph (a symbol of care, love and understanding), led me to explore a process of making multiple images of the apple photograph, applying an extreme halftone screen (a photograph is converted to dots for reproduction in a publication, like a tabloid newspaper) to the image, then taking small fragments of this to make a series of twelve abstract images conveying forgotten history and fragmented memories, also communicating ideas about life and death, loss and hope and HIV-positive and HIV-negative status.  

They were positioned on the pages of a tabloid newspaper, opposite brief sentences of personal memories of the 1980s/90s AIDS crisis, each sentence starting with ‘I remember a time…’, like ‘I remember a time when the police raided bars and clubs wearing decontamination suits and gloves.’ and ‘I remember a time when I was young and other young men got ill and soon after they died.’

The images and the texts appear in a tabloid newspaper, I wanted to reclaim this format from the hateful tabloid newspaper reporting (The Sun, News of the World, etc) of people living with AIDS and gay men and lesbians in the 1980s, something Derek Jarman writes about in At Your Own Risk (1991).

My book has been reinvented as an exhibition, to be shown in Brixton’s Photofusion in October-December 2021, following on from a show during Gay History Month 2020 in Cambridge.

https://rbakker.com/The-Spots-That-Never-Went/

 

JW – What are you currently working on?

RB – I’m working on the design of three artist’s books for projects I started during a self-assigned lockdown residency at The Queer Hut, a desolate wooden structure standing on a disused railway embankment overlooking Cambridgeshire fields. Each book highlights a different aspect of the negative impact of mankind on the environment and will be published through my press, Negative Press London. I’m also finalising a project about asthma and air pollution, experimenting with analogue photographic processes, video, writing, appropriation and performance.

https://rbakker.com/What-Is-It-I-Breathe-In-Every-Day

JW – Thank you, for someone about to paint again that has been enormously helpful, revealing and a little bit scary.

 

Jan Woolf

 

 

 

https://rbakker.com/The-Spots-That-Never-Went/

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David Erdos – Between Bright Worlds

David Erdos’ Poemusic album is a unique series of tributes to resistance and vision. From William Blake and Heathcote Williams to George Floyd, Harold Budd and the plight of all musicians this charts the space between the worlds of poem, spirit and song.

Available in digital, released on 30/07/2021

https://smarturl.it/BetweenBrightWorlds

Executive Producer and Project Manager: Renato Roversi

Recorded in London throughout the second Lockdown.

Cover Art: Elena Caldera
CD Cover Design: Claire Palmer

 

Renato Roversi and Suriya Recordings Presents the debut release of:

DAVID ERDOS: BETWEEN BRIGHT WORLDS
 
A Poemusic EP (Suriya Recordings 2021)
 
Featuring STEPAN HONC, GIL DE RAY, KIRANPAL SINGH, MARC APPLETON, THE SIPS
 

Track 1: OVERSEER (For Blake) Poem by David Erdos. Music composed by Gil De Ray, Performed Gil De Ray & Stepan Honc (6.29)

Track 2: THE FLOWER FOLDS (For Harold Budd) Poem by David Erdos. Music composed and performed by Marc Appleton (5.45)

Track 3: THINK FLOYD (For George Floyd) Poem by David Erdos. Music composed and performed by Stepan Honc (5.49)

Track 4: SONGBIRD SOURED (For all Ortolans) Poem by David Erdos. Music composed and performed by Kiranpal Singh (6.45)

Track 5: BETWEEN BRIGHT WORLDS (For Heathcote Williams) Poem by David Erdos. Music composed and performed by Raoul Khayat, Francesco Buffone, Killian Aubertin (4.49)

 

Track 1 Produced by Gil De Ray and Stepan Honc. Mixed and engineered by Stepan Honc
Track 2 Produced
by Marc Appleton and Stepan Honc. Mixed and engineered by Stepan Honc
Tracks 3 & 4 Produced, mixed and engineered by Stepan Honc.
Track 5 Produced by RAWKILL PRODUCTIONS (Killian Aubertin, Raoul Khayat,Renato Roversi) and Stepan Honc, remixed and engineered by Stepan Honc. Mastered by James Connor


 

 

 

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Sunbathing Pope/Noticeboard

 

August is a microwave
Only holy fools
And tourists brave the heat

He boards a bus on Termini
Sabbatical professors
Burdened by their cameras
Baseball caps and bum-bags
Turning from their guidebooks
Offer him a seat

Whose parish is the world
The same we glimpse
From public transport windows
Worried about bills
Even as we travel into work

And contemplate a city that emerges
Continuous as Venus from its sea

Today he comes to bless
The oiled and shining orchard of retired
Sunbathing Cinecitta stars
Toasting on their terraces

‘Here is a trellis Your Holiness
Be sure to sit in the shade’   –
But peeling off the centuries’
Impeding heavy vestments
Confining protocols and paraphernalia
It is time for a new dispensation   –

So send out for the pizza
He anoints both legs and arms
In Cocoa Butter Factor 25
Before a passing cardinal
Instantly envelop him
In figured cloth of gold   –

“No – You may wear it monsignor   –
The carnival is over!”  

 

 

NOTICEBOARD

 

‘In summer months The Snob Club
Closes but The Snub Club
Extends the same facilities to Members

By reciprocal arrangement
Luncheon and High Tea are served
Mock-servile with an insolent civility’

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

.

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Gibberish

My pen has no boundary.
My pain has no boundary.
My  pen moves through my pain.
My pain inks my pen.
My pen alters all my paranoid thoughts.
My pain checkmates my pen.
I play with my pen.
I play with my pain.
I know it’s as simple as that.
Yet I make it spiral because-
Simple is too simple to simplify.
So I do it intentionally.
And all my pain comes in a certain way.
And my pen becomes a silent-
Witness and hence an oxymoron!
Because it penned what it wasn’t supposed to.
Therefore, my pen betrayed my pain and not vice versa.

Listen!
All I write isn’t a poetry.
Sometimes my pen only pens my pain.
And yes sometimes I babble the gibberish.
And sometimes my pain only pains my pen.
And yes sometimes I feel choked with utter nonsense.
What’s the point?

Man!
I think you should pen what you shouldn’t.
I think you shouldn’t refrain when you should.
And when all the pain freaks out,
Relaxes your incorrigible pen. Just pen it.
Pen what pains.

 

 

 

 

Tiyasha Khanra,
Kolkata, India

 

 

 

 

 

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A Watershed Moment?


There’s a plausible dynamic
within this theatrical device
yet every footstep counts
and who says we can’t have

our cake and eat it? Short
wings can be flapped more
quickly. In the open the odds
are in the predator’s favour

but in this edition feathers
change position and our sights
are misaligned. “What can you
see when you screw up your

eyes?” she said. Why do our
questions always go unanswered?

 

Steve Spence

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ALL I EVER WANTED TO DO

 

(From an idea suggested by Bruce Hodder)

 

Andrew Darlington

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Traces

I step outside for smoke, but there’s only steam rising from spilt coffee and a rough sketch of breath still hanging around from old conversations. While I was furloughed from work, I learned to read such traces, so I know that there was a man – 56 years old, 5’ 9” – with brown shoes and a voice that squeaked like a windmill in need of oil. He works in retail, selling stationery and craft supplies in an out-of-town mall, and once, when he was a child of 7 or 8, a heron flew in through his bedroom window and stood at the foot of his bed. Years later he got a tattoo of a heron on his right forearm, though a lot of people he meets assume it’s a stork or a crane. A bird is a bird is a bird. Looking closer, I see that he was talking to a taller woman whose head was shaved like an egg. She plays piano on cruise ships, though there has been no work for a year or more. She, too, was once visited by the same heron, and has an identical tattoo, though her more ornithologically aware circle of friends and acquaintances generally identify the King of the Birds. They both gave up smoking on the same day in 1997, but the steam from the coffee tells me that neither of them knew any of this about the other, and they only spoke of problems finding parking spaces in a city of this size. Away to the west, a finger of smoke tickles the sky, sketching the outline of a bird.

.

Oz Hardwick

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Business Hell

https://www.spellingmistakescostlives.com/product-page/business-hell-limited-edition-giclee-print

 

Darren Cullen

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Imitation or Plagiarism

 

 

 

.

TERRENCE SYKES

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Journeys from the Heart of the Street Writer – Part Five

 

Now, after ‘N’ I slept with an older woman not long after us breaking up!

This woman had been showing up after every BIG relationship I ever had…

She was persistent – I had to give her that!

Then; there was a young 18 year old virgin after that and we were basically just good friends who could kiss and hold each other.

(To be honest I wasn’t so crazy about sex at that time anyway)…

Then; all of a sudden while I was doing every open mic I could get my hands on in the North of Ireland I would meet my next beautiful girl!!!!

I was putting on little open mics in my own hometown at a small and luxurious café called: Café Piazza – and I was doing open mics in Derry and Coleraine, Belfast and some other town I cannot remember the name of – but I would be doing an open mic in Portstewart and that is where I would meet her…

I had a wonderful friend/filmmaker who was studying at university and living in Portstewart and I asked him if it would be okay to stay with him while I did a gig there and we could catch up at the same time.

He was absolutely fine with that and he wanted to come to the gig as well.

A friend of our family drove me over (he has got 70 years’ worth of stories) but I love him for all he does for us…

Funny enough, he just changed my fuse the other day… damn he’s a good man… great if I am to be totally honest!

We eventually found my friends shared accommodation and me and my friend had a coffee then we walked to the bar it was being held at… The Anchor Bar – and the gig was being held by my friend and fellow poet: Michael Wilson… and damn he is fucking good too!

Damn you meet some interesting people at gigs and open mics ha ha…

There was a woman there who loved to swim in the sea in the middle of the night and the two headliners have started publishing my poems in the two magazines they run from the big Belfast city.

When the gig was over my friend asked me: have you ever tried Doner meat on chips with taco sauce? – ‘I have not’ I replied – so there was an Indian takeaway next door to the pub and we went in, ordered our food and walked back to his.

We talked and ate for a while and then he started getting tired…

He showed me how to use Netflix (my first time ever) and I was older than him and you would think I would know how ha ha…

I found Danger Mouse and I was landed…

I unchanged – grabbed the blanket and curled up on the sofa and dived into it…

I got into the second season and one of his flatmates ‘L’ came down from her room to talk to me…

I talked to her for a while and 20 minutes later she came in: N2

I talked to both of them for quite some time and N2 just blew me away!

Eventually they went back upstairs to their rooms and I sat twiddling my thumbs for a bit and thought ‘fuck it’ I’m going up!

When I entered N2’S door – she was lying down on her bed playing with her phone and I lay down next to her – I would look over at her every now and again and we would stare into each other’s eyes knowing something was there, but we did nothing.

I sat up all night in a high while they slept and wrote poetry and continuing to watch Danger Mouse…

The coffees were by the dozens and so were the cigarettes hanging out their window…

Eventually I was just finished watching a documentary about Keith Richards and they were all coming back in from their classes at university.

N2 asked me if I was hungry and I smiled as I said yes.

We all sat talking while eating the delicious soup and sandwiches she made for all of us and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

She said to me and my friend if we needed a lift into the bus station she would be happy to oblige…

She drove us in and we said thanks!

Me and my friend had a coffee or two at a Starbucks and then I got the bus back home.

As I was sailing my way back home on the bus a friend request came through and when I opened it: it was no other than her!

‘Oh’ I thought – this is another start with another beautiful girl!

 

(Poem)

Ambulance

 

We always

Blessed ourselves

Every time

An ambulance

Passed us

In some way

We hoped

That it might

Take a bit

Of the burden away

From

Whoever was ill

I guess it did

Because

We never fell in love

 

PBJ

 

.

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Home Front/One final big push…

On leave from France
I saw them,
Bosses wives and daughters,
The sort that are too posh
To shit.

And every time
Some lad
Not uniformed
Goes by
They’d pounce
Waving white feathers,
Shame him to death.

A few years later
I saw then again,
Same spot,
All in black,
Selling poppies,

Squeezing out tears
For our glorious dead

 

One final big push…

On the days leading up to the Somme
Allied guns pound enemy trenches
(Boris declares, “Our strategy’s working”)
But the other side
Just burrow deeper,
Sit in their dugouts,
Waiting it out
(A new Covid strain has just been detected)
So on that July morning it’s
“Just a stroll across No-Man’s Land”
(Freedom Day and the Pubs are all packed)
“When I blow my whistle
Get over the top,
Hesitate and it’s a firing squad”
(the furlough’s now ending so get back to work or fend for yourself)
As each line of Tommies get within range
German machine guns punch them all flat,
One million
Are killed
Or wounded
(I don’t care if the corpses pile up) 

glorious dead.

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann

 

 

 

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp

 

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In and Out a Courtroom

These photographs were taken outside London courts at the beginning of, or during a trail, (unless otherwise stated) all persons shown should be assumed innocent until proven guilty.

Most pictures were destined for tabloid newspapers to accompany stories about people accused of wrongdoing, where the ‘story’ was far more important than whether a person was later found innocent or guilty of their crime.

The tabloids are obsessed with the premise and mental imagery of accusation and when people are not found not guilty (unless it is a travesty of justice or a famous person), the news is rarely reported.

Ben Graville

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How many pebbles

 


Staring at the stones

On the beach,
Each an individual
With its own shape,
Its own story,
Its own song.
I reach down,
Pick one,
And wonder how many pebbles,
Like people,
Will forever go unnoticed.

 

By Amanda Law

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REVOLUTION

Where you going, my friend?
Have you forgotten when
There was a time filled with hope instead of fear that’s in your heart
There was a time when life was simple and innocent to start
Do you remember?
Do you remember?

Where you going, my friend?
Have you forgotten when
There was a time when false information wasn’t so rampant in the sphere
There was a time when you weren’t questioning everything you hear
Do you remember?
Do you remember?

Constantly being advertised, your life commercialized and disguised
As happiness in pills and potions, fancy threads and cars in motion
Hypnotized by gilded lies to line the pockets of so few
While hungry politicians feed bullshit to the masses
To ensure their statuses and further divide the classes

Uh-huh

And you were born with a voice so open up and speak your mind
Raise consciousness and elevate how we all relate don’t hesitate
No need to be better or smarter than anybody else
Leave judgement at the door for others and yourself

The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind

Big Brother’s watching you and trying to sell you something new
And I just want to take away take away the blues
Big Brother’s watching you and trying to sell you something new
And I just want to take away take away the blues

The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind

Revolution
Revolution
Revolution
Revolution

When I get up, oh, I get up in the morning
All I really want is the truth
Oh, when I open my eyes and I get up in the morning
All I really need is the truth

You were born with a voice so open up and speak your mind
Raise consciousness and elevate how we all relate don’t hesitate
No need to be better or smarter than anybody else
Leave judgement at the door for others and yourself

The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind

When I get up, oh, I get up in the morning
All I really want is the truth
Oh, when I open my eyes and I get up in the morning
All I really need is the truth

Revolution
Revolution
Revolution
Revolution

The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind

Revolution
Revolution
Revolution
Revolution

The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind
The revolution is in your mind

 

 

by Heartless Bastard

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Babe Rainbow – READY FOR TOMORROW

Made by Jordan Malane and the Babe Rainbow Filmed at Eltham Hotel

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Holding On To Me In Lockdown


Holding On To Me In Lockdown
by Mike Ferguson

Covid lockdowns have provided time and catalyst for a slew of memoirs to be written by the already well-known, and Mike Ferguson – a regular contributor to International Times – has put his ‘ordinary’ life into the ring where its candid but also wry and poetic recollections can resonate among the luminaries. Growing up in the American Midwest, he lived briefly in Germany and the UK before leaving family and home, aged 16, to reside permanently in England, escaping a by then alien America and one redneck death threat. Surviving the freedoms and excesses of an independent life only one year on, eventual farm labouring and study at Oxford led to a 30-year career in teaching English with a Yank’s accent. Framed by the context of some lifetime adversity, learning about his biological father, as well as two blood siblings, add to the other engaging mixes of this recollection.
And Derrida makes a brief appearance.

You can get it at https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B099C5P3YP

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On the Spectrum

John Hoyland. The Last Paintings, eds. Sam Cornish, Sophie Kullmann, Wiz Patterson Kelly (£35, ridinghouse)

Sometimes you get art books to reaffirm your interest and further your understanding of an artist, other times for reproductions of work that are hard to see in real life, occasionally to be convinced and have your mind changed. John Hoyland. The Last Paintings is one such book for me. I am not alone in being bewildered by the explosions of plastic colour over stained floods of dark metallics which constituted Hoyland’s later work. In reproduction, his colours are still vivid and startling, exciting even; see the pictures in the flesh and the paint often looks like squeezed-out toothpaste in a messy bathroom. All too many of them work around a central circular motif, which feels like an easy resolution as a focus for the viewer. Just how did the master of subtle stained canvasses and then complex layered abstraction – I’m a huge fan of Hoyland’s earlier work – arrive at this energetic and somewhat casual way of working?

Mel Gooding’s essay is especially useful for a doubter like me. He discusses Matisse’s use of ‘black-as-light’, along with Turner’s ‘smoke and shadow’, as colour but also as an elegiac device, often specifically linked to the death of Hoyland’s friends and fellow artists. Gooding also discusses Hoyland’s fascination with astronomy and cosmology, black holes and the big bang of creation at the centre of the universe. This certainly allows us to understand some of the motifs that informed and inspired Hoyland’s late paintings, and perhaps the mood and thought processes at work, but it doesn’t of course change the paintings.

David Anfam writes more exuberantly about Hoyland’s art. He uses the word ‘pizzazz’ at the start of his essay, and declares that ‘Disparities and extremes are rife: terrestrial risk, celestial realms, sensuousness, violence and valediction.’ Again, there are comparisons with space, although this time the elegaic reference is to Dylan Thomas urging the readers of his poem to ‘rage against the dying of the light’. Comparisons with Van Gogh make less sense to me, but Anfam shows us pages from Hoyland’s scrapbooks which include reproductions of van Gogh’s work (Hoyland was apparently always a fan), and charts Hoyland’s journey from staining formalist to expressionist gestural pattern and mark maker, offering the likes of Jules Olitski, Robert Motherwell, Mark Tobey, Barnett Newman and others for artistic context and example. In the end, however, Anfam comes back to cosmology and colour, excitedly calling Hoyland ‘a painterly pyrotechnician’ and declaring that he has done in paint what Mahler did in sound.

Vincent van Gogh is also the initial focus of Natalie Adamson’s writing here, or rather a group of paintings which Hoyland dedicated to him. Again, elegy is mentioned alongside tribute, and Adamson contrasts and compares Hoyland’s ‘Vincent’s Garden’ painting with van Gogh’s ‘Garden of the Asylum’. I’m afraid I find it hard to see Hoyland’s vivid small painting as an ‘Edenic garden of modern painting’, and even harder still to take the clumsy dripping humanoid form which features in ‘Vincent (A Memory)’ seriously. Again, Adamson offers us an insight into Hoyland’s inspirations and ideas, but avoids critical discussion of the actual art that Hoyland creates.

It’s with some relief, then, that I turn to Matthew Collings and his piece which answers the title question: ‘John Hoyland: What Are We Seeing?’ Collings writes from a no-nonsense personal engagement with Hoyland’s work, admitting that it was only eventually that he ‘began to see the subtlety and depth of his earlier pieces in the new style of work he was doing’, having previously observed that the paintings looked ‘violently vulgar: his use of unmixed colours, kitschy imagery of exploding galaxies’. (Which is kind of where I still am with them.) Collings briefly discusses formalism in Hoyland’s earlier work but then unfortunately moves away from engagement with the art to mostly discuss Hoyland as artist, as a character, a macho heavy drinker who chose freedom rather than constraint within the art world. Much of Collings’ essay here clumsily conflates artist and art, and spends several pages charting the public response to Hoyland’s work over the decades.

I am not convinced by Colling’s suggestion that ‘with the late works you are looking at knowledge and chance’ or that the suggestion that Hoyland’s ‘aim was always to bring jazzy, interesting differences – shadowy shapes, glowing discs and sparkling darkness – into an effective unity’ is enough. Nor is ‘looseness and freedom’ or working ‘to make things buzz visually’. For me I can’t get away from the negative connotations of what Collings calls ‘weird brashness and tastelessness’, not because I think painting should be tasteful but because I am still aghast at the plasticity and formlessness of the work. There’s no denying that the late work by the same artist who used to paint a different sort of work must have some relationship to that earlier work, but it doesn’t mean it’s as good as, as intelligent as, as well painted or as interesting.

This is a fascinating and beautifully produced book, and it will continue to intrigue me and help me engage with these John Hoyland paintings which I struggle with. Perhaps this is how it should be? One of the most interesting ‘Quotes from a Life’ in the book is Hoyland’s own declaration that ‘The only artists who really interests me […] are the ones who terrify me – that is, who are threatening in their ability.’ Hoyland’s later paintings intrigue because of the way they threaten not only the viewer and their expectations, but also the artist’s own reputation and previous work. I still have some catching up to do.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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Steam’s Groove – (episode 12).

Steam Stock

 

Tracklist:
Don Randi – Hang Loose
The Supremes – Come Together
Quincy Jones – Summer in the City
Johnny Bristol – Woman, Woman
Jean Jacques Perry – E.V.A.
Chakachas – Jungle Fever
Inell Young – What do You See in Her
Ronnie Hudson – West Coast Pop Lock
Johnny Hammond – Shifting Gears
Isley Brothers – Between the Sheets
Grant Green – The Final Comedown
Boobie Knight & the Universal Lady – The Lovomaniacs
Marlena Shaw – California Soul
Bobby Womack – California Dreaming
Azteca – Can’t Take the Funk Out of Me
The Blackbyrds – Summer Love

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SAUSAGE LIFE 190

 

 
 
 

SAUSAGE LIFE
Bird Guano
The column which believes that doing The Hokey-Cokey is just a cry for help

 

READER: Have you been watching The Tokyo Olympics? Team UK are doing brilliantly – I just heard Diana McCaroun of Team UK has won a bronze in the Tai Quando.

MYSELF: Team UK? Yuk. Why do they do this? I mean what’s wrong with calling it The British Team?

READER:  When are you going to drag yourself into the 21st century?

MYSELF: As soon as they bring in the Under 4’s Syncronised Tricycling. Anyway,  what’s Tai Quando?

READER: It’s a cross between Ju-Jitsu and The Samba

MYSELF:  Fair play. Diana’s living her dream which I imagine is the culmination of her personal journey.

READER: You must have watched the marvellous opening ceremony though?

MYSELF: Thru the gaps in my fingers, yes. Who’s brilliant idea was it to precede an international celebration of athletic perfection with a selection of couch potato anthems?

READER: Final Fantasy! Dragon Quest! Absolute gamer classics! Did you know that video games have been chosen as an event for the 2024 Olympics?

MYSELF:  Yes. Apparently they haven’t finalised the venue yet but Siberia has put in an irrisistably large bid. No doubt TeamUK will secure a bronze in the 200metres Call of Duty

READER: You may sneer, but have you ever actually played Call of Duty? It’s gruelling.

MYSELF: I failed the medical.

GOVERNMENT HEALTH SQUEEZE – ACCORDIONISTS UP IN ARMS

The decision by the Surgeon General to make the plain packaging of accordions compulsory is now expected to get a second reading in the commons, despite evidence from Australia that it has had little effect. I
In the Lords, Lady Celia Hohner (con) and Dame Annabelle Guiletti (lab) argued compellingly that there was little evidence to show that children were encouraged to take up the squeezebox by fancy filligri fretwork, or or delicate engravings of swallows. Indeed, neither would they be deterred by the health warnings and graphic pictures of accordion victims proposed by the bill.
Nevertheless, the proposition that – from December 2021, all accordions must be retailed in uniform plain white, with the message “playing the accordion can seriously damage the testicles” displayed graphically on the bellows, and must be kept by music shops in a securely locked accordion cabinet, with an armed guard present during opening hours – looks set to go ahead.

 

ASK DR. GUANO

Matters mindful, medical & matrimonial

I receive, as you would imagine, bulging sacks of mail soliciting expert advice of one sort or another. This week, one letter in particular managed to appeal to my innate sense of public service and I was happy to advise.

 

Dear Dr. Guano,

I was recently approached by a very attractive well-dressed man who claimed he was a relative of Ferdinand IV of Sweden. He said he could offer me security and a happy prosperous life in Scandinavia with my own herd of reindeer and an Ikea

Gold Card. Should I tell my husband, or just go?

Calamari Taliban (Ms), Beyondendon

 

Dear Ms Taliban,

Men as a rule, even elegant well-turned-out ones, are fiendishly jealous creatures. Your poor husband will undoubtedly misinterpret your present dilemma as some sort of threat to his fragile manhood and react accordingly. No. Be gentle with him. Tell him you are popping out for some chips, and don’t come back. It will be better this way.

Disclaimer: Following recent threats of serious litigation, I am advised to remind our readers that I am not a real doctor.


READER:
 That wasn’t a real letter

MYSELF:  You’re not a real reader.

 

UNCOMFORTABLY DUMB

Being a huge Floyd fan (I personally own 53 mint copies of Dark Side of the Moon), I attended the 14th National Pink Floyd Tribute Band Convention at Beyondenden’s Arena of Dreams the other day. Say what you like about the tribute band phenomenon, but the attention to detail here was nothing short of impressive. By the evening, all the tribute Roger Waters were refusing to appear on the same stage as the tribute Dave Gilmours. The tribute Rogers would only associate with the other tribute Rogers, with whom they marched around in sinister packs singing Another Brick in the Wall. The tribute Dave Gilmours wore dark glasses, sulked and drank beer.
The whole thing rather reminded me of the Buddy Holly tribute band True Love Ways, who in 2008 tragically perished in a plane crash stunt that went wrong.

 

FOOTBALL NEWS

José Pypebahn, the feisty Spanish sausage millionaire and controversial new owner of Hastings & St Leonards’ Warriors FC, has been refused permission to change the name of the club to “Hastings Bangers” by the board of the Nuclear Waste Disposal Solutions League (South).
Pypebahn told our reporter he was ready to walk away from football after angry fans directed sausage-related abuse at him during last night’s pre-season Anne Summers Cup defeat, which saw the club ejected from the competition, beaten 8-0 by lowly Upper Dicker Macaroons.

“How dare they!” he shouted, “My delicious sausages are rightly famous the world over and furthermore they have never contained horse meat, except for that one time!”

 

HORSING AROUND

Speaking of horse, I was up at Paddy Feeney’s stables the other day (to see a certain man about a certain thing), when I chanced to overhear this conversation between two mares standing in a meadow. The whole conversation was conducted in horse of course, which I speak fluently.


LADY MALARIA’S WHARF
: I see Ophelia’s Friend was put in the stud paddock yesterday with Butcher’s Boy.

LOWLAND LASSIE: Butcher’s Boy? The drop-dead gorgeous Arab stallion? I mean, phoaoor*, lucky her! There’ll be a foal around here soon enough.

LADY MALARIA’S WHARF: Apparently not. I saw her this morning and she told me nothing happened.

LOWLAND LASSIE: Nothing happened? But Butcher’s Boy is a gorgeous hunk of horsehood, how on earth could she resist?

At this point I had to lean over the fence, as Lady Malaria closed in to whisper the damning words no stallion ever wants to hear into Lowland Lass’s pricked up lug:

LADY MALARIA’S WHARF:
 “Hung like a human, according to Ophelia”

I picked up my attaché case full of steroids and illegal stimulants and left.

 

Sausage Life!

*phoaoor is exactly the same in horse as it is in English

SPONSORED LYNX

POISON PEOPLE

guano poundhammer

From the album Domestic Bliss

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MORE FROM GUANO POUNDHAMMER

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Forwarding Address Unknown


Newspapers, I imagine, accretes up
on the red stairs. Perhaps I indulged in
forgetting to notify the paperboy
about the shifting. No forwarding address.
Sometimes I regret not changing my phone number.
Missed the call of the oblivion. Blinks and dots
of the unread messages remain undead.
This, I hate about the change, neither the newspapers
nor the messages; this, I hate, the new becomes reality,
not just a possibility. Sometimes I pick up the key
to the old house and use it on the new closet.
The day it will do the trick, open the door others’ll close.

 

 

 

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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Life, Freedom, Covid passports and more

 

Alan Dearling ponders the current and future furore and controversies…including ‘cowering Covid government politicians’!


Sajid Javid UK Health Secretary
@sajidjavid

“Full recovery from Covid a week after testing positive. Symptoms were very mild, thanks to amazing vaccines. Please – if you haven’t yet – get your jab, as we learn to live with, rather than cower from, this virus.” 

Alan McGuinness, political reporter, Sky News 

“COVID-19: Minister suggests other ‘crowded’ venues where vaccine passports could be introduced. 

Vaccines minister Nadhim Zahawi says sporting and business events, music venues and festivals are the settings that ministers are “most concerned about” when it comes to the spread of COVID-19, in addition to nightclubs.” 

Thursday July 22 2021, 12.00pm, The Times:

“The government is still committed to vaccine passports amid a surge of young people getting jabbed, a senior minister has insisted.

Boris Johnson announced this week that from the end of September people would have to show they had been fully vaccinated against coronavirus as a condition of entry to nightclubs and other crowded indoor settings.” 

‘Memories of a Free Festival’ was the title of an early track by David Bowie.  In future will they just be memories?

Since England’s Freedom  Day, pubs, clubs and venues have been opening up for dancing and music and more. But, it’s all edgy, with a lot of looking over the shoulder. Testing reactions. Fear. Hope. Joy. Exultation and much uncertainty. Dodgy science and oodles of health information and misinformation. Indeed, who holds the carnet of ‘Truth’? Pinging for isolation! Many workers and employers now choosing to ignore ‘official’ self-isolation messages received by phone or on email. Track and Trace forms no longer exist in many hospitality venues, so it’s no surprise that ‘cases’ are suddenly declining, but hospitalisations seem to be increasing. Supply problems are occurring for food retailers. More challenges for live musicians, sports-persons and creative performers. Lots of public concern about Covid immunisation of children.

Marches and protests in the Name of Freedom. Claims and counter-claims about the efficacy of potential Covid passports, giving access for the Covid double-jabbed punters to some venues – which are still unknown.  One argument against Covid passports is about their ‘legacy’. Will they become national or even international ‘Identity cards’, or the equivalent. Once introduced, will they ever be withdrawn?  Will we truly have our freedom again?   One heck of a lot of social unrest and disobedience on the horizon in the UK, Europe, Australia and beyond…

Then, we have seen the case of the ex-nurse, anti-vaxxer and protestor, Kate Shemirani and her son, Sebastian. This Sky news report is both fascinating and frightening. Kate claims that the vaccines come from the Devil.

https://www.aol.co.uk/news/she-thinks-covid-vaccines-come-164015823.html

Here are some rough-and-ready, including some anonymised comments, posted on social media over the last few days…plus some more images of live music and and a herd-immunity hugger… 

Gaia. July 22nd :

Mandatory vax, vax passports… Running out of conspiracy theories now cos they’re all coming true! Why aren’t people getting this?

24th July 2021

Lady Love

People that think I’m a conspiracy Theorist x check this out x I am NOT alone ❤️ LONDON TODAY x There are Millions of us and we’re trying so hard to wake YOU up to the lies!!!

Pasha:  24th July 2021:

Couldn’t make it to London for the big Freedom March. Hope they get the 2 million people they expect today. I was in Leeds with good friends. Went to the town hall where folks gathered ready for the Freedom March …good amount of people. Was a really good March. Many joined on route. Gave the coppers a run for their money by diverting off the so-called ‘Route’ the police wanted us to take…Was really good size crowd at the end …also marches in 5 /6 other cities in the U.K…Good effort all round. Got to keep these freedom marches going, as it’s only matter of time that the sheer volume of people of all ages and from all walks of life gets so big that the police have to question their motives … After all, yesterday the National Police Federation which covers every police force in the U.K. showed a complete ‘No trust in Priti Patel’ …So fingers crossed, the next protests might see the police actually realise and choose the side of the people …not this fascist Government that we have ruining our country and democracy ??

BBC Headline, 24th July 2021 online:

“Clubbing and Covid passports: ‘Protect vulnerable people’ or ‘against civil liberties’?”

Chris Tofu, Latitude Festival, 23rd July 2021

“WE OPENED BIG FESTIVAL LAND UP !!!!!

This is  what just happened in Latitude Festival but basically for me and 1000s of others it was a kind of historic and really a throwing off of so many shackles, with about 50 000 of the most up for it, happy crowd .  The fact we had 6 brass bands and 2 Drum and samba acts a floating stage and many thousands in the audience added to our feeling we arrived in some sort of Woodstock moment! We processed all the acts from every from every corner of the vast site and we were literally running between them, and all gathered for a mass brass spectacular sing-along really helped . . .  Humans fields joy celebration. SO many sensations on hold for so long.

These are hard wired things that Covid has stolen.”

Latitude video link: https://www.facebook.com/533285092/videos/pcb.10165927335785093/560804481728129

 

 

 

 

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Epiphanies for All

In the absence of clear government guidelines, I’ve convinced myself that angels are everywhere, offering certainty, reliable advice and, when I need it, a firm hand on my shoulder that just says I’m doing ok. Usually they’re invisible, so I need to close my eyes to see them, slim and magnificent as a Doré engraving; other times they’ll take the earthly form of a traffic warden or a daytime game show host. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life so, as MPs sweat and bluster, harrumphing in the blowback from a million avoidable tragedies, I seek the comfort of catchphrases and fixed penalty notices, parking my car on the double yellows outside the studio and hammering on their pearly gates. No deal, says a disembodied voice. For you the chase is over. It’s what I need and, reassured, I return to the ecclesiastical gloom of my ticket-plastered car. There’s a tap on the windscreen, another fixed fine, and angel in the back seat reminds me that I’m the weakest link. On the radio, the Minister for Innovation and Obfuscation promises epiphanies for all, free school lunches, and wings by next Easter at the latest. I’d head for home, but even the road markings are too ambiguous to trust.

Oz Hardwick

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Etel Adnan


Image – Untitled 1969 – oil on canvas – Etel Adnan

 
I am now studying the paintings and writings of Etel Adnan. She was born in Beirut 96 years ago, spent a lot of time in California and now lives in Paris.  I saw her exhibition, The Weight of the World at London’s Serpentine gallery in 2016 and was encouraged by it. En-cour-age means blood to the heart.  A contemporary expression might be ‘blown away’ , but I was sucked in.  I’m revisiting her now.  In one of the essays prefacing the catalogue to the show, Simone Fattal writes       
 
  ‘Adnan started painting in California, while she was teaching Aesthetics and Philosophy of Art at Dominican college…She started teaching there in 1958.  One day, on her way to class Adnan met the art teacher Ann O’Hanlon. Ann asked her ‘How can you teach philosophy of art and not paint yourself?’ Adnan heard herself answer, ‘My mother said I was clumsy,’ and Ann said ‘And you believed her? ‘ This simple question and answer freed her hands and soon, at Ann’s invitation, she started using a table by a window in the art department overlooking a little creek and fig trees. She painted on sample pieces of canvas, leftovers…’
 
Andan embodied her philosophy and offered the world hundreds of paintings of depth and-extraordinary colour,  many of them starting with a small red square around which she built the world of the painting.  I write about painting all the time – fiction – reviews. so now I give notice that I’ll do it, like I used to when I was the student of Stanislaw Frenkiel in 1968 – but that’s another story.   There is a rooted meta-physicality in Adnan’s art . This sounds like a contradiction. It is – and that’s why I love it.   Here she is…
 
 
 
 
.
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SHOOTING THE MOON

 
So now they are shooting off into space, from Bezos
To Branson; Billionaires owning orbits costing 402 Million
By the min. All this as The Sex Pistols sue John and Lydon
Deems the Disney deal rotten, while Dolly Parton reposes
For Playboy at the age of 75. Mammon wins. 
 
It would seem to be a spiralling world in which everything
Goes for a burton, while yesterday, Michael left us,
Translated to a far better place, news can bruise.
Bringing sky to the surface through skin, as the colour
Blues and then purples, the tone that Horovitz wore
 
As an emblem. We need such vibrancy back.
We’re confused. And so, Supermarket stacks of pizza 
Fall stale, as Priti monstrous Patel bribes all borders;
Keeping migrants away for more millions, while we,
The self and unemployed pray for grants, there to keep us 
 
Afloat as seas of metaphor roar around us, and we cling onto
Due dates as wind and whim destroy driftwood with every
Changing tide’s circumstance. All of the institutions feel 
As blown as the daisy chains of my childhood; just as 
A buttercup brimming over threatens to sink where sense hid,
 
Meanwhile the former Political Advisor thinks on, designing
His own domination, while CJ and BJ Macbluff and Lady Macbeth
In Knightsbridge. Or wherever they lurk, from Princess Margaret’s
Mustique, to the murk that pig slurries: whatever, however, 
It will be a bestial belch we’re all hearing before true beauty 
 
Returns to Carthage. Other palaces fall. While for some, 
Gates stay polished. People joke about the next lockdown, 
While others it seems set its date. The entire world’s on a wall. 
You can see it from Space. Branson glimpsed it. Then, Bezos, too. 
Jeff, keep going. May you forever become astral weight.
 
We’d get shot of the lot of you, chum, share things out,
Before starting on those aiming for us. The targets stay
Terrified, yet through trouble, and if you fuck us much more
 
We’ll shoot straight.
 
 
David Erdos July 23rd 2021
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Forming the Cells of the Global Resistance


While it may appear to be ‘every individual for himself’ in this forever shifting hall of smoke and mirrors called Covid, actually there is a process of coalescence taking place just under the surface which is heralding the emergence of what I term ‘the new resistance’.

This new resistance is arising as a kick-back against unremitting pressure to conform to a state of engineered chaos and control which has caste the word ‘deception’ into a whole new dimension of toxicity which very few can grasp.

We are, after all, confronted by a carefully crafted global plan entirely constructed around and upon, abject lies – from beginning to end. The first and foremost of which is to proclaim its objective as ‘saving mankind from a virulent pandemic’ which never existed in the first place.

So gross is the degree of lie distortion that for the great majority it has proved impossible to consider that it could all be a planned heist whose barely cloaked ulterior motive is a mass depopulation event, long since planned for by the protagonists of A New World Order, now known as ‘The Great Reset’.

The population reduction plan was given a menacingly seductive twist by attaching it to a ‘green saviour mission’ ostensibly designed to rescue the species from ‘global warming’, a grand deception which started the increasingly perverse ‘lie ball’ rolling some fifty years ago at the Club of Rome.

After one and a half years of relentless Covid ‘plandemic’ propaganda designed to scare the pants off every mortal here on Earth, we have arrived at a confluence of reactions. Those whose imaginations lack the breadth to grasp the depths of the deception and those who have recognised the game for what it is are are now sharing their knowledge and push-back plans with others.

The New Resistance is being formed by the latter grouping, who include amongst their ranks the braver doctors, nurses, lawyers, scientists and a smallish number of artists, who recognise that the very future of life itself is on the line in this macabre war against humanity.

Standing in the way of a grand expose and key legal actions to incarcerate the chief Covid protagonists, are the entire political ‘elite’, royalty, the press, leaders of notorious institutions and banking empires that administer the global policy agenda, a handful of multimillionaires and hundreds of millions of citizens of various countries who prefer to ‘live the lie’ than confront the truth.

It’s The New Resistance’s job to break-through this wall of denial via finding its weak points and instigating actions to publicly expose the criminal activities of the chief protagonists. Those involved in premeditated genocide on an unprecedented scale.

Key to the success of this operation will be the emergence of many more whistle blowers. Those who have inside knowledge and have the guts to come forward and speak openly about it. Already many professional individuals have taken this courageous step and many more are no doubt contemplating doing the same. They should not contemplate long – but step onto the platform and make their voice heard.

With no mainstream media editors daring to break-out of their straight-jacketted conformity with the lie, the job of conveying truth is a challenging one. However, a burgeoning alternative media is making ingress into mainstream territory, and with an emphasis on holding high the flag of rational observation and honest reporting, is bit by bit puncturing the ‘fake news’ wall of deception and indoctrination that has seduced and mind-controlled such a large segment of the global population.

What can each of us do to speed-up the chance of a break-through?

Here is a reminder of direct actions that can be put into effect with minimum cost:

Firstly, and as a general rule, build greater self determination not to cooperate with a system which is intent upon destroying you!

Secondly, practice ‘civil disobedience’ wherever you are being manipulated and coerced into doing something that goes against your deepest instincts of self preservation and belief. Standing firm in what one believes in is the key to all successful resistance movements.

Thirdly, openly question the law when confronted by authorities who claim you must do this that or the other. The majority of Covid impositions are illegal under key international conventions like The Geneva Convention and the Nuremberg Convention. Use the many excellent websites giving advice on how to stand up for your rights!

Now I’m listing simple practical actions all of us can engage in immediately:

* Draw upon the mass of high quality evidence now available to produce your own ‘short’ leaflet or newsletter for circulation in your neighbourhood. You can expose the Covid lie and ‘the Great Reset’s’ attempt to introduce a Nazi style central control agenda on humanity as a whole (see https://hardwickalliance.org/)

*Hammer your parliamentarian/senator by letter or phone. Present him/her with facts about Covid, many of which are actually published on government websites, but ignored by political ‘leaders’ intent upon forcing conformity to the fake agenda.

*Regularly visit places where you can purchase ‘real food’, as much as possible locally and direct from the farmer and definitely avoiding supermarkets. This should be pro-ecological grown/raised foods that respect benign time honoured laws of the land and do not rely on agrichemical poisons and Frankenstein GMO gene engineering. These farmers must get our support if they are to survive and if we are to have access to safe and nourishing food.

*Find a way to start growing your own foods. This is the best of all ways to establish a measure of genuine control of your destiny.

*Hold gatherings with others who you feel to be receptive to resisting the imposition of deeply antisocial and anti-human regulations in the name of ‘protecting’ your health and welfare – and focus attention on stopping 5G masts being erected in your neighbourhood.

*Join in with existing positive initiatives like marches, ‘meetings in the park’, distribution and displaying of strong messages via posters, stickers and flyers.

You will no doubt have further creative ideas how to form vital cells of resistance and become part of the great push-back whose growing momentum will finally topple the criminal slave drivers who have declared war on humanity and are illegally occupying the seats of power at this time.

Our passion for life will not allow us to simply sit back and passively watch irreplaceable key qualities of life crumbling away right in front of our eyes.

Now is the hour of our common calling to act bravely and collectively for the future of life on Earth. For no one’s life will be worth living if we fail to rise to the task of defeating the heartless agents of genocide holding our world to ransom.

 

Julian Rose

Julian Rose is an international campaigner against GMO and 5G, an author and organic farming pioneer. He led the campaign that prevented a ban of unpasteurised milk sales in the UK in 1989 and 1997 and, with his Polish wife Jadwiga Lopata, headed the campaign which led to GMO seeds and plants to be banned in Poland (2006). Julian’s latest book ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind’ has been widely acclaimed and can be purchased via www.julianrose.info

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BEWARE THE DOM

 
 
 
Cancer’s uncured. Covid as we know’s been mishandled. And Dementia still deepens
Even as it shallows out each struck soul, But there has surely been no disease
Greater than the BBC News Specials war across pixlels, infecting sense and screens,
While displaying Desperate Dom in confession as his purging priestess Laura Kuenssberg
 
Tried to unearth mind filth from dank hole. But then Cummings could make a black hole
Convex, and flex itself back from deep nothing. His guileless stare, part child’s wonder,
Part mad dog at the gate chilled TV, Not through anything fearsome, as such,
Other than the oblivion he seeks for us, but through the disregard and the laughter
 
He could barely subdue as we grieve. Laura, asking a Sociopath what do you feel?
Or, what do you think? is as useful as attempting to reverse a cremation, and yet
In fanning flames your sense protests and calls for reason and truth widened eyes
That already stare at a slide on which we are the scrutinised germs he spits onto;
 
He admitted the mistake that is Brexit and how we are the fouled, not the prized.
In writing about him again I risk repeat and take my word, mates, I know that.
But seeing his appearances deepen alongside his need to be deemed battle worn,
As if he were a soldier of faith, boils blood’s kettle and sees me murderous almost,
 
Wishing that these words were water, scalding him down, spouting scorn.
His evisceration of B was something to behold, and so brazen. Boris has no
Understanding of Whitehall and lets his current squeeze direct juice. He rendered
The Pandemic Pantomime jest and  jape and knew it was ludicrous to be leader,
And is playing with power, as cats will with wool: human sluice. In late February
 
2020, before anyone understood what had happened, his Wednesday date
With The Queen was still diaried even if he had been proved  positive.
He could have killed her with a  kiss. It was like a plot from the Adam West 
Batman, with Johnson as The Penquin and Cummings as Vincent Price’s 
 
Egghead, re-written, with despair as their superpower, we, straight, gay, 
Or gated would remain closeted. And still there was more, with Carrie Johnson 
Carved as a modern day Cleopatra,  busily masturbating her political Eunuch 
For all he is worth to erect dynasties made of dust as the dry jizz fizzes up
Into fury, as Dominic contemplates a new party to replace what we have, 
 
He reflects. He will rear a truly negative republic of cunt; which is afterall 
How he sees us; there to be fed, defiled, and life beaten just like the killed
Kenyans over whom his wife’s Grandfather  once ruled. On Television, 
Dominic Cummings gleefully pulled out the pin of the garrisoned grenade 
 
We’ve all guarded. He essentially said there was no sense and no order
To the last three years; fact as school.  Kuenssberg ably confronted 
And snarled, but editing kept any sense of punishment from him. It had 
The same effect as the infamous Number Ten Garden Press Conference;
 
A concert of lies where said Laura and Robert Peston et al were polite. 
So while the revenge he denied was served cold as only a proper pyschopath 
Can deliver, this pale parade sought no purpose. It was a Gogglebox grave 
For stalled life. It was Big Brother’s Little Brother, for sure, but this one was
 
Truly related to Orwell’s. Turns out that he does not look like Stalin, 
Just this stiff in a shirt stoking strife.  It has all been a farce. we know that. 
But in this interview, enter Hitler. Or if not that failed force for bad, then a fury
Which seeks to either change a  known party, or reboot Britain again
 
With what jack? Certainly not that of the film starring the still accessible 
Peter Sellers, but one of different leaders and leather,  and his joke on control 
Taken back. This was truly dangerous stuff, no matter what it is you believe in. 
Now, disbelief’s the new Holy. As it is impossible to comprehend such a person 
Actually doing what this dog has done. His soul’s black. Black is beautiful 
 
When its skin, but when its souls, that sense smoulders.  And so the chaos 
Celebrity has been christened. Its That Man Again, coming for you. 
 
Beware the Doom and Dom.
 
He attacks.
 
 
 
 
                                                                David Erdos July 20th 2021
 
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Epitaph


 

On a serious note, 

I am broken. 

Every minute I can feel that.

Loosing grip over reality.

Turning into a woebegone.

Sinking into no man’s land.

On a serious note,

I am alone.

I am alone in this goddamn world.

And it sucks to be.

I’ve lost every accompany.

Or may be I never had any.

On a serious note, 

I don’t know what it is.

Some are going to remember me.

And others will surely discard.

Some will forget in the first place.

And few will follow years later.

On a serious note, 

I have nothing to do with it. 

I care the least.

Yes, I do. (I do.)

I can’t deal with this namby-pamby-

Penchants but react out of my tantrum.

On a serious note, 

It’s all familiar to me—

To be in helluva mess,

To feel low very often,

To feel suicidal,

And all the euphoric loop.

On a serious note, 

I am badly damaged.

I am damaged beyond repair.

And I am ok with it-

Even if I am not. 

And it’s poignant. 

On a serious note, 

I am done with everything topsy-turvy.

I am done with innumerable loss.

And with this emotional rollercoaster.

I am done and dusted with life-

And all its low-key affairs.

 

 

By Tiyasha Khanra

 

 

.

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More New Bits


MAILING LIST UPDATE
Another semi-regular update from that guy

SAVE OUR SOULS

 

The duty for sailors to rescue those in distress at sea is both international maritime law and a long-standing and strongly felt moral obligation among seafarers. The fact that British and European governments are now criminalising such a basic and instinctive act of humanity says a lot about how absolutely Fortress Europe is spiraling into barbarism.⁠

A new British law brought in by the Tories now threatens lifeguards in the @RNLI, (and anyone else at sea), with life in prison for rescuing refugees drowning in the English channel. ⁠Quite heroically the RNLI have made a statement that this will not change how they respond to those in distress.

In Italy, dozens of rescuers, from charities including Save the Children and Médecins Sans Frontières have been accused by prosecutors of collaborating with people smugglers after saving thousands of people from drowning in the Mediterranean. They face sentences of up to 20 years in prison.⁠

As the writer Phil McDuff said on twitter yesterday, “It’s difficult to convey just how much effort goes in to making people’s natural empathy and compassion into a thoughtcrime. This kind of thing is absolutely against maritime law and for good reason – anyone who sails knows “there but for the grace of God go I.” ⁠

Which also reminds me of a post I think about all the time from Doctors Without Borders, above a photograph of some refugees being rescued at sea it said, “You can call them names & tweet horrible xenophobic things about them but the truth remains; the only difference between you & them is luck.”⁠

That’s all there is to it.

 

GREAT NEWS FOR LANDLORDS

Did cross my mind while painting this that by exaggerating the current horrors of
capitalism I’m potentially summoning them into existence like a demonic spell.

 

BILLIONAIRE DICK-MEASURING TECHNOLOGY

Painted the above just before Jeff Bezos blasted himself into sub-orbital space for no particular reason.
Unfortunately my gloating was premature.

All these billionaires racing each other into space reminded me of this ‘Shoot for the Moon’ painting I did in 2014. I know Branson and Bezos are already safely back from their 20 minute dip into suborbital ‘space’, but hopefully that only encourages them (and Musk) to take ever deadlier personal leaps into the abyss.⁠

The limited edition print of this has now sold out but its still available as an A2 poster or a postcard from my shop.

As an added bonus since you’re a subscriber to this mailing list you can get 10% off any posters in my shop by using the code: DON’T EAT THE POSTER

 

SERCO SPACE-BASED WASTE DISPOSAL FACILITY

“Blasting Britain’s garbage into orbit since 2035″⁠

I was working on this over Christmas but didn’t get round to photographing it but was reminded of it when Jeff Bezos said he wanted to move all polluting industry into space, which is obviously a daft idea because we could just make all the industrial smoke stacks so tall that all the pollution goes into space instead. Problem solved, idiot.

Let’s blast everything up there. Old fridges, spent nitrous oxide canisters, my food waste bin, load it up in a giant rocket full of powdered aluminium and blast it into the sky.

Part of a larger diorama I’ve been working on that will incorporate the Thunderdome Brexit Bus I finished at Xmas and assorted other dystopian horrors. Absent of a deadline it’ll probably all be finished in a decade or so. I’m posting all the photos from this project on my website here.


TOMORROW’S PAPERS (2019)

I made this a couple of years ago. The good news is it’s likely to be a scorcher right until the very end.

⁠⁠Limited edition print and a postcard of this are in my shop.

 

HELL SHIRTS BACK IN STOCK

The Hell t-shirts that Shell tried to stop me selling a few years ago are now back in stock in all sizes. 

Also available as an enamel badge, iron-on patches and stickers.

 

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THAT’S IT FOR NOW

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Admit One

 

It’s 5 am, the heat builds. Thought comes in, unasked; this could be their Somme. This could be the slaughter of the young gone willingly to war, gone happily to dance. This could be their mustard-gas.

A night-club ticket, pass to the racecourse, the games, football, visa, boarding pass. The new white feather bought for birthday treat. 

They are not visible yet. The sick fathers, bereft wives who stare into space. Their children will cling, distanced and aware too early of death.

What is it that desires the death and disability of a whole generation?

All they want is to save the world. All I want is sleep.

 

 

 

Words and art
Pen Kease

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on Dover beach

   


By Grand Central Station

I sat down and cried
Elizabeth Smart 1945

–––––––––––––

once I slept on Dover Beach
oh lack-a-day
my boat for France
had sailed away without me
I became a castaway let’s say
in my own country

on Dover Beach
I laid me down and slept
on Dover Beach
I never wept

beneath the promenade wall
in seaside shingle I dug a hole
for my bony hip
put my baggage under
my not-so-sleepy head
awaited a revelatory call

I may have made this up
yet an enchanted distance ago
did flee from failure
and then the beach-bed snug
my sleeping bag just so
the night is young the mood is mellow*

on Dover Beach

I closed my eyes
on Dover Beach
I dreamed of sunrise

that long ago night
I was confounded
poor sleeper though I am
I didn’t lie locked in strife
with the meaning of life
as Matthew Arnold once did

no ignorant armies
clashed by night
on my dreamy beach
I slept alright alright
woke up the same man
I was when I laid down

on Dover Beach
I laid alone
my heart was still
my breath mine own

before I boarded
for France next day
I wandered into Dover
for a petit dejeuner
thinking of how Matthew Arnold
once did gaze toward Calais

how he ground out from home
his memorable lines:
for better or worse
they’ve survived triumphant
in every anthology
of deathless English verse

on Dover Beach
I thought of him
lamenting his lost England
driven by his poetry
Matthew Arnold poet and gent
on his way to posterity

on Dover Beach
I heard the lovely moan
of old Matthew Arnold
adrift and alone

 

 

Jeff Cloves
Illustration: Claire Palmer

––––––––––––––––––––––

*not Matthew Arnold’s words
but from Vaughn Toulouse and Mike Herbage’s
great mysterious and surreal song ‘Is Vic There?’
by Department S (Demon Records 1980)
its minimalist lyric repeats and repeats…..

The night is young

the mood is mellow
and there’s music in my ears
say: ‘Is Vic there?’
I hear ringing in the air
so I answer the phone
a voice comes over clear
‘Is Vic there? Is Vic there? Is Vic there….

’Vaughan Toulouse’ (born Vaughn Cotillard)
chose his own name (Born to lose?) he died aged 31

The New Penguin Book of English Verse (2000)
states that Dover Beach was first published in 1867;
other sources suggest it was written eight years earlier.

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Yet still I fall

 
 
Every little bit

Of our bodies

Fit

Together.

We were made for each other.

But sometimes I can’t breathe

When you’re near,

Though more often when you’re not.



When I fall in love, I fall in hard.

Elated and anxious at once,

I fear both being smothered and rejected.

How can that be?

Because I want you to smother me.

And so I wonder

If the treacherous journey

Has already begun.



So I step back,

Take a breath,

And ask myself:

Is this love,

Or just lust?

I ponder the difference.

Is one better or worse?

Or are they the same

With a different name?

Maybe it’s both.

Love and lust.

I love you.

I lust you.

My life in your hands.



It’s hard to be vulnerable

When a lifetime of loving too much

Leaves me weary.

Yet still I fall,

Just like the last time,

Finding courage, somehow, where little remains.


 
 
Amanda Law
 
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from European Hymns

 

 

 

Velvet Pandemic Cage 

Bird scarer at 8.00 
no minimalism here 
yellow wall amplification 
Mary’s ambient focus 
first Kasar’s ‘Leaping’ 
& travels into old Europe 
It all seems so absurd 
Doris writes on the wall 
12.4.85 luxury of afternoon 
coffee sparrows continue 
to chirp through the rain 
that gathers on canopies 
the Tour hums along while 
dealing with mediocrity 

Acknowledgements to Mary Lattimore 

 

Minimise Travel 

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May Day

Cashier name: Michelle 
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“It’s nice up there, I like that coast.” 
Scour shops for pie and plain bread 
wrapped in waxed paper, to carry 
across the border. 

 

 

 

Andrew Taylor

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1.Waiting of a land

That day,
The step of gray-head banyan tree was
Horegallu of our native place.
People interact with each other
Know the comforts
Love will be shared
Laughter and fun
Noises will be settled
Tears will flow.
Once a year,
Ground yard of banyan tree
Witness the festival grounds.
Today,
Old laugh and jokes
Become black and sticky
Under the banyan tree
The vehicles coming through the street
Covered the front of there carriage.
Tough to the funny talk
In  Motu’s Tea Shop
Become a resting place for cattle.
still blows,
That four o’clock wind in the evening
They looked at someone
In the thin stream of light breeze 
He touched the banyan tree and 
say goodbye to the banyan tree.
Parrots Put  the cage in the past
Were parry walked and rotate the patrol.
With round eyes the locked land
Exchanged the emojis
On the behind of two screens.
Crossing boundaries and
Shared the soul lovers
Now in the darkness of loneliness.
Finally,
Everything is fixed, the whole destroyed was a time of anger.
But at a distance
Looking around for expectations
Without night and day
The whole peoples …
looking away and sitting 
in the distance blaming the verdict
For the birth of a phoenix bird.

 

 

Abdul Razak.RB

 

 

 

 

About me:

My name is Abdul Razak.RB .  Iam from chetlath island in Lakshadweep. Iam a undergraduate student in English literature. at University of Calicut, and I am a freelance writer also, I already published many articles and poems in different current relevant magazines.also a active member in Kerela literature group and poetry group.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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