Never Mind the Beasts

Gdansk Airport

Polish news at Gdansk airport & business men gathered round to count and count and count and I exchange ZL for £ and stuff it all into an envelope my life is down to 15 kilos

plus a laptop . . . . I am off to London . . . then SLC . . . then . . . looks like Turkey . . .

There is a Polish woman in the lounge. She dreams of Mexico, dreams of warmer climates. She breaks her chocolate. This is her sacrament. Don’t let me be lonely. She is 40. All of our clocks are ticking, honey.

el chimps . . . oh my fresh springlings . . . . I have taken up a course and what ails me
is not the journey but the settlement . . . . what praise doth enter this abdomen what sloth doth climb into this intestinal tract . . . .

The Polish woman tells me her name is Beata. She zones. I zone. We all zone. I’m ok you’re ok we’re flapping our way out of this cold Polish night into another cold night. Stone gods sit on the hill overlooking the ships . . . docking . . . undocking . . . .

come play in my garden

I want to cycle

these faces

come flicker

my screens

Can you hear
the love

that
governs

oblivion
in the instant

I am
stone deaf

I want to touch your face

our pores
have opened
too soon
the spam
of an open
blouse
we sit
in Nero
after the meat
feast
skimmed
breasts
in a soy cup
you taste
like Christmas
lines are x-ings
this is not
a singing
postcard
the peasants
have sold
out
beep! beep! beep!
there is fur
on yr toilet
seat!
My heart is
shuffled it
is intelligent it
is a lot
like me
poetry is cheap
I hunger &
hunger
and at the
end
of my hungering
I hunger
some more

. . . borders and margins . . . danish and hebrew and arabic and english . . . intelligence never tasted so fine . . . gatherer of detritus . . . nebulae of syllables and sounds . . . . . . still feeling those skirted glottal stops . . . those shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh’s and love his ppppppppppppppppp’s . . . . sound placer of tongues. . . .

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Michael Zand

tireless prankster . . .. the twin zodiac of the moustache king of all kings harry godwin . . . partner in crimes and minor misdeamings . . . .

Linus Slug

ahhhhh great to be in London among these folks!!!

fantastic presence . . . . and . . .. and well . . . . i dunno . . . . but great great presence as a performer and language acrobat. .. . i want more of this fella!!!

richard parker

textures and layers and turtles on the back of universes . . . . Nat Raha

absolutely excellent performer and photographer and . . . well . . . feckin great work . . . loved all of it . . . and the interview . . . call and response . . ah . . .

Georgie m’glug

Welch poet and fab reader of slippery lines and images . . . not dreary old english lyrics . . . Owain Lee

and recently returning from a trip to Wroclaw . . . . with a bit of the plague . . but still kickin strong . . . Ms. Frances Kruk . . .

and introducing edmund hardy with his sweet shoulder get up . . . . crumpled and fed and jumping . . . . fences . . . .

The one and only Mr. Harry Godwin (need I say more)!!!!

a cactus king blowing
raspberries in this make
believe you hardly
know in the cardboard
sundown I’ve yet
to find the dignity
of a proper fork
it is not true
that we are bunnies
it is not true
it is not true
we are balled
and waded we’ve
sporked this city
we’ve frosted
the tooth kings
my love my love
is the snow yet
to fall the solitude
changing hands
I travel these streets
with jeden bilet

la da da da
the black cat in gold boots
has already gone
please please this
is the sermon of a crab
la da da da

An excellent overview of innovative/avant garde poetics in the 21st century and its relationship to the marketplace/publishing . . . .

check it:

Any De’Ath and poetry publishing

Fantastic!!! Check it out:

Past Simple 7

On Your Way to Luxurious Grass

When I follow you into
the cheap city with
your legs wet wrapped
up in a skirt with
scorched & stretched
thighs we are
following our follies
we are not effective
like the animals
corpse maintanence
with the machine that
already has you
in its perpetual
claws see the time
it seems to take
to poke and yoddle

here is yr chicken
here is yr leg

mercy has
a double fisting

A House is not a Home

my house is the fireman’s dream, a bloodbomb, boob errors, booby tubes, yep, my house is a spiral, a throat captain (ahoy!), twitching brows and fingerbones.

my house is ruse, my house is a hussy, my house is gonna get ya, my house houses a tableau of cut heads

flash flash flash

my house is the anti-thesis of a home

Elblag . . . Katowice . . . Elblag

the toilet is full of shit
with a footpump

to drizzle
out the water

if we fall
into the fizz I wanna

lick you all over

the old spooks on the way
to Kalingrad

hold their heads
in their hands

I’ve met my head
in the sweat boxes

of Polish trains
Polish trains leave

you saddle sore

the sound at a distance

no shall I not, no shall I not
implore me
no shall I not, no shall I not
restore me

the gulag gaggles &
hacks, the gulag
is a Dronephone

the sockets contain a quagmire
of errors

equality is in the crumpling
of paper, equality is in
the silence

count, and roll, count, and roll

Alstom Turbine Factory
(Elblag, Poland 19th November 2009)

these corners have straightened
my hands the endeavor of ruts
masculine & marvelous I true
it is I baited into the poem
into a birdless place
a massive bloke with crust
in his eye handles
the turbines with pockets
full of molten
crystal we do ocean
these lips away may I
call you mine may I
unlock this door we built
this city on a relentless
terror we built this hissing
head cracking cases
troubles track us down

There is a special insomnia
in this hall of lizards
—————————–
I’ve allocated
a minddump on
these
two tonic
bones
—————————
when my head falls
off someone
else’s
will turn
—————————
perhaps this will lead
to some small discovery
—————————
I love small nose
piercings

I love small
nose piercings
—————————
this is your own
private
sound-
track
—————————
this is making my head
rattle

this is goofier than
the bland
American grain
that fills my clunky
universe
—————————
presently I am
losing
my marbles
—————————
WANTED
—————————
tiny
changes
that hurt
—————————
we’ve left YOU
to dry out
in the morning sun
—————————
this doesn’t do
me any good

the response
is to break
into a radical force
—————————
today I paint
with the whispers

that ended
the Roman empire

we don’t know where we stand

or who we stand with
or what stands with us
or who can stand us
or what we can stand

the cat rolls its tongue &
telegrams shake the leaves

we don’t know

who stumbles
who pounds
who mirrors
who knocks

we don’t know where we stand

Unheimlichkeit ( the breaking of ground)

a boy a boy came to me
with wads of paper from the Lamma
welfare shelter I greased the pirates
what clutches yr dairy air?
my grandmother Jean was dissolving
into Northern Irish gravy oh lottery
to the grand land of dreams
hidden Star Wars figures
forgotten on light bulbs
this is the smell of burning plastic
this is a faint signal from Portadown
to Milton Keynes to Las Vegas agog
with crackes and shells alive alive
oh oh this is the piecing
together of extra bits
is that you in front of me
in a rocket ship with Neil Diamond
blasting we’re coming to America
today today but I’m in Elblag
Poland among Teutonic bones
and there is a shadow of a nun
in her spires I’ve dreamed
of horses I’ve dreamed
of lands I’ve never seen

Self Portrait

the devils
in the details
you grow
your blond
hairs you
shave your
blond hairs
my left arm
is from
Iona
my left arm
is from
the lower
world
come out come
out oh
mermaids
the hornet
nest is the
golden butter
the mytho-
poetic cabbage
is boiling with
goldilocks
quell quell
the rainbow
I live towards
the border
yeah

Trendy Club
(Elblag, Poland)

I’m not your
stoic mistress
I’m the oops
in yon skirt
a sheet of metal
throws
back the sparks
that light a cigarette
we’re hidden in itchy
dreams a creamy
touch this stranger
shacks with testicles
we ride
the brambled motions

Polish literature blog

Some new poems from the London section of Alien Memory Machine just published at the Argotist Online.

Great magazine. Check it out:

Argotist Online

Garbary 11
(Elblag, Poland 28th August 2009)

the tactile
is whipped
into the other
eye and I’m a
bunk bunking
on tip toes
jeepers
creepers
in this patch
of northern Poland
red stars
dot the graveyard
and if everybody knew
what they want
there would be
no government
people people
this is a riot
the measure of love
is to love without
measure
I’m suspended
in the ethical
in this palace
of baby gods
oh baby I’m
going to give
you a mystery
in this wormy spermy
canal after that final
yes the point comes
trotting after

Some good work in English translation forthcoming in the new journal Cleaves. Check out her blog:

Louise Rosengreen

check it:

Projekt 1

Unheimlichkeit ( the breaking of ground)

it takes four horses
to overcome
14 pounds
of limp flesh

& what is crossed
is found again

in modern Utah
a cowboy came
to me shucking
corn and shrugging
with his wads of
paper from the Lamma
welfare shelter
and I was chewing
Now & Laters
while my grandmother
Jean was dissolving
into Northern
Irish gravy oh lottery
to the grand
land of dreams of
hidden
Star Wars figures
forgotten on light bulbs
this is a faint signal
from Portadown
to Milton Keynes to
Las Vegas
agog with crackes and shells
alive alive piecing together
extra bits is that you
in front of me in a rocket ship
with Neil Diamond
blasting we’re coming
to America
today today but I’m in Elblag
Poland among Teutonic
bones and the shadow of a nun
in her spires I’ve dreamed
of horses I’ve dreamed of lands
I’ve never seen

such a variety of houses & fortresses
which fish make from their own liquor
& saliva these details take precedence
over a panorama

London poet, writer, and all around great gal . . . check out some sample chapters from her new novel here:

Ellipsis Blog

super super . . . . the one and only Amy De’Ath has a poetics blog . . . .

check it:

Amy De’Ath

Putting together a few Polish poets for the Polish section:

CLEAVES

La Playaseca

such a variety of houses and fortresses which fish make from their own liquor
& saliva these details take precedence over a panorama
————————————————————-
four horses to
overcome 14 pounds
of limp flesh

————————————————————–

this is whale watching
on the blinding
islands
with sliding
waters what is
crossed
is found again

————————————————–

last night a Utah
cowboy
came to me
among the red
rocks and offered us
some land
and shortly after I
was back in Milton
Keynes England
with a rocket ship
in the mall & Neil
Diamond
blasting
we’re coming to America
today I’m in Elblag
Poland among Teutonic
bones and
the shadow of a nun
in her spires
the Wulkan pub
where another new life
was sprung
among the clicking
of sharp heels
I’ve dreamed
of horses I’ve dreamed
of lands I’ve never seen

Terrific arts magazine. Combining/mixing various art forms: video, ambient music, visual art, poetry etc.

check it:

TRICKHOUSE

Some invigorating poems in progress over at Sophie Robinson’s blog. Goad yr loins:

Sophie Robinson

mainstream and non-mainstream etc.

One of my favourite poets of all time. Second generation NY School.

Joseph Ceravolo

Trendy Club
(Elblag, Poland)

I’m the oops slits
in yon skirt
all creatures
unite
practice smoking
in the sheet
of metal
with puppet
lips here
on ice
with itchy
dreams
dispersed
in the creamy
touch this
stranger shacking
on the greasy
table on the
loud hum
of testicles
we ride
the brambled
motions
I’m not
your
stoic mistress

Trendy Club
Elblag, Poland)

in the El
Bano
there is
a sheet
of metal
where girls
can practise
smoking
puppet masters
muscles &
boobs
oh
broken
faces
I want
to be
touched
I’m not
your
stoic mistress

wooden boxes. Some are a bit more advanced than others. But the infrastructure is still very basic. The way back was a late night train for 10 hours. Started a bit before midnight.

Jotted this in my notebook half asleep at about 6AM as the sun was slowly leaking into the dark of the train’s compartment.

Of course still rough . . . much more to come. . .

Elblag Katowice Elblag
“the measure of love is to love without measure”

to get
from side of
Poland to the
other I’m
traveling
with priests in a closed
compartment
one has thick glasses
I’d say 26
and the other priest
giggles and a gooey eyed
nun comes I’d say
around 21 and they
pray and pray
10 hours of mumbling
holy Polish and this
is a midnight train
a ten hour communion
with what I don’t
know
—————————————————
Let the record show Polish trains leave you saddle sore. Sometimes the babel and the banal turns brilliant. There is need to trace my teeth to gums. I’ve invented something simple for the rats but my yogurt has gone sour. The toilet is full of shit with a footpump to drizzle out the water. If we fall into the fizz, I wanna lick you all over. The old spooks on the way to Kalingrad hold their heads in their hands. I’ve met my head in the sweat boxes of Polish trains. Getting comfortable in your skin is a class thing.

your Enneagram type is NINE (aka “The Mediator”)

“I am at peace”

Peacemakers are receptive, good-natured, and supportive. They seek union with others and the world around them.

How to Get Along with Me

• If you want me to do something, how you ask is important. I especially don’t like expectations or pressure.

• I like to listen and to be of service, but don’t take advantage of this.

• Listen until I finish speaking, even though I meander a bit.

• Give me time to finish things and make decisions. It’s OK to nudge me gently and nonjudgmentally.

• Ask me questions to help me get clear.

• Tell me when you like how I look. I’m not averse to flattery.

• Hug me, show physical affection. It opens me up to my feelings.

• I like a good discussion but not a confrontation.

• Let me know you like what I’ve done or said.

• Laugh with me and share in my enjoyment of life.

What I Like About Being a NINE

• being nonjudgmental and accepting

• caring for and being concerned about others

• being able to relax and have a good time

• knowing that most people enjoy my company; I’m easy to be around

• my ability to see many different sides of an issue and to be a good mediator and facilitator

• my heightened awareness of sensations, aesthetics, and the here and now

• being able to go with the flow and feel one with the universe

What’s Hard About Being a NINE

• being judged and misunderstood for being placid and/or indecisive

• being critical of myself for lacking initiative and discipline

• being too sensitive to criticism; taking every raised eyebrow and twitch of the mouth personally

• being confused about what I really want

• caring too much about what others will think of me

• not being listened to or taken seriously

NINEs as Children Often

• feel ignored and that their wants, opinions, and feelings are unimportant

• tune out a lot, especially when others argue

• are “good” children: deny anger or keep it to themselves

NINEs as Parents

• are supportive, kind, and warm

• are sometimes overly permissive or nondirective

half of your intelligence is from congress
with other people

thus, without contact, last time
around in Poland

my intelligence
hibernated

or I lost
my vocabulary

which amounts
to the same thing

this time I talk
talk talk &
talk

if only
to myself

love songs
are the same
and they
keep pushing
my buttons
especially during
sleep

I dream
non-stop because
I set my alarm
at odd intervals

I want to live
with pedestrian
poetics
and sing woozy
on my feet
fumbling
around for my keys

wear my organs
on the outside

all our feet
make the big
city , the new city,
the only city
after this one
gets sacked and re-
sacked by the visa-
goths or some
other discontent

what I do
at my desk
is what I want
to do on my bed

it’s about getting
comfortable
with your self
or selves
that shifting
flicker

we’re gonna go
gooey
so better
not confuse
existence
with life

Milk Bar
(Elblag, Poland August 9th 2009)

plump ladies
are sweating
into my
gulasz
let feelings
bring events
and not vice
versa
my spooked
speech contains
a bond with day-
dreaming
‘ello ‘ello
spiegel in
spiegel
history is just
a big H
my house
is not
on the rocks
my little dog
eats me
chop up
the momentary
this is the tender
the barter the human
meatloaf Hercules
paddles upriver with
a spoon and the salt
shaker is missing
from my table

Sopot
(August 17th 2009)

this sun
brings me
back to 21
with disorderly
hair with pierced
ear
I did wear
a wet suit
on my
honeymoon
stranger stranger
I’ve leaked
into the sea
oh woman hobbling
in canary shirt
I’m here
on this bench
I’ve misread
my trains
soon the light
will go
where are you
oh
travel mates

Some interesting illustrations from Darby Hudson

illustrations

and some animations:

animations

I love love love this literary journal. Quickly becoming my favourite in print or online. Always poetry as potential and a revival of the literary review as actually interesting. Unlock those gates.

AHHH!!! Every issue makes me immediately want to write . . . beginners mind . . . that is the best feeling about writing and reading . . . feeling a beginners mind . . . and this literary journal . . . ignites potential . . . terrific terrific editing and work . . .

ONEDIT

Some poems from Alien Memory Machine (South Korea section) are in the debut issue of Radioactive Moat. Check the first issue here:

Radioactive Moat

Garbary 11
(28th August 2009)

it’s too late
to hand out
the chocolate
the duchess
of Malfi is trying
to eat me
the tactile
is whipped
into the other
eye and I’m a
bunk bunking
on tip toes
jeepers
creepers
in this patch
of northern Poland
red stars
dot the graveyard
in this palace
of baby gods
oh baby I’m
going to give
you a mystery
in this wormy spermy
canal after that final
yes the point comes
trotting after

Bez Konserwantów (third take)

there’s a hole to keep you warm
a hole behind the eye
a certain slant of light
with a fly sliding in butter
to feel the turbo pig
scratch his ass
in this afternoon glow
draw the sexsweat
from my aging bones
this is very much a woman’s
novel
my ditz nipples flap open
to splay the winning way
to yon sexless desert
my laptop rattles like a cough
there is no
no selling back what
we already have
yes yes
I’m tick ticking
with a tension between
Buddhist and Christian
suffering
we adopt
a brand new language in death’s
dream kingdom
hey handsome
you mean I’m going to lose
the farm whatever happens
yep this is love talk radio
coming to you live from
Elblag

One of the great poets of the 20th century. Give it a listen:

BBC Radio Barry MacSweeney

Garbary 11
(28th August 2009)

and if everybody knew
what they want
there would be
no government
people people
this is a riot
the measure of love
is to love without
measure
this is the suit-
case of the world
this is the suffering
the sugar on the
rotting apples
a saucer hiding
unknowns the duchess
of Malfi is trying
to eat me and
I’m suspended
in the ethical

Milk Bar

I’m in a Polish
Milk Bar &
plump ladies
are sweating

into my gulasz
every thought
contains a debris

What does
memory reclaim?

What is our bond
with the past?

When did
the daydreaming
collapse?

Spiegel
in
spiegel

OK comes
from the American
civil
war
0
K(illed)

what does it mean
to confuse

existence
with life?

The salt shaker is
missing from my
table and my kapusta
is pickled

let feeling bring events
and not vice

versa when
the story
ends

history
begins

Some interesting art and poetry in the new issue of Poets and Artists. I have three wee poems. Sort of Self Portraits. Check it out:

Poets and Artists

Garbary 11
(Elblag, Poland 28th August 2009)

the suit-
case

dumped
with

a late riot
of lost

love

I am sick
sick

and my
eggs

are runny
we’re not

legit
hey sugar

sugar
on my

rotten
apples

yeah
we’re

far
gone

so get
your leather

on

here’s a
hole to
keep you
warm
here’s yr
poked
out
iris

we
adopt
a brand
new
language
and grace
it up
in death’s
dream
kingdom

hey
handsome
you mean
I’m going
to lose
the farm
whatever
happens

yep

this is
love talk
radio
coming
to you
live from
Elblag

Didi Menendez painted a rather flattering portrait. If only I were that cool . . . damn . . . .

Korean Shades and all

The angel of Poland at a Polish BBQ critiques the idea of Polish romantic patriotism. Is it sweet to die for one’s country or for romantic love?

hm . . .

poor quality clip but here it is:

Lagoon (Elblag, Poland)

so what
mr Theo

upstands
his head

goading
the wise

belly dome
& I’m

burned
freckled
& follied

all my friends

are not waving
but downing

Milky Bar

I’m in a Polish
Milky Bar

&

plump ladies
are sweating
into

my gulasz

Sopot August 17th 2009

this sun brings me
back to 21 this sun
in Sopot

when with pierced ear
I did wear

a wet
suit on my

honeymoon

where are you oh
travel mates

I’ve leaked
into

the sea

oh woman hobbling
in canary shirt

I’m here

on this bench

I’ve misread &
mistimed

my trains

soon the light will
go but now
it’s a blue dome

love is an intervention
in this quantum
universe

&

everything

is imprinted
with what

it once
was

farewell oh
bushy
clumps & crotch
hugging

jeans

—————————————-
By Jove!

this is
specjal Jasny
Pełny
with

spicy bird
nuts

There is

a pump
for sok

juice

there are straws
for gals

and plum
and cherry

wodka

oh
my
Elblagians

who
pull fish

from the canal

Vipered &
versed I still
go ill with fear

of the golden mean &
urban sprawl

this grip is

extensive
expensive

expansive

I bend my
ear

to the
tombs.

Dante falls
into a swoon
before a large &
vocal crowd
that miserable
throng of lost
champions
get their lukewarm
without hope
no baptism
oh geezers
come clean
a flush
in the
industrial twat

cartoon dreams with
cartoon erection
crossing into divinity
with hot rain with hot
sand in the eye
the bird in your bum
is free take it on
the chin take it on
the cheek

baffling wings
of a grin

into the world into the
cowshit &
gold painted
nightsweats
with Mr. Goar

I left my broken watch
in Jakjeon but picked up
a hipper one in Myeong Dong

DAE HA MIN GUK!

Long long ago this small lad saved Elblag from the invasion of Teutonic knights by closing the city gates with his shovel:

fab reading recently in Manchester at The Other Room:

Sean Bonney and Frances Kruk

The New Yinzer

This is the second first draft of a poem from today. The 2nd poem written in Poland 2009.

London Bridge

Hey baby give
me yr light
cock chump call
whoa whoa whoooa
rob the rambling wind
fickle yrself sick
with yr puddyslope
plaster my soul’s
soul never skips
more’s the pity
sip desires
elsewhere balkerings
of bacteria and blooddust
spot on my rain dabbed
minions my damned rats
my buccolic caesars
in the pokka dot shafts
in the flame cycles
with mountains
of chips & slithering
ale we’ve got
our mouths
on yr fraudulent
chalk a weltering
rook with pensive
swine in their arm-
chairs my nose
is in yr cadaver in yr
spuddertalk against
yon bridge with your
splatwisdom and crumbling
nudes we touch yr turrents
we touch yr androids yr lusty
inhale bonjella on the
gums brunettes tripping
me on the tattered angels
I used to believe in
a little bleary-eyed
snowcone our light
debt is blue the color
of livid yellow goes
the cracked yammer

the jizism girls
sit in their jizism
windows take your
faith & kick
it out the window
we’ll clay our way
out of this dark
I’m working on
working on
erasing you
I’m on my loneliness
with my fat lips
I’m drumpy
you’re simple
I’m considering
drinking
your ass juice
to whom do I
spread to whom
do I crack
open soften
inside slime
into the grind
a bliss cup
among the towers
pain became
a passage
a puppet
a muppet
a beauty bar
twigs in the twaggle
bakelight inside
the mouthcharts
don’t make me
sweat
do not wear
do not make me
make me wear
flares do not
make me
spit cherry pits
stick glass in
tummy munch
Rumi let us
then mate

Joan Baez vs. This is the Mother___ Remix

Must cut nails. They click too much when I type. Must get a sim unlock. Must get my nose into this climate. Must find toilet trees. Must get groove. Must get back my rusty Polish phrases. Must ask for a Reklamoofka or bring my own. Must find a table and chair to write on. I have a sofa and bed and mini-man stool.

The air is dusty. There are two other natives in the three flat building. That’s what we call ourselves. Natives. But we are not natives here. They are natives.

I’m back on the instant coffee looking for waking visions. I am still getting my bearings. My compass is spinning, still. I should be dancing. Was fur ein Beat hast du?

until buses, trains, and planes to Elblag, Poland. I should arrive in Elblag a little before 1AM.

Need to look at my books again.

hanging at a friend’s house by a canal in East London (Limetree). Lots of Boats. A fountain. Some ducks. Makes me want to try Tai Chi!

I keep throwing away clothes but I suppose I need to have more than jeans and t-shirts for a winter in Poland. Upped my limit to 25 kilos. I have 15 kilos with computer and books in my carry-on. Must unload books and get them shipped later. So what to take???

So far, from the top of my head, here are a few of the books I have packed for Poland:

1) Sean Bonney’s Document, Baudelaire in English, Poisons their Anecdotes

2) Frances Kruk’s A Discourse on Vegetation and Motion

3) Stephen Rodefer (as Jean Calais): Villion

4) Robert Duncan’s Audit, 1967

5) Joe Donahue’s Terra Lucida

6) Geraldine Monk’s Ghost Sonnets

7) D.H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow, England my England, The Kangaroo

8) Peter Jaeger’s Prop

9) Tim Atkins Horace

10) Jeff Hilson’s Stretchers and Bird Bird

11) Nate Tarn’s Palenque

12) Joseph Ceravolo’s The Green Lake is Awake

13) various little chapbooks/pamplets picked up at Soundeye like David Toms, Luke Roberts, Default pubs etc.

14) a copy of Minor American

15) Tom Raworth’s Ace

16) Grzegorz Wroblewski’s Our Flying Objects

17) Catherine Wagner’s Hole in the Ground

18) Maggie o’ Sullivan’s Body of Work

19) Ken Edward’s Nostalgia for Unknown Cities

20) Keston Sutherland’s Hot White Andy

21) Marianne Morris’s A new book from Barque Press, which they will probably not print

22) Linus Slug’s The ffrass gazette

I will have to leave at least 40 kilos of books behind for now. How did I get around 60 kilos of modernist and contemporary poetry books in London in the course of about 9 months?

The price of a nomadic lifestyle is the loss of books! But they are building again. Hm . . .

Insane morning. Clean the flat. Fill the black bags. What to take and keep. I’m slouching towards another new life.

Leave the desk and chair. Sold the imac with big screen. Got an old laptop.

15 kg of clothes
15 kg of books

This is everything I own.

I wish I could narrow it more.

1.5 hours on train in a few hours to stay at Ewa’s friends house. Tomorrow seven to eight hours of trains, buses, and planes to Elblag Poland.

gaining and losing what?

Time for a Lucas aid!

Brian Howe and Marcus Slease

This is the motherfucking remix

Turkey did not work out due to financial constraints with paying for visas and notarizing diplomas etc. (over £500). So I am off to Poland in a few days. We are all moving out of this London flat and going separate ways.

Strange feeling. Narrowing my life to one bag again. Staying at a friends house on Saturday. Flight from Luton to Gdansk on Sunday.

This is the new city for a while. Will use the time to finish London manuscript.

Elblag history

SET

Edited and published by Gerrit Lansing, copyright 1961. Cover by Harry Martin.

Includes:
Robert Duncan, Charles Olson, Stephen Jonas, Edward Dorn, John McGavern, Robert Kelly, John Wieners, Frater Perdurabo, Gerrit Lansing.

Issue #1 available NOW in pdf format.

SET 2

Edited and published by Gerrit Lansing. Cover by Harry Martin. Copyright 1963.

SET 2 features LeRoi Jones, Diane Wakoski, Robert Kelly, Kenward Elmslie, John Wieners, Stephen Jonas, Gerrit Lansing.

Issue #2 available NOW in pdf format.

SET magazine

check it:

Streetcake

Welcome to Tony Tost’s America. My name is Tony Tost, and this is my America:

Tony Tost’s America

Set 1

Big Maybelle, “Ocean of Tears”

Billie Jo Spears, “Get Behind Me Satan and Push”

Leonard Cohen, “Don’t Go Home With Your Hard On”

Carl Story, “You Don’t Love God (If You Don’t Love Your Neighbor)”

(Tony Tost is authorized by the soul saving station to perform such duties consistent with his special advisory position)

Set 2

Johnny Burnette Trio, “The Train Kept A-Rollin’”

Jerry Lee Lewis, “Honey Hush”

Billy Lee Riley, “Saturday Night Fish Fry”

The Blenders, “Don’t Fuck Around With Love”

(Tony Tost explains: America leads a life of allegory; its works are comments upon it)

Set 3

Sister Wynona Carr, “Dragnet for Jesus”

Skeets McDonald, “The Tattooed Lady”

John Anderson, “Tokyo, Oklahoma”

The Rio Rockers, “Mexicali Baby”

Little Walter & Baby Face Leroy, “Rollin’ & Tumblin’ (Part 1)

(Charles Manson discusses doors, perfection, and conditioning.)

Set 4

John Phillips, “She’s Just 14”

Tanya Tucker, “Blood Red and Going Down”
David Allan Coe, “Death Row”

Bob Dylan, “Man Gave Names to All the Animals”

Slim Gaillard, “Fuck Off (The Dirty Rooster)”

(By the touch of America’s wand, divine troublemakers are transformed into porcine stone figurines)

Set 5

Memphis Minnie, “Ma Rainey”

Robert Gordon, “It’s In the Bottle”

Sisters of Saint Francis, “In Heaven There Is No Beer”

Sonic Recycling Program, “I’m Fucked Up, I’ve Got Problems, and I’m Dangerous”

Charles Manson, “Arkansas”

(At the nethermost core of Tony Tost, and at the underside of his America, lay novelty, terror, and the transcendence of good taste)

Set 6

Robert Mitchum, “The Ballad of Thunder Road”

The Blue Sky Boys, “I Wish I Had Never Seen Sunshine”

Judy Lynn, “The Calm Before the Storm”

Scott Walker, “The Lady Came From Baltimore”

The sumptial colonel is losing weight with Zoloft
& gaining weight with prozac. Wings have been useless.

He walks the stairs to Wonderland.

He’s an eliptical machine.

Fingernails chalk
the walls.

The sumptial colonel has headed
east has
dropped
verbs into
simple tenses.

His marriage loins gone drury.

Sugar in a round
clay pot.

The peace. The wasp. The slope.

Singing nettles under
a black
umbrella.

Behold the no-lid.

Mops
and old rugs
on a metal staircase.

I’m testing my banality.

Do you see this moon tissue?

Snail shells were once used as an allegory for both grave and resurrection.

The bright green and orange parrots are outside my window. They are beautifully lost.

There are more things in a closed box than an open one.

Make haste yea gentlemen who ride across the seas. My housemate awakens furniture that once slept.

Every morning I give a thought to saint Robinson Crusoe. Waterbugs floated on the china plate.

—————————————————-
Q: Was I in yr tummy when you were dancing?
A: No!
Q: Where was I?
A: No where.
Q: Where is no where?

—————————————————-

If you want to see the mirror then say please. The banality of the situation requires attention. A small lint free cloth, two pound coins, a small twig, and unresolved scum clogged the washing machine. I cannot proper myself completely. I imagine a forest life surrounded by friends in plaid shirts and muddy boots. That lady told me I lack male role models. I’m still forever spelling my selves. Every poem wants a freedom. Give me back my bones. What hides you? Who is giving you a hiding? How do you hide? Being starts with well-being. Lithocardites are heart shells. Images set verbs in motion. The French proverb says if you steal an egg you steal an ox. Houses are made from liquor and saliva. What is the dreamlife of language? The wing is near the engine. Every land a jigsaw. Etwas schnell. Eat the snail. Listen to me. I need a goading. Will you goad me? A tight squeeze of the lid doth not drive away wrath. Behold my face how it bores me. More and more went in and more and more came out. Folks pay a fortune for their lives.

Interesting to revisit this blog for an intro to poetry class I taught at UNC Greensboro. All non-poets and non-English majors. A lot of fun. I miss it!!!

intro to poetry

http://www.flickr.com/apps/slideshow/show.swf?v=71649

MW: Sounds like a self-destructive way to seek God
JK: Oh, it was tremendous. I woke up sick about the fact that I had come back to
myself, to the flesh of life…
MW: You mean the Beat people want to lose themselves?
JK: Yeah. You know, Jesus said to see the Kingdom of Heaven you must lose
yourself…something like that.
MW: Then the Beat Generation loves death?
JK: Yeah, They’re not afraid of death.
MW: Aren’t you afraid?
JK: Naw… What I believe is that nothing is happening,
MW: What do you mean?
JK: Well you’re not sitting here. That’s what you *think*. Actually we are great
empty space. I could walk right *through* you… You know what I mean, we’re
made out of atoms, electrons. We’re actually empty. We’re an empty vision…in
one mind.
MW: In what mind–the mind of God.
JK: That’s the name we give it. We can give it any name. We can call it
tangerine…god…tangerine…But I know we are empty phantoms sitting here
thinking we are human beings and worrying about civilization. We’re just empty
phantoms. And yet, all is well.
MW: All is well?
JK: Yeah. We’re all in Heaven, now, really.
MW: You don’t sound happy.
JK: Oh, I’m tremendously sad. I’m in great despair.
MW: Why?
JK: Its a great burden to be alive. A heavy burden, a great big heavy burden. I
wish I were in Heaven, dead.
MW: But youa re in Heaven, Jack. You just said we all were.
JK: Yeah. If I only knew it. If I could only hold on to what I know. [Then,
casually, rising] “You must meet my friend Phillip Lamantia. He was knocked off
a bench by an angel last week.”

Leaving Wednesday morning. Lots of great poets to mingle with. My first public reading from Godzenie.

Super stellar lineup:

SoundEye #13
8-12 July 2009
Cork, Ireland

Wed July 8 • 18:00 • admission free
Firkin Crane, Shandon, Cork
Reading: Sean Bonney (UK) + Mairéad Byrne (Irl/USA) + Keith Tuma (USA)

Thu July 9 • 18:00 • admission free
Firkin Crane, Shandon, Cork
Reading: James Cummins (Irl) + Frances Kruk (UK) + Keston Sutherland (UK)

Thu July 9 • 20:30 • admission €5
The Other Place Club, St. Augustine St. (just off Paradise Place / Western Rd.), Cork
SoundEye Cabaret (Programmed by Fergal Gaynor)
With Isabella Oberlander (dancer AUT) + Boiled String (performance poetry CYM) + Mathematical Muse (poetry / performance / music) + Retorika Quartet with Camilla Griehsel (baroque and renaissance strings with soprano) + many more

Fri July 10 • 14:00 • admission free
The Guesthouse, 10 Chapel Street, Shandon, Cork
Reading: Swantje Lichtenstein (Ger) + Kevin Perryman (Ire/Ger) + Stephen Rodefer (USA/Fr) + Michael Smith (Ire)

Fri July 10 • 17:30 • admission free
Firkin Crane, Shandon, Cork
Reading: Jerome Rothenberg (USA) + Geoffrey Squires (Ire/UK) + Christine Wertheim (Aus/UK/USA)

Fri July 10 • 21:00 • admission free
Meade’s Wine Bar, 126 Oliver Plunkett Street, Cork
Couscous@Meade’s with M/C Mairéad Byrne
(Pre-programmed open-mic)

Sat July 11 • 11:30 • admission free
Firkin Crane, Shandon, Cork
Poetry by Default programmed by Jimmy Cummins
Reading: Jim Goar (USA) + Marcus Slease (NIre) + David Toms (Ire)

Sat July 11 • 17:00 • admission €3 (towards the upkeep of the building)
(Sonic Vigil runs continuously 12:00 – 18:00)
St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, Cork
SoundEye/Sonic Vigil sound event
Performance: Jaap Blonk (Nl) + Jerome Rothenberg (USA) + Christine Wertheim (UK/USA)

Sat July 11 • 20:00 • admission free
Eason’s Hill Community Centre, Eason’s Hill, Shandon, Cork
Reading: Peter Manson (UK) + Maggie O’Sullivan (UK) + Tom Raworth (UK/Ire)
[Tom Raworth’s reading is generously supported by Poetry Ireland]

Sun July 12 • 11:00 • admission free
Firkin Crane, Shandon, Cork
Reading: Thomas McCarthy (Ire) + Mark Mallon (Ger/Fin) + Luke Roberts (UK)

Sun July 12 • 13:00 • admission free
The Guesthouse, 10 Chapel Street, Shandon, Cork
Reading: Billy Mills (Ire) + Martin Corless-Smith (UK/USA) + Catherine Walsh (Ire)

[The SoundEye Festival is made possible thanks to the Small Festivals Scheme of The Irish Arts Council]

Soundeye 2009

check out Scorpion Whip’s first track:

Night Heist

A pinhole camera is a very simple camera with no lens and a single very small aperture. Simply explained, it is a light-proof box with a small hole in one side. Light from a scene passes through this single point and projects an inverted image on the opposite side of the box. Cameras using small apertures, and the human eye in bright light both act like a pinhole camera.

pinhole visions

listen to some great Americana here:

Tony Tost’s America