Never Mind the Beasts

Website of surreal-absurd writer Marcus Silcock

  • In old stomping grounds of Katowice, Poland after 10 days in Spain. Valencia, Barcelona, Alicante. I will never visit Alicante again. It was a wasteland of thousands upon thousands of tourists, bright lights, consuming frenzy, over priced bottles of water. Everyone looking for a quick Euro. Lots of ripping off. Ripping off might be ok if I had extra dough to rip off and the other folks needed it more. Whatever. The game is rigged from the beginning. What is the game? Capitalism? I am not sure I know what that word means exactly. But yeah. Competition. Keeping power in the hands of the few while the rest of us lose a lot of our humantity in slaving away in cubicles and then fighting each other for the scraps from the master’s table etc etc.

    Alas, I am in Katowice. Things are nice and slow here. Simplier. At least when visiting and staying in the home of a nice family. It was different living here with sometimes no friends or internet or anyone to talk to and feeling like everything was sinister after getting beat up by a Russian mafia man at the entrance to a place called Spies.

    I will never visit Spies again.

    Tonight I am going to Kato. Kato is a place to hang. A pub. Meeting two old friends from 4 (maybe 5) years ago.

    Still processing Spain. Always wondered about Spain. I need to see more of the other parts of Spain. Maybe Granada.

    Valencia rocked my socks. A lot. The hostel in Valencia is called Low Cost Valencia and it rocked my socks. Best hostel I ever stayed in. Met lots of fellow travelers there. Went to uni area with some of the fellow travelers one night. Sat down at 1 AM until 6AM in a big circle while fellas came by and sold us two beers for one euro. It was a nice circle. It was nice bud too. There were anarchists and communists and dog lovers and old time punks. Serious punks. Some good street art.

    Ever word I type on this Polish keyboard is highlighted in red because I am typing in English. It is hard to see if I am mispelling. Mis spelling. HA! Drinking Turkish coffee in a place called Manhattan Estate in Katowice. It is not Manhattan. It is maybe Queens. It is not Brooklyn. It is a tight estate. It best to hang with the locals when you come to the estate. I like this estate. It feels sort of like a second home.

    Time for a smoke on the balcony of the estate. The temperature dropped yesterday from almost 40 degrees celcius in Spain to 20 degrees celicius in Katowice Poland. That’s a drop from about 102 degrees F to 60 degrees F.  And some cold rain in Poland.

    The sun is rumored to return by the end of the week. 

  • 912660 

      Mir Taqi Mir: Selected PoetrybyMir Taqi Mir

    THE MUGHAL EMPIRE IN INDIA (1526-1857)

    In the 1500’s the Mughals under their leader Babur made their way into India, expanding under Akbar the Great, and built one of the most remarkable empires in history before being suceeded by the rule of the British Empire. They extended their sway over the greater part of South Asia bringing an era of peace and stability that allowed the economy and society to flourish. The Mughal Empire ruled over 150 million people at a time when Britain had fewer than 10 million, France less than 20 and even the comparable Ottoman Empire less than 30 million. They stimulated a wide range of cultural interactions and transformations that were to enrich the Indian world in remarkable ways,, from miniature painting, to calligraphy and the growth of the Urdu language and script to the splendor of the Taj Mahal, one of the wonders of world architecture. Equally important if less well appreciated in the West is the magnificent literature the Mughals produced and patronized, first in the imperial language of the court, Persian, and from the early eighteenth century, in Urdu, a north Indian language closely related to Hindi but using the Mughal Persian script and adding a large vocabulary of loan-words and cultural allusions, genres and aesthetics from Persian and Muslim Arabic. Writers of global significance from this period include such renown figues as Ghalib, master of the ghazal love poem, Sauda the great prose satirist, the Jain writer Banarasidas, Mir Taqi Mir, the great poet of religious tolerance Kabir, and even the journals and lagacies of the Mughal Emperors themselves, such as Babur, Jahangir and Akbar the Great.

    Though geographically the sub-continent of India is somewhat isolated from its Eurasian surroundings by the barrier of the Himalayas, it has nonetheless remained a significant “crossroads of the world” in which movements of peoples and cultures have brought great cross-fertilization from the time of the arrival of the Vedic Aryans onward to include the movements of Greeks and Persians, Kushans and Scythians, Buddhist monks from China and Japan, Mongols and Timurids, Muslims, the Portugese, French and the global British Empire. As such it has also been renown as a cradle of spirituality, the origin of Hindu, Buddhist, Jain, Sikh and other religions, as well as bearing the influence of other religious traditions such as Christianity and Islam.

    The Moghal Empire was one of the three Muslim empires which arose following the Mongol destruction of the Abbasid Caliphate in the 13th century, which were often referred to as the “Gunpowder Empires” as part of their power and consolidation arose from the use of firearms and cannon, as exemplified in the Ottoman Janissary Corps. Thus the Ottoman Empire (1300-1922), the Safavid Persian Empire (1501-1736)which institutionalized the Shi’a religion in Iran, and the Mughal Empire (1526-1857) bridged the era from the fall of the Caliphate to the Mongols to the rise of global Western Imperialism. At the early stages they dwarfed the European states and their relative demise was anything but a foregone conclusion, the Ottomans almost taking Vienna; if America had not been discovered global history might have turned out quite otherwise.

    As the West ascended to supremacy reinforced by the Renaissance, Reformation, Scientific Revolution and Industrial Revolution their empires gradually dismembered and absorbed their relatively stagnant Islamic rivals, particularly the modernizing Russian Empire (1547-1917) to the north and the economically, scientifically and culturally dynamic British Empire (1497-1970), which was destined to supplant all three as the largest and most powerful empire in all of world history, ruling over more than one-fourth of all global land area and human population. Nonetheless, for centuries the three Islamic empires constructively competed and also learned from each other cultually, sharing the Arabic language,Islamic religion and sharia law in the religious domain, as well as the Persian language for administration, diplomacy and culture in the royal courts, forming an impressive era of Islamic civilization.

    The mission of the World Literature Forum is to introduce to readers coming from their own national literary traditions such as the West, to the great writers of all the world’s literary traditions whose contribution and influence beyond their own borders have had an influence on the formation of our emerging World Literature in our age of globalization, unprecedented travel and interaction of cultures including the instantaneous global communications of the Age of the Internet and the cross-border e-Book. The contributions of India and the Muslim world including those of the Mughal Dynasty in India form a rich part of this common heritage of mankind.

    KABIR, RENOWN POET OF RELIGIOUS TOLERANCE AND SPIRITUALITY

    An early figure in the mixing of the Vedic and Muslim traditions was that of the poet Kabir (1440-1518) born as an illegitimate child of a Brahmin mother in Varanasi who was raised by a Muslim family, then became a desciple of the Vaisnava Saint Ramananda. As such he turned away from the intolerance of sectarian religion on all sides and strove for the unification of all spiritual traditions in an ecumenical mysticism, Muslim, Sufi, Hindu, Sikh and Buddhist, seeking after a simple “oneness” with God in all manifestations. He was also a staunch champion of the poor and oppressed and a devoted opponent of social injustice in all forms. Persecuted at times by all sides in the collision of faiths, Kabir’s legend describes his victory in trials by a Sultan, a Brahmin, a Qazi, a merchant and god, and he became the subject of folk legends that still inspire tolerance in sectarian strife between Muslims and Hindus down to the present.

    His greatest work is the “Bijak” (the “Seedling”), an idea of the fundamental oneness of man, and the oneness of man and God. He often advocated leaving aside the Qur’an and Vedas and simply following the Sahaja path, or the Simple/Natural Way to Oneness in God. He believed in the Vedantic concept of atman, but unlike earlier orthodox Vedantins, he spurned the Hindu societal caste system and murti-pujan (idol worship), showing clear belief in both bhakti and Sufi ideas. The major part of Kabir’s work was collected as a bhagat by the fifth Sikh guru, Guru Arjan Dev, and incorporated into the Sikh scripture, “Guru Granth Sahib.” An example of his poetry showing openess and tolerance is “Saints, I See the World is Mad:”

    Saints, I See the World Is Mad

    Saints, I see the world is mad.
    If I tell the truth they rush to beat me,
    If I lie they trust me.
    I’ve seen the pious Hindus, rule-followers,
    early morning bath-takers—
    killing souls, they worship rocks.
    They know nothing.
    I’ve seen plenty of Muslim teachers, holy men
    reading their holy books
    and teaching their pupils techniques.
    They know just as much.
    And posturing yogis, hypocrites,
    hearts crammed with pride,
    praying to brass, to stones, reeling
    with pride in their pilgrimage,
    fixing their caps and their prayer-beads,
    painting their brow-marks and arm-marks,
    braying their hymns and their couplets,
    reeling. The never heard of soul.
    The Hindu says Ram is the Beloved,
    The Turk says Rahim.
    Then they kill each other.
    No one knows the secret.
    They buzz their mantras from house to house,
    puffed with pride.
    The pupils drown along with their gurus.
    In the end they’re sorry.
    Kabir says, listen saints:
    They’re all deluded!
    Whatever I say, nobody gets it.
    It’s too simple.

    Copyright Robert Sheppard 2013 All Rights Reserved

  • My close friend and excellent poet and artist and writer Grzegorz Wroblewksi has a brand new book out.

    and it ROCKS!! Big TIME!

    NY School poetry meets Kafka meets Polish poetry (bruLion etc.)

     http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brulion

    Get it get it get it!!

    http://www.spdbooks.org/Producte/9781938890000/default.aspx

    Bilingual Edition. Translated from the Polish by Piotr Gwiazda.

    “Grim, glancingly beautiful, always necessary.”—Joshua Clover

    “One of the most important books of our time: these are at once unsettling and comforting, timely and wryly moving poems about the laughable annoyances, limited joys, and the never fully present sorrows of cosmopolitanism, the life of the citizens of the world.”—Gabriel Gudding

    “Wróblewski is the true poetic chronicler of our 21st century diaspora in all its absurdities and anxieties…. KOPENHAGA is a journey to the end of the night that always makes a U-turn in the middle, to take in the latest folly—and also self-rescue mission—of the transplant. Read it and weep—and then laugh!”—Marjorie Perloff

    Author City: COPENHAGEN DENMARK

    Grzegorz Wróblewski, born in 1962 in Gdańsk and raised in Warsaw, has been living in Copenhagen since 1985. He has published ten volumes of poetry and three collections of short prose pieces in Poland; three books of poetry, a book of poetic prose and an experimental novel in Denmark; a book of selected poems in Bosnia- Herzegovina; and a selection of plays. His work has been translated into fifteen languages. His poems in English translation appear in many journals, anthologies, and chapbooks, as well as in two collections Our Flying Objects (Equipage Press, 2007) and A Marzipan Factory (Otoliths, 2010).

  • Less than 24 hours till Spain. Barcelona and Valencia. Then on to Katowice, Poland.

    Thinking about traveling and exoticism. Came upon this wee poem by Matt Cook. From his book Proving Nothing to Anyone. Just out from Publishing Genius Press.

  • story cut up from William Burroughs cut up novel Soft Machine and lyrics of Mark E Smith. Images cut from various films and made into stills and cartoons. Narrative added to provide some cohesion.


    story published in Sprung Formal

    http://issuu.com/sprungformal/docs/lilsprung2013


  • Marcus Slease and SJ Fowler doing the jump. Hardy Tree Gallery final night of performances.

  • from We are Warriors (novella of flash fictions in progress):

    GERALD GOES ON A BUSHWALK

    Gerald wasn’t sure what to do now that the Spring Breakers were gone. A heavy slanted rain was lashing his forehead so he ducked under the cover of some bushes. He sat cross legged and began thinking about various ways to contact the spring breakers. He thought about the witch and tried to imagine the connection between a witch and spring breakers. He grabbed a big stick and began whacking the bushes. He was a bush whacker. Gerald walked for two days. Along the way, he picked up rattlesnakes and cooked them on a nice little campfire. The rattlesnake was kinda dry and a bit rubbery but Gerald was a tough cookie. He could handle a rattlesnake and eat one too.

    As he was sitting around his little camp fire on day two, munching on rattlesnake, Gerald thought about a circle. He knew the ancients were all about circles. His ancients and other ancients too. So he drew a big circle with his stick and sat down inside it. He didn’t really have a spiritual animal; he had the mimi shakes. When he sat down in that circle all sorts of two dimensional mimi spirits came to him from the ghost of his great uncle, saint Erkembode. Saint Erkembode had met with his people and took some of them to Australia where they met the mimi spirits. Some of them returned with little mimi spirits in their bag. When he was seven, Gerald met his first mimi spirit. He hadn’t spoken to them since.

    Today is a good day for mimi spirits thought Gerald. If anything, the mimi spirits will know what’s up with witches and spring breakers. Gerald has always loved witches. No that’s a lie. He’d never met a witch but he liked imagining them. Now he had met one he wanted to meet her again. He had a lot of questions about time and seeing the future and that sort of thing. Of course witches are not about broomsticks. Of course there are witches in history that are burned because they are a woman and men are scared of women. But Gerald wasn’t after that kind of witch. There was something about those spring breakers. They were not your average spring breakers. It was like he had awoken from a coma. No. Not a coma. He was never in a coma but he was in a bit of a lull. Now the seat belt around his neck, the gun barrel in his mouth, the group hug, and then the witch. The witch who had gone off into the forest to look for the spring breakers. Now that was a mystery.

    And so Gerald sat in that circle. Thinking and then thinking again. His thoughts were a circle. Sometimes a line. And sometimes something else altogether.

    WRITING PLAN NEXT PART OF NOVELLA:
    continue with story. The two robots take over town of Hurricane. They make it with future Mormon missionaries down by the creek while reading Whitman. They visit the school for lost girls and help them get tattoos.  etc. etc.
    Then they go to Zion National Park to see a film. They meet Gerald. Story circles around to the beginning and continues onward with witch chasing the two robot girls because they have violated their robot contracts etc. etc. The robot girls were built to service the needs of foreign American workers in Saudi Arabia. They wanted to feel like real humans so they escaped and went on sping break. Gerald follows the witch into the forest and helps the robot girls get away. The take a crazy road trip and begin robbing banks and giving the money to the poor in secret forest locations. They become the merry robot liberation team of the forests etc. etc.


  • https://soundcloud.com/marcus-slease/tin-tins-blooming-snatch

    Enemies Project at Hardy Tree Gallery. London. Words: marcus slease. Music: Ben Morris.



  • Ben Morris & Marcus Slease have realised the aberrant underbelly of the gentle metropolis dirge in an acoustamatic tin tin of the city, bringing the offbeat poetics and grinding sonic beauty of London into three dimensions, falling off a wall.
    Part of The Enemies Project. Hardy Tree Gallery. London. 
    These are now on the wall of my flat in east London.
    We did sound, a chapbook, collages, two performances etc.
    Thank you Ben Morris. And thank you SJ Fowler for organizing a terrific two weeks of readings and talks at The Hardy Tree.





  • NEW STORY OVER AT FUCK FICTION. FROM MY TRAVEL MEMOIR DREAM WINDOW. TWO POLES MEANS IT IS NOT REALLY A BARBER SHOP:


    The kneading continued. My face was more gently kneaded. And my temples. I closed my eyes. I opened them when I felt something warm and wet on my face. It was a hot towel. It covered my whole face. I couldn’t see anything. I heard the zipper unzip before I felt it. It was my zipper. I felt something squirt and my penis went up. I slid inside. I thought: is this safe? Then I forgot. Someone was moving up and down on top of me. I put my head down to see underneath the towel. It was a different lady. I couldn’t tell what she looked like. I didn’t last long. Maybe three minutes. When I came I felt a stinging on my penis. A burning. The lady must have had an acid balloon up there and popped it when I came. She flushed me out. My penis was burning. – See more at: http://fuckfiction.net/#sthash.c91kPMO6.dpuf





  • CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE

    Lucy and her guru sitting in a tree. K-i-ss-ing. First comes love then comes marriage then comes a baby in a baby carriage.

    That’s the song that was going through Lucy’s mind as she looking into the eyes of Sleepy Eyes. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t. She was locked in. Or Sleepy Eyes was locked in. Lucy could see Sleepy Eyes moving her mouth but she had no idea what she was saying. She could only hear her own thoughts in her head. She was thinking about her guru. Her guru was still eating her up. She conjured up a picture of a brush in her brain and imagined sweeping away those thoughts, but she couldn’t brush them away. Those thoughts kept circling. What did her guru look like now? Did he age well? Did it matter? She felt safe with her guru. She remembered how safe she felt on her island with her guru teaching her preparation headstands and then the headstands themselves. How it good it felt to have all the blood rush to your head and then have an older man, tanned and well defined, gently guide you into poses that unlocked the secret energies of the body, of the universe itself. Yes. She had puked. But she was still desiring the holy. Was she supposed to desire the holy still? Maybe she wanted the holy more now that she had puked.

    Slowly she watched herself stand up and then sit down. She watched Sleepy Eyes guide her to the other side of the room and open her gown. Lucy opened her gown too. When she looked at Lucy’s chest she saw buttons, levers, mechanical wheels. Lucy tried to rub her eyes but she couldn’t move her arms. 

    Slowly she sat down with her robe open. Her eyes still locked to Sleepy Eyes.
  •  
     
     
    A very rough draft of some work for my ongoing nomadic travel novel: The Autobiography of Don Whiskers. It will undergo massive collaging and editing later.
     
    MAPS
    Russians to the right; Indians to the left. I go with the Indians. I follow the sign for Hind Street Community Centre. Outside my window there are Indians playing football. And Chinese playing basketball. The Chinese are well toned and strong. They do more than lay-ups. Their lay-ups are good but they can do more than that. The Indians sometimes play football with the Africans. It is a concrete pitch. Sometimes basketball court; sometimes football pitch. 
    At night, I sit on my balcony and listen to the ball bouncing on the court. I watch the teenagers sneak into the court for a cigarette and sometimes a joint. Yesterday there was a girl, maybe 14, who was mad at her friends for some reason. She told the boys: “I’m going home.” She was the only one smoking and she walked like a woman of 20 or more. Her 14 year old girlfriends chased after her. They consoled her by putting their arms around her and bringing her back to the concrete court/pitch. Then they all took out their smart phones and took pictures of each other. I am sure it went straight to Facebook. I am not sure what kind of smart phones they used. I don’t think they were Iphones. This is a Blackberry estate. The text messages are untraceable.
    I don’t know what the Russians do in the other estate but they all blond. They are blond Russians. There might be some that are not blond. They are plenty of non-blond Russians. But I have only seen the blond ones. They talk on their smart phones very loudly. They all use iphones.

     

    Down the road is Canary Wharf and that is a completely different world. Everything is swanky. It is a whole city of bankers and financial people. They have fancy restaurants and over-priced pints of beer. I like to go there to watch the bankers drinking after work. They are mostly fashionable people. I sit on the grass with my £1 pint of Stella and watch them. I am still learning about fashionable people. I am not sure if I can be a fashionable person. I don’t think I can learn the walk and talk of the bankers in Canary Wharf. But I am getting more comfortable sitting there watching them. I like watching everyone. Sometimes I like to join in. Not with the bankers but with other people, maybe. I think I will go to Canary Wharf and buy my first smart phone when I get a decent paycheck in October. I can wait three months. Three more months will be OK. I need to decide if I want an iphone or a Blackberry or something else altogether. I am leaning towards something else altogether. Then again I may not even need a smartphone. I can only think of getting a smartphone for the maps. I get lost easily.
  • CHAPTER SEVENTY
    – What is this prince? (asked Sleepy Eyes)
    – He’s the one I am supposed to marry. (said Lucy)
    – Is that what you want?
    – I don’t know. (said Lucy looking directly into the eyes of Sleepy Eyes)
    – I want you do something for me Lucy.
    – OK.
    – I want you to tell me what light means to you.
    – OK.
    – So tell me.
    – Light is. Cracked.
    – Cracked?
    – There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
    – Hm. That’s very good Lucy. Are you feeling spiritual Lucy?
    – Spiritual?
    – Yes. Do you feel holy. In touch with the divine?
    – Divine?
    – Do you feel at one with everything?
    – Sort of.
    – Good.
    –  Do you feel sick Lucy? Do you feel full? So full of the holy you want to stick you fingers down your throat and puke?

    There was a pause while the suggestion registered. Then Lucy walked toward the corner of the room and stuck her fingers down her throat.
    – Good Lucy. Very good.



  • CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR

    Don’t let the sun go down on your grievance. Don’t let the sun go down on your grievance. The goths were singing a little ditty together. It was to bring them all together. The Easter Bunny had collected the words from a boy named Daniel Johnston. He bought this Mr. Johnston’s tape and never forgot about the sun and grievances. The Easter Bunny was part football coach and part guru. It was a good mix. Hyping up his goth players in a locker room full of watermelons. And then giving them soft worded advice like an enlightened post-hippie living a simple life of love and rainbows and veggie smoothies.
    The goths tapped in time. Respect love of the heart over lust of the flesh. Don’t let the sun go down on your grievance.

    By the time the Easter Bunny was done with them, they were soft as clay. But they could become as hard as iron too. He only had to say the word. The word was: grievance.

    The merry band of goths swayed out of the watermelon dressing room like confident jocks. The Easter Bunny slapping them on their asses as they walked through the door. Then they all went to the organic vegetarian cafeteria and took up a whole table. Most of the middle class ecologically minded holiday makers stared at them. The middle class holiday makers were in nice flowery dresses from Burberry or polo causals. They ate their brans and grains with yogurt whereas the goths ate nothing but cornflakes. Heaps and heaps of corn flakes. With sugar on top. The goths kept on black clothes and black lipstick even though it was almost 42 degrees celsius on the island.





  • CHAPTER TWO


    The players were hired by the king. They were made to take an oath not to swear in any of their plays. They crossed their hearts. They also promised to watch out for a certain man. They were given a picture. Her father was not stupid. The picture might not be useful. People changed. Especially The Guru. He knew his princess was hoping to find The Guru. The king had his suspicions. The king thought maybe the guru had become an online terrorist in Ghana. He wasn’t half wrong. 

    The Guru had come to the palace on a little canoe. After a lot of tossing and turning on the sea. He had told the king he was on a journey and the gods had brought him to the palace. Princess Lucy was a young pup. She was five. It was Lucy who got the king to agree to keep The Guru around. She was already falling in love. 

    CHAPTER THREE

    Next stop: England (cried all hands on deck!)

    Everyone did the hip hip hurrah. Princess Lucy did the hip hip hurrah. She was ready to call a meeting and change the script. She wanted something other than a tiger in the next play. She felt a tingle. It came from her bosom. The tingle said her guru might be in England. He often talked of fried Mars bars. 

    The ship set sail. They were off to England. 

    They received a signal. It was in morse code. It said: NEW VENUE. The princess heard the captain and other men talking. They were talking nervously. 

    – Vat ever is dee matter? (said the princess)
    – Your royalty we have a new venue.
    – Vat is dee matter vit dee old vone? (said the princess)

    More beeps came in. It said: THE NEW VENUE IS DOCKLANDS. PULL UP INTO CANADA WATER.

    Everyone looked at each other. The princess looked at the men in green tights. The men in green tights looked at the captain. The captain looked at the stars. Then he looked at the charts.

    – AHOY! (cried the captain) 
    – We are heading to the docklands of East London. (cried the captain)

    Everyone pumped their fists in the air. Princess Lucy did the Harlem shake. She had always dreamed of doing a performance in the docklands of East London.

    CHAPTER FOUR

    The ship docked at Canada Water. Everyone got off for some Canadian Ale. Everyone except Princess Lucy. She had the faulty face gene. She could only have a spoonful of alcohol. Princess Lucy stayed behind with one bald-headed bodyguard. She played with the buttons on her jean jacket. She wound up her toy dog. It sputtered around the deck. She looked around. She thought about the ghosts of pirates. She wrote notes for the new performance:

    Ghost Pirate 1: I am in search of my mother!
    Ghost Pirate 2: Your mother is at home knitting a golden heart.

    Princess Lucy stopped. She wondered what part the golden heart would play in the play. She wasn’t fond of sentimental plays. She switched the channel on romantic comedies. She wanted more action. Not hearts. 

    Ghost Pirate’s Mother: I knit and I knit but at night I undo what I knit.

    wha laa (thought Princess Lucy). Everything must be undone. Like that old Greek story. The guy that rolls his rock up and down the hill. Forever. Someone said he was happy. But she didn’t want the ghost pirate’s mother happy. She wanted it futile. Love was futile. She wanted action. She wanted to swing around on the rope and chop off the legs of monsters. 

    In her ninth month Princess Lucy was tired of looking for her guru. She had developed a taste for adventure.
  • CHAPER ONE

    The mirror was steamed up so she wiped it with her hand.  She saw someone in the mirror. The person in the mirror was a man. A man with a beard. A long gray beard. She grabbed a green hood and covered her head. She tied a scarf around her face and went up on deck.
    Up on the deck the men were prancing around in green tights. They were practicing their sword fighting. They were limbering up. She waved to them. They waved back. She approached them and waited for someone to speak. None of the men spoke. They just nodded to her. She realized she needed to undo the veil around her face. She wasn’t sure. She went back down below deck. She want to the bathroom to check her reflection again. She undid the scarf around her face and pulled down her hood. She looked in the mirror. The beard was gone. She was a princess. 

    Princess Lucy put on her glue-on beard and her crimson trousers and white puffy shirt. She was now Lucy Queen of the Pirates. She sat down on the toilet seat. She felt anxious. The Koreans were coming. She needed to relax. Lucy Queen of the pirates drank rum. But the rum was really water. It was stage rum. Lucy the princess did not drink alcohol. Her advisors had written a report. The report clearly showed that she had a gene that would warp her face if she drank more than a spoon full of alcohol per day. 

    Lucy Queen of the Pirates undid her crimson trousers. She took off her glue-on gray beard. She was Princess Lucy again.

    She rubbed around the mound of red hairs. She greased her palm. She rubbed both slow and fast. She did not stick her fingers inside. She had strict instructions. Her parents let her go around the world as a pirate queen but her balloon had to popped by a rich Arab. When the little eye popped out she gave it a hug with her thumb and forefinger. The hug sent her head back against the porcelain throne. She groaned. She groaned three times. She did a mini fountain across the floor. Her muscles relaxed. She relaxed in her shoulders. She relaxed in her legs. She relaxed in her mouth. She was ready for the Koreans.

    Princess Lucy put the glue-on gray beard back on her face. She put the eye patch over her eye. She put the stuffed parrot on her right shoulder. She was Lucy Queen of the Pirates. 

    She went onto the deck. The deck had cheering crowds. She swung on the ropes. She put a clock inside the mouth of a tiger. The villagers escaped the tiger. They heard the ticking clock. She laid down on the train tracks. She was dragon bait. When the dragon train came she did the dragon dance. The men in green tights came onto the stage and tried to save her. They were eaten. Only Lucy Queen of the Pirates could save Lucy Queen of the Pirates. She slew the dragon with her pencil gun. The dragon turned into a pirate prince. They got married in a Korean palace (the type of palace changed depending on the country). The pirate prince and the queen of the pirates moved into a cave. Lucy Queen of the Pirates decorated the cave according to the latest fashion. They lived together forever and ever. 
    The show ended. The Koreans bowed. They chanted: day ha min gyuk. Day ha min gyuk means the great Korea. Lucy Queen of the Pirates bowed. Through a translator she told them hello and goodbye and that she loved them all. 

    Lucy Queen of the Pirates went down to the bathroom. She ran some hot water for her bubbles. She took off her glue-on gray beard and eye patch. She took the parrot off her right shoulder. She took off her puffy white shirt. She sat in the bubbly dreamland. She dreamed of her next performance. They hadn’t told her where they would be sailing next. She wanted the next performance to have a magical sea creature. She was getting tired of the tigers, dragons and alarm clocks. She looked down at her own magical sea creature. A floating crimson head with a little button for an eye. 

    Princess Lucy hopped out of the bathtub. She rubbed one leg then the other with the towel. She dried her back in diagonal motions. She went to her room and sat on her bed. She sang a song about yogurt and yoga. Yogurt and yoga reminded of her guru. A man she had fallen in love with as a little girl. He disappeared for months at a time to exotic lands. When he came back she shaved his bunions. They did yoga in the courtyard and ate yogurt in the royal gardens. One day he didn’t come back at all. 

    When the Princess was 14 she made a song about her guru. It was full of pirates. She imagined his adventures. She wondered if she might find him. She made a deal with her parents. Her parents were the king and queen. On her 18th birthday she would travel with the royal theatre company on a boat around the world but when she returned she would marry the rich Arab. She was given one year. 
    Princess Lucy was in her ninth month. She had three months to find her guru. 

  • Here is a nice mini lecture by Tim Atkins on British Innovative Poetry in the 1990s. A small group. But at least something.

  • Enemies: Voice art – Dylan Nyoukis + Ben Morris + SJ Fowler

  • Just got a link from my close friend Grzegorz Wroblewski. They got some killer poets over at Big Bridge. Indian, Tibetan, Mexican, Russian poets in translation. YIPPIE:

    Modern Russia Poetry:
    http://bigbridge.org/BB17/poetry/twentyfirstcenturyrussianpoetry/twenty-first-century-russian-poetry-contents.html#

    Anthology of Young Mexico poets:
    http://bigbridge.org/BB17/poetry/mexicopoetryanthology/mexico-poetry-anthology-contents.html#


    Anthology of Contemporary Indian Poetry:
    http://bigbridge.org/BB17/poetry/indianpoetryanthology/indian-poetry-anthology-contents.html


    and something extraordinany, Anthology of Tibetan Poets:
    http://bigbridge.org/BB17/poetry/anthologyoftibetanpoets/anthology-of-tibetan-poets-contents.html

  • outside The Hardy Tree. London. Near Kings Cross. 7th July 2013

  • Enemies at the Hardy Tree gallery!!!

    FUN NIGHT LAST NIGHT!!!

  • Coming soon from Zephyr Press

    Grzegorz Wroblewski’s Kopenhaga

    translated from the Polish by Piotr Gwiazda

    http://www.zephyrpress.org/new.php#kopenhaga

    CAN’T WAIT . . .

    “Wróblewski is the true poetic chronicler of our 21st century diaspora in all its absurdities and anxieties … Kopenhaga is a journey to the end of the night that always makes a U-turn in the middle, to take in the latest folly—and also self-rescue mission—of the transplant. Read it and weep—and then laugh!”
    —Marjorie Perloff

     

  • got a wee interview in the summer issue of PoetsArtists. Cool mag!
  • Making Chapbook Acousmatic Tin Tin

    Updated about an hour ago

    PublicFriendsFriends except acquaintancesOnly meCustomClose FriendseveryoneSee all lists…poets 13poets 12poets 3poets 11poets 9poets 8poets 7poets 5poets 16poets 15poets 14poets 2poets 6poets 10poets 4poets 1Hurricane High School (Utah)Rancho High SchoolRichmond, The American International University in LondonMETUMETUBilkent UniversityRichmond, The American International University in LondonLondon, United Kingdom AreaWestern Washington UniversityThe University of North Carolina at Greensboro – UNCGFamilyAcquaintancesGo Back

    for The Enemies Project at The Hardy Tree Gallery. Opening night 6th July 2013.


  • My girlfriend Ewa is making chapbooks for The Enemies Project. A collaboration with sound artist and painter Ben Morris. This is stage one mock up. Playing with stamps and watercolurs. There will be a green lizard stamp on cover. Cover is special Indian paper from east London (brick lane). Event is at Hardy Tree Gallery. Kings Cross. London. 6th July. 

    http://hardytreegallery.com/2013/06/24/the-enemies-project-visual-art-avant-guard-poetry/



  • Excited for this next week. Working with the sound and outsider artist Ben Morris. YEAH!!

  • nomadic travel . . james joyce . . transplanted Irishness . . Americaness. . . and so on . . .

    http://everestonline.tumblr.com/post/53433193690/marcus-slease-interview

  • Moving close to Dunbar Wharf tomorrow. Where my friend David found a message in a bottle. He built a ladder of sticks during lowtide and made some chalk mimi drawings:

    http://erkembode.com/2012/01/23/thames-mimi-message-in-a-bottle/

  • Grzegorz Wroblewski. Translated well. It is an excellent translation. One of the best poets writing today. For sure!! Grab a copy of A Marzipan Factory. Marjorie Perloff also has nice things to say about Wroblewki’s poetry.

     

    Read the review over here:

    http://galatearesurrection20.blogspot.dk/2013/05/a-marzipan-factory-new-and-selected.html

     

  • gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous book. Thank you Deathless Press.

    It’s a postmodern Polish fairy tale. Part one. A nomadic surrealism. A few still for sale here:

    http://www.etsy.com/listing/130911578/the-house-of-zabka-by-marcus-slease?ref=v1_other_1

     

     

     

  • Matthew Dickman at Centre for Creative Collaboration 17th May 2013. London. Organised by Ahren Warner. Matthew flung free collector item chapbooks into the crowd at the end. Matthew is a wild man. A very wild man. I say hell yeah. 

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rpEoHdWCPGY

  • London. Centre for Creative Collaboration. 17th May 2013.

  • reading with Matthew Dickman tomorrow at Centre for Creative Collaboration. Super excited. Love that fella. And his poetry too. Will be good night methinks.

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34E0t1tBN-w

  • Electronic Voice Phenomena is a new experimental literature, performance and music show that feeds on the corpse of paranormal pseudo-science.

    UK tour coming up:

    http://www.electronicvoicephenomena.net/index.php/on-tour/

  • Marcus Slease reading Jeff Hilson from _In The Assarts_

    NY School poetry meets the London school of medieval ass arts. Kraftwerk. Buster Keaton. Ted Berrigan. Francis Picabia & the sheriff of Nottingham. Jimmy “great charming girl” Schuyler. The ladies in waiting have left their nuts in a medieval thicket. Jeff Hilson pokes it right in and gives it a twist.

    http://atlantapoetsgroup.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/marcus-slease-reading-jeff-hilson-from.html

  • funny raw sexy dark and twisty

    the amazing stories of xTx . . whole book in pdf available here . .

    NOBODY TRUSTS A BLACK MAGICIAN:

    http://www.notimetosayit.com/pdf.html

  • My first book of fiction now available from Deathless Press. 
    It’s a Polish postmodern fairy tale.
    “The House of Zabka” by Marcus Slease
    A Polish folk tale meets Kurt Vonnegut’s surreal science fiction. A visionary, oracular original fairy tale that follows a butcher’s daughter to the deepest, darkest, strangest depths of the forest. A playful walk with a sausage-dog companion past sex shops and donuts, including a plastic dragon that will breathe fire if you text message it. 
    Each chapbook is roughly 4.25″ x 5.5″, handmade in a limited edition of 60. Stapled with handmade endpapers. Endpapers for “The House of Zabka” are marbled metallic multicolored Nepalese Lokta papers.
    $6 plus $2 for shipping in U.S.
    or
    £3.96 plus £1.98 for shipping in U.K. etc.
    Limited edition here:
  • I’m up at DIGITAL ROOTS READING SERIES . . video reading Joanne Kyger and my mythological story about Polish beavers. It’s called I LOVE BEAVERS: 

    http://digitalrootsrs.com/

  • DO YOU LIKE BEAVERS? DO YOU LIKE POLAND? I HAVE A FLASH FICTION IN LIL’ SPRUNG FORMAL/ISSUE 8. IT IS SHORT. IT IS ABOUT BEAVERS, POLAND, WALNUT FIRE, GANGNAM STYLE, AND OTHER POLISH TRADITIONS . .

    FAB ISSUE. HAPPY TO BE IN THERE . .

    Featuring work by: Ben Fama, Abby Carr, Sarah Jean Alexander, Dillon J. Welch, Chuck Young, Teal Wilson, Abeleine Throckmorton, Brittany Ficken, Anna Kamerer, Rachel Benson, Malory Ward, Piotr Gwiazda, Nick Sturm, Stephen O’Toole, Jaclyn Senne, Marcus Slease, Nika Winn, Tyler Cain Lacy, Nicki Blanchard, Jessica Cornelison, Jessi Wilson, Adam Clay, J. Victoria Terrell, Matt Hart, Stacy Kidd, Laedan Galicia, Brian Clifton, Paul Siegell, Miles Fermin, Alli Warren, Melissa Eleftherion, Nathan Masserang, Andy Ozier, Anna Martin, Lauren Stookey

    http://issuu.com/sprungformal/docs/lilsprung2013 

  • LEMURICKS. MARCUS SLEASE AND JEFF HILSON.

    BRISTOL POETRY FESTIVAL. ARNOLFINI GALLERY. A CAMARADE EVENT.

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pr9AP_KpU-s

  • VOGUE FABRICS. LONDON. DALSTON.

    FEELINGS READING SERIES.

    READING FROM MU (SO) DREAM (WINDOW) (POOR CLAUDIA 2013)

    http://www.poorclaudia.org/print_slease.php

    THANK YOU SOPHIE ROBINSON!!
  • Here’s one called “The Pink Slip.”

    There’s a boy named Jack and another one they call Jill and a Pole called Zofia and a Bavarian named Frank and a man from Utah called Andy. They go to Regensburg in Bavaria. They drink lots of beer. They say cock and pussy. They meet a Bavarian wild west witch. Things happen!

    http://www.wordriot.org/archives/5578

  • A Philip Whalen Mala by the terrific Peter Jaeger. A Canadian poet in the heart of London! It is based on this poem, by Zen poet Joanne Kyger.

      And in his hands
    a long wooden string of Buddhist Rosary beads, which he keeps
    moving. I ask him which mantra he is doing—but he tells me
    in Zen, you don’t have to bother with any of that.
    You can just play with the beads

    (Joanne Kyger “Phillip Whalen’s Hat”)

     

  • Punk scene. Hongdae, South Korea early 2006. It was a fun scene. Not as commercialised as London. Felt innocent. More innocent. Or maybe I was innocent. I wanna get innocent again.

    Book to accompany this:

    Mu (so) Dream (Window):

    http://www.poorclaudia.org/print_slease.php


  • I READ SOME JOANNE KYGER FOR RADIO SHOW IN LONDON.

    I HAD A NICE CHAT WITH STEVE WASSERMAN

    OVER HERE

    ON THIS FAB PODCAST

    CALLED READ ME SOMETHING YOU LOVE

    THANK YOU STEVE WASSERMAN

    I HEART JOANNE KYGER

     

    READING AND CONVERSATION OVER HERE:

    http://readmesomethingyoulove.com/?p=1384

  • “all glazed in sunlight like a finger painting 
    of beet juice and bird feathers.”






    Dani Sandal over at New Orleans Review:

    http://www.neworleansreview.org/dani-sandal/

  • got some poems from my ms Smashing Time in the new Coconut.

    Fab issue featuring Aaron Belz, Alice Notley, Amy Gerstler, Ben Fama, Deborah Poe, Carina Finn, Morgan Parker, Jeff T. Johnson, Nicole Wilson, Anna Lei, Nicole Steinberg, Jordan Davis, Daniel Scott Parker, Laura Kochman, Mark Decarteret, Stephanie Balzer, Megan Kaminski, Michael Tod Edgerton, Jake Syersak, Sara Mumolo, Alli Warren, Mary Wilson, Carleen Tibbetts, Sophia Le Fraga, Spencer Selby, Joshua Ware, Christine Hamm, Amy Schrader, Liberty Heise, Michelle Detorie, Dana Ward, James Grinwis, and Marcus Slease

    http://coconutpoetry.org/slease16

  • Flarf poem plays. Ted Berrigan is in there. And Daniel Day Lewis. And Ian Paisley. And Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, a girl who loves branching, a cow’s wink, mayor Chob, Catherine Chob, Weng, a Scottish soul dancer, a golden horn, carpet trouble, chums, a Gorkha, the mole audace, Sultanahmet in Istanbul, Trieste in Italy, a Russian princess, and a little tiny elephant named Elephanche. The title of the book is Elephanche.

    video from the reading:

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k50ZyucJXb0

    Available from Department Press for £5:

    http://departmentzine.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/marcus-slease-sj-fowler-elephanche.html

  • the latest story by the Italian underground of bizarro Crugi Smear:

    http://londonunpublishing.wordpress.com/

  • Om Shanti . . I have no fuckin clue . .

    superb interview with Melissa Broder . .

    and parents too . .

    http://cuttyspot.tumblr.com/post/45653827228/melissa-broder-video-interview-response

  • Three poems in Radioactive Moat. Part of my ongoing manuscript Rides. It used to be called The Circle Line (for the poems written while riding the underground trains in London). But now Rides has poems written on trains all around the U.K. A nomadic surrealism written on trains.

     

    http://www.radioactivemoat.com/marcus-slease.html

    circle line.png

  • Leather wombs, payments of lamb shanks, still births . .

    Dani Sandal plus Kathy Acker plus William Burroughs plus plus plus

    House Call: 1936
    Beneath naked bulb hung from twisted cord, a black-bagged surgeon stoops to stroke porch dog dozing on bloodied bone. Inside his leather womb, steel instruments, useless as dried teats of this fat-bellied bitch, still smell of vinegar. His sway-back nag waits, an empty cradle, stayed atop prairie plane. Payment of lamb shank, tucked tight in coat sleeve; its sacrificed skull buried deep behind slaughter house. He has soaked the woman’s sorrow with ether-drenched rags now burning in fires of cedar bough as smoke slinks from stone flue like drunken angels toward heaven’s floor. Barren moon hovers, blue as stillbirth, this quiet night.
    (first appeared in Puerto Del Sol Winter 2013: http://www.puertodelsol.org/current.html)
  • “Those who are truly contemporary,” Giorgio Agamben writes, “who truly belong to their time,
    are those who neither perfectly coincide with it nor adjust themselves to its demands. … To
    perceive, in the darkness of the present, this light that strives to reach us but cannot—this is what
    it means to be contemporary.”

  • Been thinking about ego. About an ego hiding behind an ego. About how the folks at the various Zen centers of America have said that people who practice a lot of Zen have STRONGER PERSONALITY not less via meditation.  And thinking of Philip Whalen who certainly had a lot of personality. A lot of ump. And he was a Zen priest. And a great poet. 

    Here in the UK self promotion (direct self promotion) is very frowned on. Indirect/passive self promotion is better. At least from what I have seen.
    No one should push their books. Their products. It should just happen. Magically.
    The magic is indirect ego boosting via being in the right circles.
    Maybe it is the same in the U.S. sometimes as well.
    What the hell is self promotion anyway?
    Promotion of the self. HA! What a funny concept.
    What self? What is being? What is being promoted?
    Are poets supposed to act like they don’t have an ego?
    Flarf poetry has ego. It has ego and blows it up so big it pops and everyone dances in the popped ego.
    Popped= Pooped. Maybe.
    Conceptual poetry has ego but it’s hidden. It’s a hidden ego. It’s the ego of cleverness. But not always. Sometimes it is also moving into less ego via chance methods. See one mr John Cage.
    Ego reminds me Eggo. Which was something that came out of the toaster. I had one when I first arrived in America at age 12. It was an Eggo and then a K-Mart hamburger soon followed. Or maybe it was an Eggo then Hamburger Helper in our trailer park home.
    Ego. Ego. Ergo. Celebrity culture. Agh! How do we escape our ego?
    I remember when I first started blogging back in 2003 or so. There was a debate among some poets about blogging and narcissism  And ego. Ego. How dare a poet blog. Poets shouldn’t be narcissists. Put away your ego. Letgo of my EGGO!
    I think of Whalen again. I think of expansive poetics. I think of getting out of the way (at least during the writing). I think of Whalen’s light touch and massive personality. And I wonder how personality relates to ego.
    How person relates to ego. How mask relates to ego.
    Then I read this poem. This poem over at Octopus. By Jason Koo.
    We escape our EGO via giant steps. Not baby steps. GIANT STEPS. Coltrane had giant steps. Blow harder. Blow longer. Blowhard people!
    We are all made to BLOW! I wanna blow so hard I pop!
  • http://www.poorclaudia.org/crush_shimoda.php

    The latest Crush from Poor Claudia:

    “TWOyears ago Brandon Shimoda spent a winter sequestered in a backwoods, Maine cabin with the poet Dot Devota, reading first-hand accounts by survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. 

    Composed on notebook paper taken from an elementary school,The Grave on the Wall transfuses the language of witness account into the poetic process, running genocide on a loop jacked into an echo pedal. A mirror of Brandon’s experience absorbing the accounts of the hibakusha, it’s also a mirror of our own experience, as readers and humans, clicking through the vast ugly—whether the tsunami in Japan, sectarian atrocities in Central Asia, or mass shootings in the United States.”

    check it out:


    http://www.poorclaudia.org/crush_shimoda.php







  • Europe poisoned by balloons./ It is a virus that spreads / And makes us animals. / It resembles the galaxy.

    read the poem over here at Housefire Books:


    http://housefirebooks.com/la-manana-en-que-dios-abandonado-su-trono-poetry-luna-miguel/

  • A huge thanks to Matthew Dickman (poetry editor of Tin House) for kind words about Mu (Dream) So (Window):
  • VERY VERY HAPPY TO BE IN NAP WITH SUCH AMAZING AWESOME STELLAR ROCKIN FINE WRITERS. THIS IS WHAT MAKES IT FOP ME . .. THIS IS TO BE ALIVE . . I WANT TO  BE ALIVE . .  . . SCRATCH AND SNIFF . .  IT SMELLS OOOOOHHH SO GOOD . . NAP  . . YOU ROCK . . EVERY SINGLE FRIGGIN TIME . .. THERE MAY BE MAGS IN HISTORY AS GOOD AS NAP . .  . . BUT RIGHT NOW I HAVE FOUND NUTHIN BETTER . . . . ON THE LEVEL . . . FOR FICTION AND POETRY AND HYBRIDS . .  GOD WHAT IS IT?  . . .  THESE ARE REPORTS ON WHAT IT IS . . .THIS IS IT FOLKS . .   . . EVERYONE WANTS A GOOD NAP. ..  THIS IS THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE NAPS . . . ALL NAPS ARE THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE NAPS . . . READ ALL NAPS . . GO . . . ASHLEY . . GO . . .. LAUREN . . GO  . . . JUSTIN . . .GO . . . . SCOTT . . GO . . . MARCUS . . GO . . . RACHEL . . GO . . . RUSS . .  

    image

    POETRY & FICTION BY LAUREN CLARK, JUSTIN LAWRENCE DAUGHERTY, ASHLEY FARMER, SCOTT HAMMER, RACHEL HYMAN, MARCUS SLEASE & RUSS WOODS.

    PDF DOWNLOAD

  • Just got the summer 2011 edition and I am very very happy. Read it on my tube commute today. It has everything. The stories got the juice and the craft to boot.

    I’m still thinking about Kristen Felicetti’s  story: Ms. TG C/O T.G.! A man approaching 40 who writes an advice column for young teenage girls in a teenage girl magazine (TG= Teenage Girl). He writes under the name Ms. TG. An attempt to bridge the gap between ages. Loneliness. Compassion. Empathy. Reaching out to others which is also reaching out to ourselves. Shit man. This story is for REAL! It’s got the dance moves of a Miranda July flick.

    SO MUCH IN THIS MAG!

    Lots of humour too. In the haikus by Zachary Feldman and the drawings by Kerry Ryan, whim and also moving meditation on dinosaurs and girlfriends with fantastic drawings by Mike Rothenthal, women and trees and seeds by Clayton Eddy. And lots and lots and lots more.

    One of my favs was the graphics and writing by Tim Vienckowski: “I Appreciate you, Bill Murray. Honestly liked everything in the whole mag. A MILLION TIMES BETTER THAN THE OFFICIAL LIT MAGS LIKE FENCE, _______ UNIVERSITY REVIEW, THE NEW YOKER, and other resume enhancing literary pubs.

    yadda yadda yadda.

    And I appreciate the lo-fi mimeograph revolution continuum here. I mean no matter how much we go electronic there’s still something about something made to hold in the hands.

    There is sadness here. And humour here too. In this magazine. It is the stuff of life. Life and art hand in hand cause that’s the why they were always meant to be.

    I almost cried when I read Kristen Felicetti’s story: “Ms. TG C/O T.G.!”

    I hardly ever almost cry. Esp. when reading a literary magazine. Sweet bejesus.

    The work in this mag opened me up. Like my chest opened up. It reminded me why I write and make art in the first place. It reminded me I am alive. Not why. But that I am.

    It’s expansive rather than tunnel vision specialist art for the academics and theorists and so on. It’s the stuff of life. It’s breathing. I’m breathing. I’m still breathing. Can you believe it? Believe it!

    Bushwick? Buchwick. I wish I lived in Bushwick!!!  I hope in my next life they will move me to Bushwick.

    order a copy here: http://bushwickreview.tumblr.com/