Wednesday, July 30, 2008

That would be alright, I suppose . . . .

yeh yeh. everyone's seen this cartoon before, but that doesn't stop it being great. it was even used by a gang of squaresville poets advertising a gig at the poetry caff a few years back, but they substituted 'poets' for 'weirdos'. totally superfluous - all real poets are weirdos. everyone knows that.

by the way, everyone should get a copy of estaphin's brilliant DCLP, from Veer Books . if anything could be called 'conceptual poetry' its this / but instead of being a simple poeticisation of our alienation, or a macho display of pseudo-newness / its a superb collage of language, nastily joyous & righteously exasperated, about cottaging and surveillance, using mainly found material & stuff from chatrooms etc. there's a good bit when the authorities at Canary Wharf (London's premier symbol of the occult power of capital) find out whats going on in their toilets: "men are using public toilets at the heart of the estate for homosexual sex . . . right under the noses of some of the world's most powerful companies", goes the headline. yeh, thats what 'powerful companies' are for.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Commons 37 - 41

Housing Benefit ref 400158161:
there will be no violence here,
it is perhaps where that thing,
queen elizabeth,
was practicing her derivative magic,
burning like a city, a heretic
or a child, insisting softly
on a private & particular sky,
a credit reference, for example,
spotted with Hackney Road,
the dreadful cries of murdered men,
inside poetry,
composed exclusively
for entirely official numbers.

But for now lets have some
gratuitous cartoon violence
among the zombies, fingers &
eyes, you can’t have em
- stop -
- he was a -
- bang -
- ringing -
how old are you,
my sweet preposterone,
a heyena in a pretty frock,
resident in Hackney,
which you do not believe in,
sharpening your love like flint.

Last night I lay
in darkened walls -
I sucked his -
I used to whip him
with a turquoise chain
he was a big freak
o enchanting fucking
trickling inside woolworths
its cosmetic flash:
o false egyptians
& english sweethearts,
trapped in un-meaning,
would too eat blood
my lily-white hands

Anyway, back in the
police computer
they are making metonyms,
ambitious ones
intersected by pretty towns
& strings of words
but we are mouths
stitched into the language
that resting place
for exhausted shoppers
for used opinions
call it the graveyard
o computer

Those who believe
they know how to read
are easily intimidated
I mean right now.
But who is speaking here,
such archaic pleasantry
& insolent noise making
is mere freakish difficulty:
history is those who sit
inside their prepared vocab,
the comfortable ones,
the executioner, especially,
never utters an articulate sound,
quietly gets on with his work.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Openned - coming up

This is gonna be a good one. We got a bunch of equipment, wires, machines . . . .