Tuesday, 27 September 2016

Below the Line Poetry: The second election of Jeremy Corbyn

I wrote some Below the Line poetry for Neon Magazine on the re-election to his current job of Jeremy Corbyn.

The articles were all published on Sat, 24 September 2016 and the comments were taken as far as possible from the earliest commenters.

The publications in this case were The Guardian; Daily Mail; The Canary; The Sun.

The pieces in The Corbyn Suite were written/compiled/edited on Monday, 26 September, 2016

The nature of BTL is that it is malleable to almost infinite extent. The link also has a short explanation of the process.


Wednesday, 7 September 2016

Idle Wednesday

I am so idle I can hear the cat breathing.

Hfff hfff                hff hff  

Maybe
I could sit here longer and hear the tomatoes ripening. Wouldn’t that be something?
Straining with juices and fragrantly fattening.
Not like me.
Flagrantly fattening.
I don’t even really like tomatoes.

If I stop typing                                                   I can hear a bee buzzing                                               
                And there is another                      a chirpy bird, not too close           a slightly raised mum’s voice                       mysterious bangs                             three of them                                    buf buf                 buf
Low frequencies too. Undulating. Waves. Car engines eddie and flow into each other. The bottom of the soundscape
                Was that a futurist thing?

 I can’t hear my brain but the blood bumping up and down                                            is there                 fdp         dfd         dsp                              

 and I think that’s kind of 

where                          

       I                                                                       
        came                   
  in


ah 42 and the answer is minus 0

Sunday, 4 September 2016

I am a writer, I suppose

I spose I’m a writer now, because I write things
But not much gets published. Does that matter?
I’m wondering if validation equals a career or
Maybe at least a vocation? No. A passion?
I don’t really think so. Of the hats I’ve worn
This is a fairly comfy one. Is it a compulsion?
Do I feel worse if I don’t write, and better
If I do? I guess I don’t obsess, don’t sing
My own praises enough. Or maybe too much
In passive-aggressive woe-is-me port-soaked
Nonsense. Who knows. Who cares? Pfff.

I can call myself a poet if I want, but nobody else
Really gives a toss about that, which is fine by me.
Actually I lie. Who wouldn’t want other people
To read what you do and say things like, ‘He
Really taps into the zeitgeist,’ or, ‘Joe calls
Things as they are, but you can see he believes
In something better.’ Stuff like that. Really. Truly.
But that’s really not the point is it? It’s kind of a self-
Obsession if I’m motivated by that. Again, though,
Maybe that’s the point. I think I’m missing something
Rather than the world missing me. So…

Journalism is different. Non-fiction books, all that
Is easy really once you realise that the story
Is already there. All your job is on that one
Is teasing it out, finding good quotes to stitch
Together. Chasing the ever-falling wordcount
And hoping to get paid. Nobody got rich
Off of these pulpy unauthorised biographies.
Well, not me, anyway. I don’t think they’re crap;
Some of them – all of them for different reasons – are
Pretty entertaining. I surprise myself when I read them
At some of the stuff I scribbled for a laugh. Ha. Ha.

Fiction? It’s stuff that’s made up, stuff that hasn’t
Happened. Or, stuff that could have happened, and
Is plausibly enough scrawled onto a page that it
Engenders hallucination of sorts, a mental movie
Translated from the printed black on white bits
And bobs that equal written language. And so we
Keep on reading, keep on dreaming way beyond
The confines of the ragged world’s constant spasms,
To lift ourselves from day to day drudge, or fear,
To stave off the urge to get fucked up or to fuck off
Altogether, and finally. Why? Well, the truth is: I have no idea.

Wednesday, 3 August 2016

SOARAWAY SHOO ON WEDNESDAY


Man Does Thing
- Reuters

    A MAN shocked bystanders today by doing a thing.
Onlookers at the Place Somewhere were astonished when A Man came and began to do what turned out to be a thing. The man, who appeared to be a human man, made several movements and noises consistent with the process of thinging, before leaving the scene.
"I could not believe my eyes," said a lady, also apparently human, "I've seen it many times before, of course, but never just now and not in that exact place."
Police attended the scene but could not establish whether it was.

SOARAWAY SHOO would like to hear from you! Were you there? Is it? Did a man? A thing? Call out to a higher deity and we'll print the best replies in a future issue. Now go away you filthy ape.

Monday, 1 August 2016

wsX

I have learned some things.
That peaceful lunacy is a common default state at home; to accept online monstrous rage is en vogue,
That a blank page is often just a blank page; to scribble and soil it is a very human urge,
And terraced quantum doors hide love and loneliness.

To what end are these thoughts?
To suspect there are no certainties at all; but to chase the same is deliciously pointless,
To burn and tear at midnight’s feral zoom; but immortal only in those unacknowledged moments,
Tubes fizz and burst, days blazing, pupil-wide intimations.

And what else can there be.
There are as many revelations as there are snowflakes; we walk in an enervating storm of ice-rash falsity,
There are truths as numerous as grains of fucking sand; we crush them under our bloated hams and haunches,
Devouring and destroying as only we were born to do.

And what use is it all?
All flesh and aspirations turned inward, atrophying along with dreams, and a million more ready to join this pointless battle
All the while adding poison of thought, word and deed; stamping wholesome, handsome filth unto the rotted vestigial echoes
Of the generations failed before, and before, and before.




[Note: this piece was titled by Rusty Shooman, whose previous work is here]

Monday, 25 July 2016

what anticulturalism is not

anticulturalism is definable only by what it is not

it is not a movement because a movement implies concensus

it is not a culture because culture requires conversation

it is not a philosophy because philosophy implies explanation and exploration not exploitation

there is no anti-culture because that is a cultural statement in and of itself

there is only an anticulturalist


it is a personal definition open to no interpretation explanation or debate