Wednesday, 21 March 2012
Sunday, 18 March 2012
bruno neiva is a Portuguese writer, poet and artist. He has published several chapbooks, such as: “this is visual poetry by bruno neiva,” “early-natttura”, “polar coordinates and N2OC10H12”, “sad items”, “natttura1-7”, “poemas visuales,” "Nuvem Ruim", “o livro das minhas proezas de pesca 1-8", "Samples 17-24.", "Samples 9-16" and "Samples 1-8". His work can also be found in magazines / e-zines: Tip Of The Knife, streetcake magazine, Must, otoliths, BlazeVox, moria, ditch, The Anemone Sidecar and Word For/Word. So far, he has held 3 exhibitions in Portugal and Spain: “asemicdraftsone,” “nuisance series” and “2/4 séries”.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
It took two nights to read.
My poet friend lent it to me.
My favourite line in it at the moment is
'He wasn't really thinking anything, he thought.'
I've found that I personally don't shoplift any more.
I read a newspaper review of it - 'Steven Poole enjoys a cult joke'
He reckons 'The text is conscientiously scoured of narrative "purpose", "characterisation",
and anything else that would smack of novelistic bullshit.'
I dropped a cigarette butt out of the bedroom window.
It landed on the diningroom window sill.
I ran downstairs to move it.
Luckily it wasn't raining, because I was wearing slipper-booties.
Next I'll read 'The Giro Playboy' by Michael Smith.
'Like Rimbaud on the dole.' - Tom Hodgkinson, The Idler.
I hope it will be similar but from a British perspective.
I hope it will contain the words 'chippy tits' -
my boyfriend likes the words 'chippy tits'
and we talked about them as a nick name.
Last week I talked about the words 'snub nosed'
to my childhood friend in a garden centre
and the same night I read the words 'snub nosed'
in Louisa May Alcott's novel 'Little Women'
That happens a lot to me when I talk to people and then read books.
I like it. It seems like fate.
I'll have a shower and then I really must apply online for jobs at ASDA and McDonald's -
I told my lone parent advisor that I've done it already.
4 days ago.
Jaime Birch is a slow but sure poet. She lives and looks for work in Bolton. She has had poems published by BlazeVox, Parameter and Turbulence magazines and has had a small collection, 'I don't know where my horse is now', included in the Dusie Collective. She is currently working on her first book, which she hopes will be published by the Knives, Forks and Spoons press later this year. She has 2 cracking sons and a boyfriend who's a bit of alright.
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
Song birds counted at a rate:
Where he or she then separates the absent from avoiding fuss and clause:
So many times the crisis harms those flaws in moral costs direct & violet:
Reports that where a sector lies in pockets made from feathers:
The sun stood still beneath and gladness slaying you shall not because unwanted:
Whose bones are weakened hoisted slit in case they left to bleed who struggle so and miss the stretch of wings:
Subsume the drive to formalise & pick up speed to stamp some different substance:
With such blunt tools we realise the noise dissolves attention to the gaps behind whose place she dies as left to bleed in smaller birds and birds:
The tongs on either side have swollen to remain and grieve this loss as groping stunned to simply die to choose to cause to grieve for sacrifice:
And dominance as such the standing tones that alternate their pitch the promise risked and regulates extend:
I hold the sky where porous world believe the state of object struggling from pain which has its price degraded in the class of things:
I hold the sea where porous world accepts the trade one further step to reach to need to change to modify abuse:
Shadows that we cast for solitary bees to make a hollow home with tiny lives in many different forms apace the sky:
After silence we chose to ‘open’ because for them I would be careful:
Flattening vision like a screen we did collect then built up wealth to our surprise an accident with very little sleep a stride at once:
They saw at work a Life a day a life so many years to police the truth you are:
They saw at work a death a day a death so many years to police the truth you are:
In order to be heard to try and tell by indirections made to give and each one stunned in turn at once allows:
Of too much mental pain without a voice:
You gather close and shatter for the price you are:
You make to smile a bird a bird & tremble:
In order to be heard:
In order to be heard:
At once allows to grief at joy has freed itself to be as like:
Is more alive:
We call between their talking head you raised:
You turn your back:
And think about the role:
Beading the sky:
When silence is required:
Song dust & our entire living wild toward the bright proportion:
I love a life in dressing dream an our to repair a proof exacting to compressions song:
I love & it is dear to me:
Of flowers on the wall I bring you proof between the twist::
Where women take the limit of distress & stretch their limbs:
Lacrimal inferior punctum:
For a hen