Friday, 27 July 2012

David Grundy, LONDON 2012 (OLYMPICS POEM)

:: :: ::    PROLOGUE :: :: ::

off the record drops the pin
BAM! blows out of all proportion
and is real, y'all :: this revolution
per minute speeds imperceptible
change, mixes it up polytonal, marked
shift, sings the key changes the locks
broke off the chain the letter in
vocab voiced, and chock a block blazed
in the sun it was the fire within
out-manifested in urban war
game, as serious as your life ::
wolf tongue, lupus ludic-rassly
ignored, at yr peril :: repeat ::
the bark INITIATES the bite ::
word is bond -age breakout
word is birthed shift in paradigmatic
order stagnated, press the key repeat press
up press down pressing on-
tological buttons YO WE EXIST AND
This Will Not Be Fun, repeat image,

on in pulse impulsing bodies moving into that fight

and arises afar out
lying land around sound sur
mounts in height song's rise
as ascent in step up running
to distance hidden mist,
blows smoke and clearly out
that charred tiger in papier
mache crumble, the skyscraper

was unreal, the city's glass
heart, a shattering illusion,
all the office windows
were in on my soul and my soul
said it was my body said it would
do a number on the XP theme
and in variations destroyed it,
all around the city the breaking
entry points found flaring ::
for instance the locked foot
locker, unlocked, its gansta cred
perfected and on itself turned,
get in there, get out, take
the shop :: the whole hog ::
discontensions rising, the city
centre shocking shopping out of stup-
our :: roused from a dead dawn sec-
urity contractor in private eye
glassed, his super all at sea see tee TV screens
a blinder played out, the fact or fact
-ory of the matter, the people fact-
ored in, getting on out of line and in-
to shaping forms, a-new, as smoke drifts a
crowd wafts not airy or  ayran force but
in multiplicity mounts the stairs the
walls came tumbling the horns blew
in blasted ghetto & out of there ::

But you will not see this summer of
lovely pandemonium except as above,
in such sick and feeble fantasy ::
olympic our odes remain entrenched,
down cracks the whip, in mr whippy's
cold dead hands the ice cream cracker munching
on produce // fuck the blacks the whores
the crack heads on a pike :: get
them outta sight :: Because ::

:: :: ::    1 :: :: ::

These Olympics Will Be The Best Olympics.
Expect nothing less. The confidence men.
Shakes the hand, steady on, wolfing down
Food for thought, if not for jaded stomach.
Think this thought: go for a goose's
golden egg, laid fois gras, yum yum. Then
Go To Sleep, tradition
bolstered (a winners' pillow).
These Olympics
Are Ideology Free! Pull the other
end of the cracker, fire in the
empty middle, the logo's hole.
Word. Get productive,
Plant these
golden flowers
as winners' medals
glowing, for victory, for parade
ground polish; spit up a street-winners'
party, be your local community's organ-
ized beating heart. Thump Thump Thump.
Runs the rabbit out of town,
clean our streets of whore-
ish desires. Get out, Slappers,
This Be Corporation Street:
The Spirit of the Blitz!
Winning for Britain, those foreigners on
our shores, allowed only for the losses
they will surely suffer, at your capable
hands, O Strongest & Best of All Britons:
Arise!, eternal verities
of white man's land:
Arise! Ye Britons of Yore,
Who Look On from On High, in Rank
outrage at our defeats:
Get them out, those other,
useless ones that feel the chill, the bite,
on a cold winters' night, the card
board boxing match, clear out that shit,
clean up our streets,
That's how I roll,
the dice lands on your pass go
square, oops, a false start,
the gun didn't go off
in your face, you didn't cross the
barrier, stayed behind th'allowed
line. Don't speak out of turn.
Bang! Get in! All's fair, tho, in love
& sport, a chance you'll have to
take. Run the gauntlet, trials
of strength, who's strongest
wins out, cash in hand,
an investment worth the risk.

Interludic, this game we play's
called Last In's A
Dead Duck, muddying the waters.
we have a start head &
shoulders above your paltry

Organize the spectacle,
engendered for enjoyment in yr
passive receptacles,
adjust your wow 3d eye glasses
for UpNComing sporty eye-fuck,
blink and you'll kiss
the limbs of the fittest
man, ubermenial labour |
forget that in physicality's
finest specimen, Better Than
You, If You Suspect It
Report It, England Prevails.

:: :: ::    2 :: :: ::

The Big Other’s Little
Brother, On Camera ::
Here is What You Must
Not Ever Do :: Have You
Ever Done This :: Have You
Ever Done These Crimes?
In shocking disbelief
The cameras roll
A rock and a hard place-
Ment, didn’t do Very
Well at that job did We, Games
Bringing employment tho’, Or
Fat rotten bit of luck, Hard
Up, Oh All Your Own Fault
Silly, check,

If it is indeed the other half
Splitting my sides with per
Fect stitch up :: If it is in
Deed the other half living
Rough, slumming it slut
Tish living lush drunk
En morning wake up
Call this is your job
Advisor speaking why
You have had your bene
Fits cut off at the knee
A slapper’s wrist
Banded the throat
Y voice cut off air
Tight container tran
Sports of Joy
Invisible To the Naked
Eye, Constitutes
Commercial Trans
action, flow of
Goods, bodies, weapon
Ary etc :: all too visible
By way of contrast :: The
Massed Military Men /
Mascot Machines
(RoboCop a Date) ::
Uh, Can we take a piece of
Your clothing, as reli-
shed relic, as humblest appreciation
token Of the fun slum time we
Had (( :: I lived with a poor
Family for a month :: I lived
My gap(e)ing year
In shit for a week every day ::
I die inside :: a more than un
Pleasant death :: when can my
Broken middle mend its
Manners, its ways gone as
Tray, ashed this tray with
Human remains, de
Corous but tasteless, got lost
At the wrong turning right
Wardly mobile, feigned left,
In for the sucker punch,
Kapow kapow in reality as
In the Games you Compute,
Capital’s City.

:: :: ::    EPILOGUE :: :: ::

Re develop meaning
Gentrification meaning
Drive Up Rents Drive Out
Rest of Population Stats
Feeble excuses for human
Beings misery guts for
Garters gateway to paradise
Blocking, you too could get
Off Hit and Run
Inside The Whisper
softness of shit chitter
chatter, dj-patter patter,
distracted, slamming handbrake on,
killing another child. Bugger.
Then wiping the fender, making
No Meal Out The Mess.
Slight Mistake, Wrong
Turn, Hit and Run. This Shit
Happens Every Day. You Don’t Say.

Drive In and Thru ::
Take away Menu ::
Free Toy ::
Angry Birds flap heli
Copter wings hover
Ingly menace Drone
Ing on the backgrounded
Threaded Threat

Sunday, 8 July 2012

Melissa Spiccia, Two Poems

Melissa Spiccia, Swimming

Melissa is a contemporary dance artist based in London who collaborates and performs in pieces throughout Europe and the UK. An interdisciplinary artist, she works across the fields of performance, choreography, poetry and illustration.

Her writing process begins with the physical; exploring personal narratives that connect to the collective imagination.

Click for Melissa's website. 

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Iain Britton, only begotten son

Oystercatcher Press published Iain's 3rd poetry collection in 2009. Kilmog Press his 4th in 2010. The Red Ceilings Press published an ebook "Ten Poems" last year and an Argotist Ebook "songlines" has come online this year. Forthcoming full collection with Lapwing Publications - "druidic approaches" - is out now, plus a pamphlet from Like This Press in July. Beard of Bees (US) has just published a chapbook "hydrangea translucency". Also has poems in Peter Hughes' Sea Pie: a Shearsman Anthology of Oystercatcher Poetry. Department Press will publish a new book by Iain in 2013.