Tuesday, 4 December 2012

James Davies, from 'stack'


from stack ii.

shiny industrial-colour red thick lacquered plastic storage box with rounded edges 70x50x50cm with rusty bent copper clasp. two hinges at the back of the lid, copper too, but painted red and inbetween the red plastic and the lacquer there is slight sparkle. sometimes it glows pulsates throbs a light which is also an energy; yellow or blue but never both at the same time or in quick succession.

a bird in the tree a sun

how is this shell next to this other shell

a room with lots of flowers in it

motorbike and man holding yellow patch next to it for a photo

16 t-shirts

a box that opens up and contains a colour

a bit of rock

green china

sky

green and black

oxygen

oxygen

a shower fitting two thirds up

there is a problem with an envelope

raininglight

a brick

i placed a spoon on top of another spoon and it fell off

i coloured in a whole sheet of standard white paper in blue using a blue crayon

dight

i tried to focus on a thought of a carpet and it worked

in the chair

some blue tarpaulin covered a bit of grass

18 plastic boxes variable sizes with lids clipped shut filled half way up with cotton wool on a 6 tiered shelving unit: metal x-bracket / plastic coated hardboard with wooden look finish

woods/woods




from stack iii

i decided to take another look at the orange couch

i arranged a box

green china lamp base

no bucket amongst many buckets

lemon                                                                                   _                            

hole in skirting board for television wiring to pass through

2 rocks

i put my hand up near a plastic box

octagonal yellow ashtray

near a bush

leaf sizing

tea spoons

there is no space round something on a wall

a tub the same size

grass near a late entrance

going upstairs i was puzzled

should i count each step a unit

the snow fell in a place

i sat down in the grass

i lifted a box

fountain

i drew a fox in the same box as a duck

i saw a fountain on a beach

next to some stones

lots of beach

wood

a piece of metal

outside a bottle

slipped walking up a ramp

a room with some flowers in it

i went into a room and had a look about a bit

two sticks represented a chinese gondola next to a mountain

Monday, 3 December 2012

Simon Howard, To laugh at cartoons and other philosophy is to risk madness


By day
by night
by neither
the moon carving
itself from ice
in our bulky clothes
our clumsy kisses
breaking away.

A cityscape
of blades
and ribbons
the moon as though
attempting to kiss
the moon itself as though
the loneliest lovers
who’ve never been.

In rooms where less
than one has entered
or departed
one light
bulb floods the space (bare)
in our nakedness
we are replicas
of incomplete strangers,

mouths taste of peppermint.
Somnambulistic days
insomniac nights
there’s a police there who for some
reason stands upon its helmeted
head, therefore to laugh at cartoons
and other philosophy
is to risk madness.

And us in our nude clothes
shivering and telling fortunes.
Our thoughts
wordless; your feet in sparkly shoes
skipping to the ends
of any planet. (A minuscule
shard of moon appears
on the nail of my left little toe)




Anna Percy, 9 poems


week one:

pattern for knitted

swimming trunks

will pay postage



week two:

Record by The Turtles

She’s Rather Be With Me

willing to pay all costs



week three:

Eye needed for an emu

(Rod Hull’s 70cm/27 1/2 in puppet).

Will pay costs



week four:

knitting pattern for a

lady’s jumper with a

blue and white chinese

willow pattern on the front



week five:

Aretha Franklin CD

or cassette, The First Time

Ever I Saw Your Face.

will pay all costs.



week six:

Microwave Cookery Books

Will pay postage.



Week seven:

Manual or photocopy

for a Sharp QL310

portable memory display

typewriter. Will pay costs.



Week eight:

Instructions for a sony

ericksson K7001 mobile

phone. will pay costs



Week nine:

Copy of  the late Steve Conway’s song,

My Thanks To You.

Will reply to all letters.

Will pay postage and expenses.



Week ten:

Hayne’s Ford Focus

LX 2011 car manual.

Will pay costs.



Week eleven:

Knitting pattern for

anything using two odd

pins, one small and one

large. Will pay any costs.



Week twelve:

DVD of the film, The

Merry Widow.

*

I’ve got so much love to give I just don’t know where to put it

You are ready to notice something
you offer all
while guarding close
you want our bodies to buck, bite, give in.
You’ve got to care
We merge interest,
I ‘ll wear that polka dot dress
and you know I always fall head over heels
for boys with holes in their converse.
You illuminate me, cherry lips
when you forsake your vision,
you are my vacancy.
Palmstruck as you were
you caught me, contained me
palm to palm an arm wound round my waist
you might even reach my high anxiety
which performs it’s lies
paid out in transformed flesh
my head is in a bitter whorl
you can sweeten me honey
I know about the snowdrop in your suit pocket
next to the parker pen and your spring leaf tie
you shout your dilemma to appear:
”how to write the stars you know while breathing dust!”

*

Work of Art

Mark my words, it’s not just that
it’s Hyper-real, fast moving,
all the names I’ve promised
vying in a tiny hive
That summer was spiked with jewels
sculpted, elegant, photo-real
Why am I telling you all this?
breathless, rattling off candid matters
It went up in flames, a riot
An awareness in the blood line
Nine years of alarm, a lack of structure
She didn’t have a clue.
Seeing the stars she couldn’t sew,
dreamt of perfume bottles, glass blowing.
Inspired to cause a stir, proud of it
dresses kaleidoscopic, swirls solid.

*

the courage of night makes my ink flow faster
cover of dark pushes dirty saucepan piles
out from the side of my mind
there is the page and me
not what I didn’t say to him in the train station
and how I wished I had bent like a tattered tulip
in the rain and kissed him in the space after
‘’I might not’’
the unmade bed folds itself away scattered books and all
the pen stops resisting my fingers
the spilt ink becomes less bothersome
I forget the ex who loathed those splots
reminded him of his own empty hands
I know that writing is my most constant lover
and my most fervent friend  of unending tolerance
even as I score pages unevenly

*

For Michelina Lewandowska

 "I could breathe and I breathed very delicately."

She cut her way out with her engagement ring
he left her that so that they would know
she was owned even underground.
I suspect that as he placed the branch on top
(a third of her body weight I posit from
the smiling photo pixelated in the metro)
larger than the child they had,
I imagine him holding one end
his friend on the other, assessing its weight
comparing the pull he feels in his tricep with the dangling child.
He did not think he would have to face her and tell the court:
‘’the intention was to scare you: to frighten you off
It was not with the intention to kill you’’
And that the holes in box where he had carried her
tasered, gagged, bound, in a warm jumper to make her comfortable
were air holes, and not where his fists had been visible
as they laid the box into the hole.

*

twist want,  you’re not a telephone,
facing multiple problems is daunting
history is needed to avoid rows,
making as many mistakes as I can.
Time wasting evening turns to park music
the scandal of your opinion
counts to move on

*

why I will not fuck you

I am sure your tongue is artful and practised
but being pursued by you is no compliment
no woman wants to feel interchangeable
all I am is a challenge, I won’t offer up
the body parts you praised in silver plated tones
you expect me to be impressed by pure mechanics
and that hip roll you learned from screen
I want a man to honour me with his fucking
to feel that laying hands on me is privilege
and not a right

I cannot appraise the contents of your heart
by looking at your cock
I do not wish to possess it just for this
merely to know what is inside it

*

We viewed relics,

supposedly enclosed:

the flesh which pumped,

spewed, such cells recieved

highest by popes, priests

beside white brittle lies of

cock,s legs stole from

the pot, the cook,s eye

she swore focused out the glass:

the silver fork stuffed

bloomers of the house

opposite,s boy brought up,

his lust extreme

his teeth chewed just roots

over the hedge forever

whole deer cover his buffet.

*

Dear Birdhouse,



We are instructed to make a little birdhouse in our soul. Where does one place such an object when one does not believe in such a theological construct. It supposes a soul has a hole in it, that you could with a thumb, slit it like a fragrant almost human tanned skinned apricot, thumb a space deep inside, a little room for a man to hide or place the birdhouse in afterwards closing the flesh, hiding starlings. Fluttering forever in your soul, the cause of emotional fervour; trapped flight. The birdhouse shrunk as simply as a child perceives their own translucent thumbnail to be the equal if the cresent moon. Romans called the soul the animus; to remind us we are all animals, our arms featherless wings, we have spent our lives as a species relearning how to fly once we were grounded by evolution,

Yours perplexed,

*

Anna Percy was born and educated in Norwich. Graduated from Manchester University in 2009 is the author of two chapbooks Ghosts at the Dinnertable (2007) and Typewriter Sparks (2011) Her blog iswww.mostlynocturnalscribbler.wordpress.com She has been writing for performance and publication around the country for eight years. Her work encompasses love, loss losing your mind the pastoral and the surreal.


Saturday, 1 December 2012

Tim Allen, after ours


after hours know-how
derelict control tower

dismantled altar aids
dismantled orphan to
help ornate sky
serve out
its time

ovary sky
over the sea
under blocks
of unmanned
light
squats
in soul husk

wind farm local
marries lark to
help install
zombie

but only if the universe
is a stretched wind-sock

*

half them
half invade them
half name
spare half of them

half them within
wheel them out
shovel and hoist

half them with jaw-jaw
your breath bad for the purpose

half them into quarters


now stick them in

*

hand turns
rustic lace
hidden
in the mirror

this man is a witch   

head flogged
sheds its lace sails    
dead
in the mirror

straight
to the rear

sleepy voyeur
returns a hand

which man is this?

*

if it was this is how it might be
thinking how can these have a name

half of it would be unreal
the other half arbitrary

even before it got half way
the opposite bank will have turned to water


you can reduce sadness
nothing to do with slipping in and out of control

wondering where you hurt
felling speculated yourself

if it was sleep how might it start
how might it end this

?

*

is it really necessary
to have a blind spot?

why not arthritic view
changing into unclear
curling?

these rhetorical questions
of a modest nature
collectively shudder

yes?

*

light’s journey through paper

past the paper
filed down
valley high
rigid blink
of plague light
in conduit

light’s journey to file’s surface

its truth hidden
on the cabinet’s
plains    steppes    safaris

and e-books
impatient logistics
muster results
in
plague verse

light argues
with unknown repellants

*

moon pulp     foul measure
cramp        ur-mess

giraffe’s tight walk
on strawberry hill


chord quagmire        foul measure
asifitwere       ur-talk

the van is laden
on stalemate hill


worm part      foul measure
sworn in         ur-image

spotted tin pig at sea
on plumber’s hill


salt moon       foul icon
banked           neat scratch

yellowed and charred
on ur-hill


spirit word     foul measure
peat swollen star pipes

unfettered clot
on whistling hill

*

soft flesh floor
sobbingbut
alert

fruit unimportant
on the table

string of blame
going both ways a a a
dancing ship of
death
on the softseas

ideally to a rhythm

*

the creation of a translated world
the afterword’s beyond
already hammed
sleeping hurts

the destruction of unchanged space
unhinges the place of doors
elastic void simple
shrinks embrace

it hurts the pains
the crosses knots anchors and soul algae

the wreaths made of sleeping collateral
hidden inside screaming stars

the creation of a temporary clitoris
hems in
hours closed up
sealed by sticky shadows

it street theatres ache
the basin of spewed time the black ties and bloods

*

the green pig is smelling the pink flowers


the green pig
is smelling
the pink flowers


the green pig is smelling
the pink flowers


the green pig
is smelling the pink flowers

*

the rock sweats next to a sweating rock
dizzy with rocks so high underground
i could fall up into Parliament
i could find myself next to Portland Square

the wood shivers
having no trees for shelter the wood shivers
the next wood along the coast
bent tall

children are falling into unrequited chemicals

the children sweat their
hands slip
into transparent earth

*

this is the 6th time i’ve come home from school today

*

wounded in inhuman drama
threatening too
metaphors for moon
lining up like recruits

i had to break the truth in 2
to find us
we were still there yes
in a vanished world

didn’t have instruments
never had the right things
couldn’t help display
bring display down

moon stays up
without its medieval capital
if only i could
coax it with a threatening tone

to come down
into gaping
animal hole
grieving exchange

on the stapled margins
on the sugar paper beach
every ant drawing
pinned
against an
understudy