Sancho: Mark Springer | Lilianne: Jennifer Oliver | Harp: Ozlem Simsek | Words: A. A. Walker
Sancho: Mark Springer | Harp: Ozlem Simsek | Words: A. A. Walker
Coming soon, a new chapbook…
She stopped in the lodge and ransomed her travels for good. Sophia Reich was made of fibres. In sally gardens where a former suicide pact had left us alive, we drank milk and blood, buoyant with maudlin promise. Indiscretions in abbreviated forms were austere manifestos upon the characters of a rock. Led by customs to knowledge of moonshine ratios, we were in-commensurable figments, hi-fidelity skeletal junkie-stations, insignia of simulation. Spoken powers and knowers leapt upon our bandwagon. The species of composition, offspring of red setters’ component precipitations, were voiced in a space between antiquity and the surface of a mysterious unpredictability. No-one wants to be a statistic!
José and the Ziegfeld girls, the follies, reached a crescendo exquisite as human sacrifice. The Winter bride played a game of swans. Midnight fishermen provided food. The consumptives with azure poise and balance of the words of the sea were slow-flowing out of this era. Our brothers’ and sisters’ pride swelled the gates of the citadel, ageing the lakes and the rivers. Antagonism darkened the sentries with a fiendish raiment of punishment: the reasoning of Man. Without astonishment, José endured. Market sellers and barmaids had found an affinity in his animal / trickster renaissance, sustenance for an extraordinary “Scientific American”. (more…)
a condensed novel in 22 verses
1. Specific to sitting in a deck chair, lacquered, bright, snowy cheeks. One critic of social and political life. Nerve end, Fabian. Left the body a god in Cairo, in the foyer with the McEwan’s manager. English punctuation or the decimal equivalent. Plays at Wimbledon Cathedral, a Mobiüs strip breaking the hyphens of the characters’ tics, now stalactite. Ulysses’ rooms bequeathed by merchants’ muscle fibre, barbershop Swift, are ravens on wires flying to nests of croissants. Invisible, distilled, immanent. The zinc stylus is saying who doesn’t read the Dubliners to Antigone made magnanimous dents smelling of pine off of a Renaissance Pope.
2. The World’s Most Famous Electric Razor. Freud’s rational, secular spice tree slightly intriguing the mischievous French starlet engine. The voice lymphatic. W. B. Yeats clones in Belfast stitching the tremours to Nevada. As a kestrel, the poem is about to taste the milk, smell the coal in a threadbare armchair, with a glass of Vouvray to help navigate the Panopticon. (more…)
Utilitarians: shall we assume our forgotten science is hidden somewhere deep in the cellular memory banks? Imagination has given in to information. Then heretical methods won’t suffice. For we are subject to location. Yet the earthbound field no longer attracts. It seems that we are being utilised for some kind of sensorial induction.
As in a dream, we are passing time by supplying and constructing our bodies and surrounding objects as instruments for assuming passing time has real integral quality.
Let’s explore the content of our applications. (more…)
The spectral sign of imagination is superfluous and profane. It is an anti-consumerist luxury, an antidote against the poison of quantification.
It is an anti-artefact, not a psychological reflection of whatever data assigns it an author or creator. It is not a metaphor.
The material out of which this play emerges is by magic ritual and sheer chance. As the reader or viewer you are complicit in the transmission of this play.
And it is play.
The intention is not to make ‘art’ so that it becomes ‘work’ for a political or personal ideology. It is not to fulfill the purpose of an identity. In offering the ultimate, nothing needs to be qualified.
Against self-surveillance and identification, the astonishment of presence is always inconclusive.
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