Saturday, 9 May 2015

The Stations of Fear, (After The Great Devorce).

& don't feel like a woman here

a block with flecks and streaks of grime
but not go. please don't go this time

it's funny you should say

it sucks you out and spits you in
those same old things

same streaks and flecks. to touch
the sky, to lip the streams.


the room steps out is revealed
the car, veins in the words, order
of worst
too relieved.
the day it ends as begun

you sat cross legged having
known difficult

y, having sucked been
grated. finds us at the door
in the hauling

rust-cabin  in the bowling   ground
that moves to look

as water, rocks of water   creaking, grunting
& the grass blades cut your feet

as glassy wrecks, stuck in
the hills seem awful far

& from them some sick stutter 
of light
and of that light
my sick eyes

shed tiny stones, stones that crush
the toes they fall to

rocks that fall to the fizz of light
from the hills, these figures
in twilight
moving slowly
apart

thousands of 
years to walk in twilight, drizzle, houses, all empty
imagined into life,, stuck apart, and further, never
enough light to build

from fizz of 
in this sound if i could only 
hear, these

the stations of fear as the rock-river that
bundles this tired body, this block
over, over, under, through the slightest crack
it breaks

what little fizzing lights we stare to call
a sickness, a sneer, a vanished trillion, more

& if we stay here
if we stay
it is coming
(we remain).

*****

But how about now not fearing. There you stood
before the waterfall but the water not like rock
but silk now or gunge but thinner meaning liquid
like warm all over running over and through the skin
friend take me with you. Not to fear but tear up
on the margins of paradise and what of scorn? So much
fucking revenge here these days can't we just get a long
streak of sun fizz craps through the cloud unkindly

nevermind. It's the same thing as always happens
round these parts. Distempered lives, frocks and broke
bellows. O frag of bale rock, won't swim me;
takest fine so calm & crouched to dust off break
a brow from atop ur eye. Now calm. Break
hand through water break the water through your hand
thank you sleep comes nevermind never end cancellation
of tickets to sky. Outnumbered but a tread two foot.




Sunday, 3 May 2015

Eclipsing Royal Princess

the twilight is broken

to mermaids & glass

with ribbons and songs

eclipse our chaste heart.



burn the sky

sisterhood scream

the earth as your shit stool

o heavenly beam.


"rats, rats! everywhere I be!!"

                                      hold me safe
                                      my darling one
-your sweet princess, of the sea.


Sunday, 19 April 2015

Click away / cclose door say

Click away
      cclose door say


         For Will


at the broad shield a creature dances. At as axial room to signal signal cclose
away at lull points former clicks out sync
and in again the former good the life it
had the signal passed out / over gravity
is not a fact here it remains, a tonal.


At the rawl the grill face pushes out bits
removed and not let back, bits of
speech drastic, lactic, propped still
rumour burns houses raw unenhanced
pasta mineral bubbles dissipate surface
the law is not move in counter circles


one door to the next, outside to in to
out in must like entries bite the bite the
bite the coding; locks hug pinned door
ants under boxed, electrical, shrieking all
diced winnow and electrical ban
instalment the of a hand drying plant.


Then crash the car then put on the head
lamp put up with shot vent gently
ripped  to  empty  air from  wall
  ghastly removal of bodies, oh mind’s
hive rock about gently for one last night
did this to me it hurt it finished.

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

CALL FOR POEMS

My seminar on 'how to make your poetry more Marxy' has stirred up a lot of emojis amongst you. I'd like to move forward in the workshopping process, so, I'd like to invite you to submit some of the pieces you've been working on. Perhaps you've just taken the first step and decided to make a not very Marxy poem more Marxy. Perhaps you've written your own piece, but would like some feedback so as to ascertain (on a scale of one to twenty three) just how Marxy it actually is. 

Please send poems to verityspott@gmail.com and I will publish my feedback along with your poems here.

If you haven't yet attended the seminar here is a link: MARXIFY YOUR POEM!!


Sunday, 12 April 2015

Trans Manifesto - Revisited.

Paradise/
Those thoughts were some time ago, material thoughts. Ligatures for living. Assessments like correct protocol & terminology. Glyphs. A false cartography. Now we find ourselves standing at the edge of a horizon, staring over it & back & that horizon is thus: On the left is a sheer drop back, formal. To render oneself as one was: Pick a point in your existence in which you most perfectly enacted the prescribed order of symbols, events, behaviours & motions. Now you can see it stand in it & make it a constant stasis to the exclusion of everything. Exclude pain. Remove pain. Like contemporary sculptures in Vauxhall. The place of agony is abstract, not the person, not the people, not the motion but inside the body where all wrongness is; a tissue. The second option is to plummet over that edge, imagine it, imagine the surging air. To a point that (it is told to you) is not mapped or permanent, that is fluid, that is fixed. A place called a new body which is separate which is a transplant whereby like jerky you are cured. Vacuumed. Now it is summarised (material truth) that you will stay on the edge. That it is not good to do either thing.
The reactionary diagnostic process by which trans* people are measured in society at large still does my fucking nut. What it does to that nut is it makes me say 'there was once a point in history where a very reluctant & shame faced doctor, probably a man who drank a lot of cheap scotch from small bottles, probably British, probably in his mid fifties, came to the conclusion when comprehending the degrading corpse of a queer that this queer had somehow wrongly inhabited its entire universe. That it would have been much better off in one of the neater parallels, & that if only, this doctor thought, it had the nous to ask a doctor, like himself (doctor, lawyer, local councillor, auditor etc. etc.) ((& it should be noted this doctor was in fact not a doctor at all but a cheque book ruthlessly attended to in private by a handful of auditors responsible for no precarious labourers)) to cut a long strip from the top of the queers head to the sole of its feet & gently, with forceps, drag its anima sideways through the slit into the air (((for a second here the body is abandoned. Paradise is here, in the abandonment of the body, but not for long because the spirim once removed from the body is carried))) towards another waiting body with a gaping side & slipped in. The movement from abandonment to habitation takes five years.
Paradise is a piece of shit.
Cut in the side of the body head to foot.
Skeletal split; sew socket. So wrought
vile cusp,, ideals to body split
                                                 paranormal. Waist
unbecoming.

Ice bath
                           split
Ice
                           spilt
splint socket
decoder
I-not bodied
                      ec
scrap hatch. Fucked completely
amonia does to eyes
what I-does to
                        body hex
deploy
            r-evan--ent. Genetic impartial
hatch from. Get right
                                     fixed. 














 

Tuesday, 10 March 2015

The Object is not Accesible. Performance, Access, Lisette's Tenderness, Amy De'Ath.

Two of the worst performances we've done were both done in
a state of heavy intoxication, and because of that losing
the ability to read at all or to see the words on the paper or
to stop them wiggling about and to demand of an audience
that they just, you know, fuck off and die or that they kill
in a part of themselves that which is easily preventable. One
was in Cambridge and the other in the Concorde Two.

I'm not proud of moments like that; not from some moralistic viewpoint, not because it is unprofessional. Professionalism is shame. No, because they become points of no access in exactly the wrong way. Think about how poems are actually barricades of bliss stuck in alienation, capturing the pan-optic with the ability to look back, forward, inside, outside all at once. Then ruin it. That's what it feels like. The only useful thing I said was 'fuck all competition forever' which doesn't feel great in your mouth,, and saying 'fuck' something or other feels more and more tired and offensive. Offensive. Not tired. Everyday.

**********************************************************************************

Being subject
to the whims
of the others
                       with their object-i-flatten
alien
          reeling & stooped
in bad
           loops / revolting. 

           this feels
as if relayed
                     horrible; unjustly
so removing
the scud
the bee / i-bee,, this

removal, to this lucky
summer, swinging over hump
to tree
             to grass bed
feels
         as if tragic
                             t'wards
object-vee-used out
where sisterhood
                             sloped i-to
dream scrap,, & sit there
lapped & lucky, long
but shadowed
                        ochre,, rest if
needs be
bigger
            sister, travail
not not unconvinced
a shell in twist
                         receiving
sadly. 

* ********************************************************************************

Poetry for Boys


I've been re-reading Amy De'Ath's Erec & Enide (Salt) recently, especially the sequence Poetry for Boys. There's a collosal tenderness here. What do we mean by tenderness. Tenderness is a near-impossible revolutionary approach, impossible because it is very difficult to maintain. We require ourselves to constantly examine the material of subjectivity - to comprehend faithfully and to realise the total order / structure of relations at play in any interaction. When we are speaking to a 'this' we ask ourselves to disallow the language of categorisation - 'this' can no longer be our relational tendency. Poetry for Boys omits a tenderness like this. One that is troubled, romantic, pastoral, opposing and musical. Is intensity ever stable? "That the joy will soon come and make you suffer!" - an epigraph, a warning, a spell. The sequence is full of contradicting invocations 'lay low' but in language, in pastoral language, 'in the words of the wood', subtlety not naturally forming immunity. The first poem in the set is a musical anacrusis for the rest. These are poems that split your gender perfections up, drop them back into your throat. Vocalisations of worlds impossible, privileges uncatalogued: 'if I had the money to dip in being a boy / If I was Anna O., & fallen into autism or / steeped in prelingual glimpses of Lena's face, / I'd be living system: looped in my own elements. // A system closing talking only to itself.'

Seriously beautiful work isn't easy. I feel like perhaps it gets overlooked. Configuring identity is rarely simple despite beauty and fear - to ask oneself with tenderness to ones own subjectivity where your system is closing and who is it talking to - what elements does it loop in, and where do they stick to make the subject sitting here (there) now?

From Francesca Lisette:

'So, I’m interested in the genius of the space that hovers below identity, solidarity and ego. In reaching for an affective politics, I ask that we make ourselves sociologically weaker – that is, in the terms of Keston’s paper at Militant Poetics, MORE emotional, more supposedly FEMININE – and that everybody does this. I’m interested in intersubjectivity, in what we might mean or do to each other beyond our socially accrued markers, in the weirdness of being humans at this time now, in how we can be kinder to each other. I like to call this form of praxis ‘revolutionary tenderness’.'

- What I Want: A Manifesto for Revolutionary Tenderness. Francesca Lisette.

I'm still trying to work out how we make a revolutionary tenderness and even more how we maintain one. I worry about strategies. You know I do. And I think Francesca does too. I think her address of the new power structures built up by 'rightness' (in language etc) are essential. Identity politics like Anarchism and Marxism very quickly falls into this glut of assembly from disassembly. New workfares. New racisms. New social phobias. Academic. But perhaps we need to be tender towards that tendency too. As in understand it as the composition of subjects (us) desperate to struggle. Understand it and act on it in compassion and love. Work into our language structures ears as well as mouths and brains. More later. Your sister. 

x

Thursday, 5 March 2015

Chant

Good morning my girl -you-are-only-a lip
Good morning "my life" you are here at the whip
O soul in the sun you are merely a bruise
Good dentist good sun say 'you, not abused'
Good graces Good plains good desert, beach, sky
Forsaken good crash go: i-am-not-i,,