Wednesday, 15 April 2015


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 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.

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

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


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
          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
         as if tragic
object-vee-used out
where sisterhood
                             sloped i-to
dream scrap,, & sit there
lapped & lucky, long
but shadowed
                        ochre,, rest if
needs be
            sister, travail
not not unconvinced
a shell in twist

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

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. 


Thursday, 5 March 2015


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,,

Wednesday, 4 March 2015

Brain Song.

A brain can be lived, that I
am sure. Over time, livedfor/destroy,

regularity; persuations -you-are-this
be hav ioral-1 cut into word

order. Now you sit & stay still
on the window sill.
Now still.

So still,, on the
     sill. Motion  ended  removed
 the language. A mind

is not born but becomes a;
body. Brother of hers just turns

four years, fast enough. The room,,
fat & traditional & my hands

atop head. Fear ripsat back

&back flails  & this has a happy
 resolve these lines and-star-back-i

look into the upper,, the lower
the brain,,,mine

here  perfects  yours  inclined
             crossed the arms on crop

or nape. Banished Head to Wall
Banished Wall to Floor                

fear cuts gently to the back, to the back
to the corner where it lies

&shame-with-oh-it stays, the corner
where desire lights the wall

the back, the corner. Shame-i-i-call
back,, a ,, a brain is not yours,
oh backing   hard.

* * * *

& now say give me back
my brain, let it be the on
ce it was & scream insid
e it & cut back against & rifle & spinneret then
disrupt & brain & you are ( not
& scream at & break for the key.

Tuesday, 3 March 2015

Notebook Drafts. Spring is not Here...


shut up because there is no
life i was not filled up,
rescued, detained. & Felt
Strong, that was not so

without a meaning turn
your lust into words, die
they not mean they you
10022539 every morn i grind

like when my cello  lay with me
is not good to think  f you
is not always held at breath
i took Myself reception, sweat.


...'re running under cliff
or pier, glass severally
sprawl through the sky
by the bed.


What world is ''''s
      da c
would suggest
       no-us- us-no use

at beck at

am i the inside the
in -i-no of
blue clot
a flower or
 brain scrap
of carton or
 please hold
still thi
s is an un
fair shril
l the perfe
ct weigh is
 to disease is to
motif is i-not
-i please us the s
mall brack
ets voice the s
now and ra

there was exit
now it is
blind by
i am working
in the kitchen
or cleaning the
floor and awaiting
some supervision
then i
as in
there must
hitchiking is like it
i must as quickly
cut out all
just sweep it under
she is working on the floor mind to floor floor to floodlight
she is sprawled
face to floor floor to ceiling
to wall
fucking ever
seen a place
i work
as quickly
like these lines
they are not
very clean their walls
face their ceilings
the clock is fucked
there is no wall
but the ceiling is good
the floor is germs
there how i felt
to say that these
lines float stupid and
you get not out
them are stolen
some them their technique henceforth
it gets from itself is broken:

in on the blossom
fucks lumps as
 in how dog
s are lumps
get lapsi
 ng joy we as
riding out       YOU BANISH
was  rying  o   elp me
you blessed you the
blessed little
driving     rijhbu9et
there "is nothing out side the...
"rift in the altar
"night night sweet
"i love you, no i
"feel strongly
,moved to
T I owe you
Noth     move out
Moth it
t him move't t' not-the-willing  O to

 the water ca
lms and roves unde
r gas it is simple
 gas as abstract lack
 in the air is
 moving is i naked thi
s i-floor break
ing this
a the imp
erfect montage
three thousand
c e le bra
ti ons off-sanity
-capacitor off-scree
n limit irrit ati
 n  go forward reac
h with your arm
under red satin knot
 in by gas by limp this

out-light-not i-love-not the light falling on red satin this on gorgeous buoy yr

smile what are you i-shop
 out this weak lack in the
air festers as a lack in the
 sky would lack in he sky
meaning hole why come-i-
together sorry foreshadowed

 limp in useless
classic gas the
lack was there
 pushing over scram
bles the major lea
gues in heart of m
y little wave the f
uck puppet out acrostic
 my face charms
speaks to see littl
e the sanity bas

the air i breathe t
he whole of its
world's the madness
not-Oh-i impose from
 these punctured wound
 removes trash dump that eno

ugh oater chest wound
 left of grimace hate the
charming decadence
 this boy dance broke
 from me boil out left
of line face
in to face left to spell as in lack in the air called not-gas-at all her to come away

Thursday, 26 February 2015

Print Reader


& rent me to the climate
& slash my slender tresses
& loan me to the atmosphere
& beat me to a teathered frame
& hoist me and infantilise
& tell me it is worthwhile &

i have 
i   've got 2 do this
it machine which it
blips to receive the n0 that 10033539 fuck it reads in the girth chart on my finger plain for all to see; / engendered somehow 
                                                                       how it shits

                                                                       and shifts,, o free  ontology /
o don't say common law don't-i-me-up-like that...


                             & i did not abandon the  cross
                             of Christ i-o-could-not i o-living
                             & i cared deeply & i skryed
                             & protection, you bastard
                             & sugar
                             & is put into
                             O Christ save me from
                             & this:
                                          My Self
                             flees,, trodden,, forgetful,, similar to the people who walk in stupid,, the world into which what is it to be stupid, forgetting? anterior. patriot doubt. that is the hole it is doubtful to be stupid, singular as i am
walking & cough up a sky
              & forgetmenot & spring Rushing slowly
              like a shit brook un-babbling
              & new schemes
              & what is the spell thou ha-    done 2 me
              & work work 10022539 every day,, employee
              & filled with impossible care till it shuts up till it is revolting, scupper your chance in the sky little princess Verie Verie. 

Goodnight sweet Prinse. U skrub, shred
& always so indignant. Got to clean this place. 

     & as i was spring cleaning
     & was dusting the air
     & was sugared & unhappy how
     weird this dog
     & feed me to this pack of
     & not abandonned
     Christ that so beloved
     severally ....