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


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