Sunday, 23 October 2016

The Haunted Inch


for Timothy Thornton

Our view is identical, crossed
out. At the end of these
walls is total minus:
Some absolute nothing
is there
         poised, imperfect
stasis. Containers, us too,
quietly humming eyes
pinned loose to peeling
shadows, the last planet
         to a final
         glint. Gone in us.

         Catching your face out
         & across;

nothing I have to prove
to you, that enormous face
in the sand, its curving vectors,
the gravity of its transmit
which is a wholly strange delicacy
wrought & gliding over
containers: Everywhere in stasis
         beyond this door,
the drop
without a centre; nothing to move deleted
vectors; a drop without a ground.
The slipped horizon a peaceful
nastiness wrought in faces & sick.
         The entire
         transmit sadness
holds the inch. The fucking inch
I am in I am in you & the, the snap
you answer, answer nothing. Nothing
calling back; save for a low terrible
         rumble miles below
         the sky, a minus.

We are quite alone but for these strange
movements, chilled mark near wall
where we are given over to
a once familiar now patched up
         moment, more fear in
         it. At some kind of desk, the lamp
for a way perhaps to stare down
or out. Out, the mistaken ambit,
this lamp, a view to a terrible darkness.
The perfect inch of air between
         frames is crammed with ghost.
         It is the haunted inch.
You put your eye into the inch;
it is locked out, to find the inch
a square, a neatly folded distance
in its softness
         unable to unpack.
         Standing there over
my head & shoulders
there is the form & shape of a man
moving over & around, standing right
behind me, we are adamant
         occasionally; there are
         four of us there
wearing nothing but ghosts.

Saturday, 22 October 2016

Old Carts

The needle in your brain turns about
to the south where is

The river
what river, any at all and like pins in the sky they flit
and steel your super-vision

cuts them sky to ground
         moving the surface
of the taught river, then slack, then taught

to have met him, that took you through
the frosty clear dark, to the carts

each strange query reflects in us
an innate sense of care. I do believe that

and that I love you so much even now
tearing like a pin in the air to south
as you stretch north right back

to the garden of my childhood to the street
river of my current uncertainty
and yours, certain futures

cut out of the sky lying back to cart
frost cut the sky through smog

to make us speak.

Dream Diary 22.10.2016

Not us much detail as the last one. I am getting married. Fiona and Catherine have arranged the marriage. They won't tell me who I am marrying, just that I need to get into my wedding dress and sleep in it because there won't be time in the morning. They help me into it. I meet Theseus in the Duke of Norfolk to take a delivery. That is what happened in my dream. Ok.

Friday, 21 October 2016

Dream Diary 21.10.2016

Between 5am and 7am.

I am in a town, or finding out how to get there, and the town is more or less like Lewes, but with some of the buildings including my childhood home in Acomb. I am there with my old boss, who is running some kind of artistic event, though it turns out to be more like an activist gathering. Who the activists are is very unclear, but it turns into a conference which people from all over the world are attending. Kim Jong Un is there and Dolly tells me that I have to meet him because I won't get the chance to meet him again. I start to talk to him and feel I ought to bow to him which I do and as I bow something radiates from my head like paint spray and in tandem with my bow a tie appears around his neck and following my stoop descends down to just above his waist. If I stay bowed he will be wearing a tie but if I stand up it will be gone. I stand up and it is gone. This is the first hint at lucidity. Then Keston comes over and shouts "of course!" and shakes Kim warmly by the hand at which point the Internationale comes on. Kim doesn't know the words, even though I am able to sing it in any language I choose. I sing it to him in Korean then French. He can just about make it through the first verse in French. Keston whispers to me that we should leave him alone because he's evil. We talk about innate evil with a group of activists from Denmark who turn out to be extremely Islamophobic. My new boss has taken over the event and the event is now studded with my colleagues from work. They seem to be friendly. I can trust them where I can't trust the activists. My new boss says the police are coming for a routine search. I suddenly realise there is a rucksack that I must hide. It isn't mine but it has my name on it and it is full of drugs I've never heard of. I open the drugs education pamphlet I was given in year seven, but none of the names or pictures match. I don't know what most of the drugs are anyhow, but the rucksack which isn't mine has to be taken outside where me and a school friend from year seven put it under a very light millstone with space below it and cover it with grass. Two police officers appear and ask me where the rucksack is. I decide to be honest, remembering when Colin Baker (playing Doctor Who) in Trial of a Timelord stated "the truth can't harm me" before being led standing on a cart inside the Matrix to his executing - remembering that he himself is putting himself to death, thinking about the passage Keston sent me from Beckett's Molloy and about containers. I am not scared but I will go to prison so I am scared. I keep sliding between not being scared and being scared really quickly as I open the rucksack for the two smiling police officers and pour out bags of crystals and herbs which they decided before they came to work were now illegal. I will go to prison for this. My best bet is to play the "mad card". I asked them how they knew about the rucksack which I now know was mine all along. They tell me the name of the workmate who tipped them off. She is a very kind person indeed, and I cry to her asking her why she has done what she has done. She seems nonplussed as she explains that if the police ask you something you tell them something.

I am called in for my interview which I assume will be with the police or with a lawyer or a judge and suddenly know that I know nothing of the law, of my rights, of what I can and shouldn't say and how the entire structure of law works in any case at all. It's a huge relief when I discover that my interview is actually an interview about poetry conducted by the poet Laura Kilbride, and that my lover, Dolly, will be there. We will be discussing the divergent methods of poetic composition we use. We will answer the questions in turn. We are in a giant cot and Laura Kilbride is at the bottom of it smiling at us and pouring completely green tea while asking us a really difficult question about poetic forms we've never heard of, and anyway in the parallel, the conference, I have to get a train home soon. The giant cot lurches forward and I realise that though I am extremely comfortable and relieved to be in it I am also restrained, whereas Dolly is not. A small face appears in the wall smiling uncomfortably at me. I use my slightly awake mind to undo the restraints, and then give a blistering answer on the form that I've never heard of. Dolly gives a still more blistering answer; the form starts to appear as a physical object which is irresistibly beautiful. Laura touches it with her left foot and it spins around. We make jokes about the terrible concrete/sound poet we met in Athens. But the restraints are back and the cot is gently rotating and my new boss falls past the window, which is the train I am missing. And then I woke up and it was all a dream.

Saturday, 15 October 2016

the                the
the                same
the                image
                     picked from
                     two distances

                     so called
                     the same (?)
diagram        look at the
                     of the same.

Tuesday, 11 October 2016


         One minute, this all night & unable
to feel a thing, how your head flung about
slips into the field; I see a bundle of leaves
 that you cannot go.
           Scattered far out over the country
through the sky’s field
     are other parts of you
down here; down here your own danger
carried out at night, parting, resolving
lying. Then
                                        You appear there
                                         Your elf voice
                  private confessional for chastity:

The outside world enrols the inside.
I can see a butterfly;
  the history of containment
is outside power, the majorative. Where neither of us
are, but the thing plaits, abstracting our places,

for this moment local. The hotel taken in red ivy
a monstrously fucking unfair pejorative “we”, I am
  someone just walked over my grave.
  Perhaps it was a Yeti.

For a while at least, it is a little open ended. Noticed
a lack or a kneeling stockade. Barely knowable
person there fallen
under the sky’s random release mechanism
now that
     someone knows. That someone elsewhere.

         A puppy cage wrought &
         good. Especially sad
                                                 are the emptied bars of
          mouth slumps some
          times its stitched blank
         openness is the exact permission needed to fault it
         betrays the whole world.
                                           A real cage

                                           Far better than that.

Sunday, 9 October 2016

An Open Letter to the Hanover Community Board(s)(.)

Dear hill people (and associates / spectators),

                This morning, or was it yesterday, sometime in the last bundle of time a friend of mine posted a picture of some of their skin on the internet. But way before that, possibly even a year ago there was alarm going around your community group about some possible travellers walking around your hill with a ladder. The whole thing got really weird really quickly. A lot of people wanted these strange men to be gone. Perhaps removed by force; they were obviously up to no good. Then some other people got angry at the Leave contingent (as we now know them) and people started to use words like “ugh” and “problematic”, though this had been going on for a while. At first I was laughing, but then I just started to feel completely baffled. I walked up to Hanover and the streets were empty. Even the net curtains were still. I started thinking about how weird our communications have become; how people’s opinions are often a register of how they would like to be perceived as opposed to attempts to actually make things materialise or change – to perform any kind of external or social function whatsoever. Something had happened with this community group which seemed to crystallise exactly the forms of dialogue that simultaneously promote social alienation and painful laughter. Somewhere along the way I got banned from the conversation. It’s fair enough. I do like irritating people. Part of it is a frustration at established forms of dialogue. I find that when there is a tide – a consensus - I like to test it by pushing against it a bit. I’m aware it’s usually a doomed attempt. But when you can get fifty or so people to start writing essays about chemtrails just by again and again asking “but what exactly are chemtrails?” (thanks Jonny Liron), well, at least it keeps them off the streets – imagine what someone who writes essays about chemtrails at the drop of a hat might end up doing if they actually went out into the world – they’d probably end up in the same stupid cults as me. By the way, at this point I would clarify that this message isn’t aimed at you personally. I think most online dialogues especially on Facebook are basically just learned reactions and compulsions. I think someone managed to write something meaningful on there just before the world ended in 2012, but apart from that it’s a pretty clean slate. I’d also like to take this opportunity to say that (sigh) as a trans* person I’ve never been successfully defended by a social justice warrior on the internet. If you do see someone giving me shit in the street feel free to film it, take photos and write about how appalled you are by it. It will give you kudos and you can produce it as evidence for the trans* Stasi if we catch you after the revolution. I’m getting ahead of myself. I walked into Hanover on that day and it was really, really quiet. Everyone was inside. All of the shops were closed. I squinted up Islingwood road and there I saw two tiny model humans carrying a ladder. They were moulded out of plastic. It was the type of plastic you can re-form over and over again. As I looked at these little figures they became bigger and bigger  though they didn’t move at all – they were in perfect stasis and I became more and more afraid of them.

                Being banned from these completely indistinct dialogues about nothing was actually quite a relief. It gave me a chance to catch up on my Horse and Pony magazines and I spent three days looking at Amazon reviews for cordless irons. But I missed something. Something of the absurdity. I thought “what if I could have exactly the same thing but be able to move within it with absolute impunity. Like Kim Jong Un does. But in the same way that Kim Jong Un does (does everything) my movements became more and more sanctioned. They say life starts at forty, so I started my own Hanover Community Noticeboard. Looking back it was a really strange thing to do. I mean, why the fuck did I do that? Certain tropes started to emerge. One of them was that any time anyone posted on my new improved Hanover Community Noticeboard the post would be reported by about ten people. Every single one. Another thing (similar to the original board) is that people seemed rather obsessed with the idea that comments and posts were directed at them personally. People started trying to sell bags of soil and stupid stuff like that. People were playing. Of course every now and then someone would play in a way that other people didn’t find funny etc. When this happened there would usually be some level of personal fallout. People would hold me responsible as the administrator. It was almost flattering to be put into a position of regulatory censorship but as I said then I really don’t get paid enough and my day job is pretty time consuming. As you’ve probably already worked out I find the internet to be a really anxious place. I’m not sure what to trust and what not to. I find a lot of the world an anxious place. I don’t mean to moan but loads of people take against me because of who and what I am - living with that on a daily basis can be a struggle. I also have some religious principles that put me at odds with a lot of other humans. Oh, and I’m a bit of a class traitor.

                This bit of skin. It was the skin from someone’s testicles. I received several complaints about it. When I received these complaints I had barely slept. I tried to respond to them. The skin vanished pretty quickly. I was actually really upset that this skin had made people upset. It wasn’t clear to me at the time that it was in fact my skin, or at least my responsibility. This was made apparent pretty quickly. Someone messaged me saying: “I know who you are and there will be consequences”. My counterpart in the mothership has apparently said I should name and shame people so that there can be some more banning. I’m not going to do that - I’m not going to qualify someone being a dickhead on the internet by making them incredibly famous. No. Instead I’d like to offer an amnesty of sorts. My Hanover board has been very misleading. It has the same name (with an added full stop) and the same picture as yours. These are my terms: If those that have aggressed against me for that most heinous crime of having the password to the space where someone bared their testicular skin on the internet will forgive me even just a tiny bit in their hearts I will henceforth change the group picture to a picture of Michael Flatly as an offer of thanks and a future sign of good will. I will also remove three of my missile sites from Queen’s Park. I will make it clear that the page is not suitable for work or those under the age of 18 and I will remove any traces of skin I find. I will take on some interns to help me with the very painful administrative duties I perform each day for the benefit of mankind. In return I want everyone in Hanover to calm down a little and perhaps take the air. As a final note I’d like to thank you all for “Sharkgate” which I only became aware of today when people began to draw comparisons between what had happened over the last two days and that event. Oh, and next time you see someone walking about with a ladder please don’t be afraid. Just because you’re on a posh little hill – sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Verity Spott /// Kay Impson
Chief Administrative Commander of Hanover Community Notice Board
Product Code Cadet at The Hove Space Program
Chairgirl of Lewes Moaist Action (Posadist-Leninist)

Famous Poet

Friday, 7 October 2016

What is Life?

It's no exaggeration to say that all of a sudden an album I have only listened to once is probably the best album I've ever heard. It was with a weird rush of joy and pain that we sat there and listened to the whole thing through. Late at night, after a tediously repetitive work shift, in my deadening routine. Blooms What is Life is a labour of devotion. It feels extremely sorrofwul and lost at times. That sorrow and that loss is broken through with what sound like the sounds of actual illumination. There is such an immensity of expression; such a sense of time - the universal turning in to the personal; a realised separation of those two things, and a realisation of there being no two distinct things. Sorry. I know I can get a bit confusing, and I'm expressing my own micro-narrative which is probably a far cry from what is actually there. What I will say is that it is rare I feel so loved by music, and finding things that have profound emotional effects on me is often a bit of game of chance cards. This album is stunningly beautiful, and I think I will value it forever. I'm going to listen to it again now as I walk anxiously about in town. For fans of the void, masturbation as self love, dancing and jellyfish moving about in the sea.

Thursday, 6 October 2016


The problem is life. Every time you think you are breathing you are fucking the dead. The problem is the midlands. Every time you read a book. Every time you correct someone you are a violent Tory. Every time you think you are correct. Every time you think you're embracing the outer. Every time you feel bad about yourself. Every time you carve up your body image. Fuck, this is futile and imitation. Every time you say "I'm quite OCD'. Every time you self diagnose as neurotypical, yeah, it's you motherfucker. Get your head in my throat in my hands. Every time you imitate me I will do the same to you. Every time "I don't have a voice". The problem with the establishment of "spoken word" as an art form is that even the people who attend it think it's shit. The problem with Kate Tempest is the same as the Midlands and drama school. The problem with me is I'm lost and bitter and a fucking traitor to myself. The problem with every problem is the score of its ultimatum written badly on the sky or on the stars if you look to the stars for guidance or beauty you cannot be trusted. The problem with you is you're afraid of Theresa May the same as I was and that problem is the desire for a neurotypical grandfather who won't let go of your leg whilst he hangs you over the balcony like *********who was a sex offender like the nebula like the sea like the sand under the sea which is, now I think about it, the wettest thing in the world. Stop fucking following me. When you try to write down the thoughts that come into your head you usually try to stop them then try to start them again. William Burroughs has nothing to offer you. You already know. There is nothing here. I have nothing to offer you. Poetry is fucking stupid. You are fucking stupid. That punk in the Blue Man, he is on the spectrum. That neurotypical support worker, she is on the spectrum. The moon is on the fucking spectrum. "We're all a bit autistic", no, You're. Then you can get up and then be sick then you can say some of these words to make yourself feel more comfortable. ************ is a fucking creep. All his poems are enemies. I haven't read them. It is rare that this much disclosure. Oh but it's a special occasion. There is a every time there is a national poetry day you write a poem. A very long time ago Hans Falada was trending in Waterstones. I am running out. I am not a clear voice. Don't ingest me like you would botox. Get over your desires. If you're not reading by next week someone you hadn't heard of last week you are killing yourself. If you can read you are already in hell. The neurotypical discipline is a white fantasy in lieu of visible slaves. Teach yourself not to listen.

Tuesday, 4 October 2016



Tell yourself the way out; again,
again, again. Force your will to play out;
what the fuck is inside you?

Such a little madam,
ratified by habit. The pulse
of daily loss, arrested little heart.

Torn up one by failing one
nothing left to clarify,
in littlespace you’re quaking

where once you were personified.
What is that left behind you?
Leave until you die.

What the fuck is in you? Never
latch the door. You have not been ruined.
Not quite,

being ruined isn’t shit:
Things become sucked out of you.
Wrongness basted every hole...

Waste became internalised, permission
never given. Take your tiny self
away strangled by your ribbon.