rushing water

pillars rise up before foundations

opression of an aqueduct

corporations swallowed by the earth

The 10 Aims of Genre Writing

- cause confusion/surprise.

- label your work with the ‘wrong’ genre.

- label your work with every genre.

- get people out of their comfort zones.

- write something to be placed in Every section of Waterstone’s.

- write something that couldn’t possibly be placed in Waterstone’s (maybe they could scatter it on the floor?)

- play with genres, fondle them, rape the genres.

- mind-fucking (free-form).

- create your own, inconcievable genres.

- pick a genre at random & write an essay arguing that a book of a different genre, picked at random, fits into that genre.

now here is nowhere

- they must go somewhere

- they go nowhere

- surely they must go somewhere

- no, they don’t see for yourself

- well now i can see they lead off

- to where?

- i can’t see that it’s shrouded

- it is not shrouded it’s nowhere

- it must be somewhere

- but you cannot see where

- no, i can’t

- then they ‘must’ not lead somewhere

- they have to

- they don’t ‘have’ to

- just because you can’t see their end doesn’t mean it’s nowhere

- i see their end

- i fail to see how you can, i can’t

- yes you can, you only fail to believe what you see

- it is hardly a question of belief, it is a fact

- if it is a fact you could prove it

- i can, if i walk down them i will be somewhere else

- i won’t see you, you will have gone nowhere

- then you must follow me

- i don’t want to go nowhere

- it won’t be nowhere, nothing can lead nowhere

- but that is something, something can lead nowhere

- this is tiresome, i’m off

- you’ll go nowhere

- i shall, you’ll see

- i won’t see, then you’ll be nowhere and nothing

- please stop being ridiculous

- please don’t go, i’m scared

- what are you talking about?

- you won’t exist

- you’re hysterical, i’m leaving

*        *        *

now here is nowhere

a sort of purgatory

a steady beat, rhythmic, joined by a whirr a hum, creaking, a moan long drawn out a not unpleasant screech, a metronome?

not even constant and continuous soothing they say like being in the womb -i can’t remember, is that why it makes you sleepy?

always seeming to take forever and no time at all a sort of purgatory, inbetween places with meaningless names a real

nowhere.

colours and sounds wash over you, drown you to numbness it’s relaxing provoking  fleeting thoughts which are rarely articulated

never comprehended the mind wallows in itself wrapped in this blanket content to be carried where you will

your powerlessness a blessing there is no worry here you will not age eternal youth or death here you can choose

(maybe you will realise they are on and the same) eventually you will, surely it’s just a matter of time.

IF YOU FIND ME I MAY BE LOST PLEASE PHONE MY OWNER

sitting under the cool

opression of an aqueduct

he doesn’t know where he

is corporations swallowed

by the earth

as the sound

of rushing water provides

bassline to birdsong treble

 

-is this the CRA’s

revenge their un

spoken promise?

 

he cannot be sure strange

pillars rise up before foundations

supporting nothing the grass

vibrates under what?

shamanistic spell gaelic rites?

 

rain falls from underneath

a cloudless sky

a train roars past

first one way then

the other

 

how long has he been here?

how long has any of this

been here? not long

enough apparantly-he is

a stranger in his own

land

 

-maybe they ought to

build a wall someone

said -keep the riff raff

out or in return to

a rural way of life

turn the hands of

time back a few

hundred years maybe

just twenty?

Sam the Pidgeon remembers an old story he once read

Sam the pidgeon spits up another line of blood falls into the quay and disperses like ribena all purple & red mixing with green & smeg and looks at the sky cooing to the falling droplets cooing to hidden mr. sunshine cooing to the pasty man cooing for love for death for release cooing for relief.

A bare chest disgusts and offends the sight is not as bad as the bite and it stings.

A hundred boats and brightly buoys scattered as sinking stars offer distraction as whind whips and rain whets Sam’s side.

He stands to look at a writer running from a child in a pram he continues his journey inside a place of discovery calls from the shadows he calls you cooing and shrieking ringing he calls another to him another from him flies like a badly worded insult on the wings of desire circling round and round and merry-go-round mary like a crashing copter spins a circle and falls toward oblivion.

But it’s not over yet.

A sight of hope slights itself from beyond the grey haze and this time it calls to Sam so he flies like Icarus over the water over the brightly buoys and boats of the Fal over the ruddy heads of sailors with their nets of fishes ascending above the clouds flapping goodbye buoys goodbye sinking stars.

Sam says goodbye.

Tick Tock why we Hate The Clock

it reminds us that we are dying, moving closer every second the

incessant regularity mocks us with it’s certainty of our own

uncertainty about the  fututre The Clock focuses o

ur mind on the unfocusable – the absurdity of m

an’s attempt to capture what is beyond com

prehension it captures us, turning the inf

inite into a bracleted hands and face. br

ackets surrounding numbers telling u

s where to be, who to be, for how

long for and letting us know w

e are rude and unthoughtful

human nothing more skin

on muscle on bone

slowly rotting

with  no

choice

or co

ntro

l no

esc

ap

e

.