NEUTRAL NORWAY 2
Hannah Levene Dissemination Aphrodite Saw You Coming From A Mile Off Admirers Of The Horse Fair Tricked Out Rump I’d Rather Be Mecone Artwork by the poet
Aimee Bea Ballinger Water/Line The Rapture Falmouth Stranger Things Bare Nothing Artwork by the poet
Alfie Prendergast The Enduring Tribulations of Comrade Homeless Artwork by Joe Prendergast
Deva Fern O’Neill Oropharynx Caught Mid-Flight In The Kitchen Slipping Tal Fullbellyroundmoon The Patter Of Midges Smacking Artwork by Harriet Lee-Merrion
Michael J.H. Milner 5 Day Romance With A Girl Called Boy Why I Should Have Bought A Peugot Therapy Reasist! Privileged People Of England Rise! 2109/6##Literal**Exges1s##9973/2 Bear Pit The Whale Artwork by Vita Sunter
Percy Currie Song Of Waking Labradoresce Lambs Lament I See Boats On A Long Line Wainthrottle Now To Hold The Ambulance Boat Of Sailors Creek And The Beasts Are Like Me Who Is Hungry And Neat Artwork by the poet
DISSEMINATION From here on in we walk mouthless a cross crossed lipless our only chance of getting pregnant: a fly. With care we’ll go so’s not to become mothers. With care we’ll go so’s not to become unnatural mothers. We won’t swallow flies orphic homeric pelasgian we’ll walk mouthless, sit to eat, we’ll only fuck girls, we’ll take pills, sit while the moon wanes and wait to ovulate not wanting to be unnatural mothers too soon. Not wanting to be shocked by our own spawn; the likeness of ourselves reflected in the fractured-mirror-eyes of the father we swallowed: fast asleep in the dust, mouth wide open. We will not turn our backs to spread our legs to the wind. Don’t want to blow up yet, to balloon yet, to fill up yet, don’t want to be unnatural mothers yet. Chewing beans swallowing flies coiled with snakes pollinated by celestial bees fatherhooded consumed all seeded all beans growing ripely flies flying semen swarming dissemination: from for and so as to make unmothers demothers conmothers quamothers but mothers, anyway.
APHRODITE SAW YOU COMING FROM A MILE OFF Aphrodite saw you coming from a mile off and she heard cause you called her name silent and strained in the tightening of your muscles. Holy because she is the climax you will never reach because she is a god on Olympus in pure light and though she was formed from the foaming of the sea and the semen when you come you cannot reach her. And you may curl your back around until it touches itself again just gentle fish flesh hitting fat but there is a sea somewhere throthing Aphrodite between its thighs meeting the rain creating you and you came and Aphrodite saw you coming from a mile off saw you coming perpetually and never, not bitter or sour, happy perpetually and never. You are not the sea. You are just wet.
ADMIRERS OF THE HORSE FAIR We took photographs of each other and ourselves of each other looking at each other looked at the photographs and saw ourselves being seen saw Dionysus too his priests in suspenders a line neat up his calf his animal skins his head on a spike saw Stephen saw me saw vests on young girls 12 flat chest to chest saw Florida saw me sat back private and powerful at the horse fair no admission necessary no subterfuge private in wealth hidden in art seeing ourselves being seen self portraiture head on spike Putin Berlin swamps in Florida private pictures of freedom wild horses at the horse fair women in the woods with bloody hands teeth shaper feet firmer
bare skins wolf skins tiger skins frenzy bigger teeth more my private money my liberty libations to the wild itinerant mothers strays straying priests in the trees altars in the towns sons heads on mothers spikes who went to watch women dressed like women who went to the slaughter house dressed like slaughter who went to meet their lovers dressed like love looking for the central margin the woods around the town the free around the caught the girls around the girls heard them whispering from my seat in the trees I have seen him when I was wide awake I saw him seeing me watched him watching me took photographs too smudged faces torn hair left you a note from the central margins we were admirers of the horse fair
TRICKED OUT RUMP They made me out of clay, slip; a glitch between alive and a liver, boring holes which kept us hungry, atop and below: curling our pubic hair rolling our hips bending over. Thread knotted round our organs stopped them swelling, sinews stretched and tied to the bed to the ground to the others to dinner to the peas: wrought and wrung, twisting my hips curling my hair rolling my tongue bending over. My crotch holds out its hand to me, its sweaty palm, a pin hole prick in myrtle. Curling my pubic hair rolling my hips twisting my tongue bending
I’D RATHER BE I’d rather be with Circe a pig or a wolf or a lion loving her so she’s not lonely A E A E A pig or a wolf or a bear drunk or poisoned or me so charming she doesn’t charm me I’d rather be with Circe I’d rather be with Circe I’d rather be with Circe let them go AEAEA and I’ll stay with Circe After Ever After and loving Every part of Circe A beast before she made me one I’ll stay here with Circe poison before she poisoned me drunk before she made me drink too charming to be charmed sooth sayed saying soothing things like all is soothing now I have seen you and you are lonely and sad and beautiful and you are holy and sad and somewhere else without constraints or the world and with power and magic and a layer of olive oil on your skin filled with ambrosia the scent of nectar under your arms oh Circe I’m yours I was a beast before you made me one poison before you poisoned me drunk before you made me drink I am on my way to nowhere passing by 14
I’ve been nothing I’ve been no one I’ve been cunning please let me reach inside you until I hit ambrosia into pools of ambrosia into your body bang bang bang went the trolley ring ring ring went the bell poison before you poisoned me oh Circe if you are lonely I’m lonelier and I’ll stay a pig wolf beast before I met you I’d rather be with Circe All E Alone with nectar Ecstasy choking through clay All every always over because I’m hungry for something other than bread and wine and hospitality I am a stranger poison me and make me stay here aeaea in woven fields of opium poppies purple thick with the wolves who loved you anyway and the pigs who loved you anyway and the bears who love you anyway with the beasts who loved you anyway and you kept them and you kept me and you wove knots whilst I told you about Nietzsche and you came in gold and you were far far away in a place unmappable with me my tongue on your immortal clitoris a beast before you made me one A E A E A nec-t-a-r and Ambro-s-i-a lone and eternal lonely in eternity naked in meadows drunk before you made me drink A E A E A 15
MECONE Bees: from heather to heather to heather Me – above all my past lovers Or all my past lovers lying on top of me – a palimpsest. We come out, build our closets retrospectively, Realise we both felt as if our bodies were being invaded But didn’t feel invaded by each other’s bodies. Me, trying to reconcile myself with the correlation Between repetition and depletion; Love growing backwards heart breaking less and you Prizing open oysters with a screw driver, Oysters which look like spread legs in gray scale. Draining sea Water slipped alive down Your neck fried in butter life into life Bees: from heather to heather to heather Spread legs in full colour Your girlfriend and your mother And you and your reflection in oyster shells. Reflection and depletion. Sad, because Your reflection was only you again, Just me again – heather to heather to heather. Reflected and repeated and depleted: Breasts into the landscape belly of hills oysters for genitalia Bees: from heather to heather to heather. Me – above all my past lovers Or all my past Lovers lying on top of me – a palimpsest.
AIMEE BEA Ballinger
WATER/LINE at first there was the water and everything in it there were boundaries: clear lines where the dry remained the dry and the wet, wet where movement made ripples that didnâ€™t touch the concertina of the waistband slips, peripheral leaving behind pink grooves, coastal and the I that counts - the I, present - now can fit the whole of you in my mouth blurred lines, the ghost of the living pulls years from my belly, leaving them to glisten and dry among the insects that want to consume you more than I do the click-clack, I exist was it the heat or the sweat that made us horny? the affirmation, teeth on the back of the neck the salt-silhouette, the thighs and the shake the waterline conceals your erection laying prostrate on the surface I punctuate my desire my baptism of spit (for a while I am nothing but a body: coming) not unscathed, we leave a mark a remnant of respect between the grass-blades dissolving into one another we must repent and enjoy repentance
THE RAPTURE The rapture came on a sunday morning, I stood too fast and you slunk down my thigh like jelly awoken early for the second coming, the seminal breakfast; orange juice and fried egg ectoplasm I ate slowly, he asked: ‘how long ago did you forget how to swallow?’ and ‘when will you start speaking instead of chewing? I had a girl once, my affection for her was biblical but she ran through my fingers like sand and left me pale as milk to snap, crackle and pop the scythe fell, cutting perfect squares for toasting the earth above the earth and the earth below the earth and the earth itself aligned like a houseplant your safe domesticity reassured me, and I hung you like a painting in the chaos.
FALMOUTH I take you Falmouth in my bones and blood in my stormy mouth, collecting white foam at the corners I take you down, Cornish home, settle settle, know me know my spiked palm, my small stone beach my affinity with the water, shocked blue and stoney cold know me blotched bright red and freezing my beached family, soundless southern gull I take you drowning man down, down deep down coastal path I know better than my own roots, I take you, Falmouth home.
STRANGER THINGS there have been stranger things happen than love bigger shapes made, indentations deeper, ridges running smoother, burning brighter than love, disseminated into light, particles plated gold passing through cerebral darkness in the absence of light we confuse arms for legs and bodies for sinewy sadness or we can’t tell who we’re crawling over to piss even though our eyes are wide-stretched bright bulbs, awake looking for patterns in the chaos of the dark but there is nothing resembling sequence because what occurs between us, two bodies two human bodies is non-sequential it’s just clouds rolling over the tongue, immersing fully in wetness somebody else’s second hand smoke sitting in your lungs somebody else’s child sitting at your dinner table, eating you food, groping your daughter fighting his or her holy ghosts and maybe all that we really are, the sum of all our being is the possibility that we are only shapes and if there is no pure tessellation then we should settle for a matrimonial fit - a positive second best because the weight of the world is endless and love is nothing realising our tragedy we cling helplessly to one another.
BARE NOTHING the slow, slow back away from the precipice I can fit my whole life in this carriage I can fit my whole life into this suitcase I can fit my whole life into this clenched fist thereâ€™s something erotic about solitude a dull thud of loneliness that echoes in less than forty-two hours I will be drinking for courage or fucking for freedom. Sharp turn, run and return the slip-slide from grey to green the inevitable treading lightly backwards makes me ache to consume: the soft tongues of girls (and long for their bodies) american charm, stoned fruit, garlic salt, oregano tom collinsâ€™ (a salinger novel), small islands confined spaces, infinite fulfilment.
itâ€™s something resembling sexual dependency the inability to sleep alone or to be dazzled by one thing after another after another until itâ€™s all burning so brightly itâ€™s like the darkness never existed. I am the yellow raincoat and the body beneath it shirtless and salty, shivering on some beach teetering on some rock, coming too loud in some room tell me this arm is good for something other than holding a pen, show me my right hook. the epitome of an english summer is taking off all of your clothes and pretending not to be horny all of a sudden everything is touching, fold your false modesty with your undershirt bare all or bare nothing
Comrade Homeless scoured a rolling tongue across the land. He taught under bus stops. In encamped gardens of abandoned churches. Above shallow bottles of warm fortified wine amongst shirts rolled up to male breasts revealing swollen red bellies. Taut with long eaten chips and long perforated umbilical scars Popped bubble wrap flicking cigarettes rolled flat with thick saliva and heresy. He taught them the creation of simple gods, small totems, tiny icons. They were left scarred into communal trees. Bronze plaques were prized off of public benches: ‘To Paul, Who Loved This Park’ became a series of pink shapes, the wood bright with virginal potency. They drew. Squirrel gods who called upon children they remembered as parasites; who had taken so much from them buried it away in the knots of pine trees who didn’t let them see their grandchildren. Magpie gods who were wives and girlfriends who would slip slivers of glowing affection from their heart fluttering off. Leaving them dull and blind.
Beetle gods teachers who rolled great healthy chunks of shit beneath the holy moon and told them nothing offering only spindly claws and nightmares. Worm gods parents dead and dried crystalline in the concrete sun And fly gods blue corpulence fuzzed around them judged them from a distance guided themselves by the parks without hearing the congregations muttered jeers went into Tescos with slips of plastic got silently onto buses stared into their wads of glass came out with sad faces flicked their eyes with gungy claws scoured the earth with no home and only lived a day. These were the lessons Comrade taught these frail seagulls, these gout-men: how to capture these bitter characters give them shape and give them tributes, to give them temples and to kneel. And these were the homes Comrade built for himself. Islands in the sea.
He sat in pomp upon the top deck of an abandoned bus. At the back. Dark patches between crusted seats and the faithful crowd and file in and give poems to their prophet. Written between fast-food offers on the back of obsolete bus tickets. One read: A safe environment to experience failure. I wish I fell into the gap and stopped having to mind it all the time. I will never make it to Bulgaria. I will never see Circe De Sole. I will never meet anyone that I will not impersonate as we talk. I will never be ideologically unhooked. “You need to focus your voice. You discuss everything and nothing.” Comrades words fell upon the worshiper like stones. Another read: Sitting in the rest room for people cold and worn in the train station and everyone is dead and tapping on screens even the couples and one man laughing to himself and I sit here judging unsurity and typing. Strolling, I have found that people respond well if you don’t look them in the face. If you rush by and keep your eyes between them and the floor. Respect. Sweetened insects in a foil bag. Or shredded biltong. All the same lumped back palm-shot. There’s a couple sitting behind me silently checking facebook. Occasionally one will nudge the other and show a face, a comment. This silence is death behind me on a bench. “Too much of your own pain. What of the bench? What of the floor?”
Another: Foxes are the ginger embodiment of our sins. They howl under the burden, buried under our sheds. They crawl through our bins, slick with the grey oil we make in refuse. Their pale skeletons shine in headlights against parked cars. Two points of light in the dark are the unfinished ellipses of our wrongdoings. They lick our children clean in dirty cribs. Praise the foxes; they bear our sins and keep their teeth and claws to themselves, mostly. â€œLies. Nonsense.â€? A fourth: Are we dead? Swallowing and regurgitating ourselves through iphones held a foot and half from our faces on trains and through town centres and on our lunch breaks and after work and before work and during work. Are we like decorative African tribal masks (genuine); hanging faces made of thick wood on the living room walls of the internet? I breathe through the keyboard. In. And in. And out. Shallow breaths, the less characters the better. My lungs are one fifth the size they were before the invention of tumblr. I dare not remove it, I know that under the African tribal mask (genuine) is wallpaper pale and faded. /Metaphor.
“Pointing out your failings does not make them worthwhile.” A fifth: If I worry that the worry will affect the object of my worry, like a subatomic particle affected by it’s own observance, I will turn here in this deep holy hell forever. I make sweet social promises to myself and forget that I only ever really wanted to be alone and warm and praying. I have only ever harvested the worst of myself for expression and that is self serving. I fail to learn abstinence from the crippling shifting sands of apocalypse that is over-use of the internet. Your fingers wrap my thoughts like salted bars in a flesh wound. Electrified crocodile clips on loose thumbs over torn lips and tongues. A fretted grasping of scorn. If I pick you out like a barbed spike carefully and turning you outwards are you now gone from me? Or have you stained my fingers with a greasy ink that I must now suck from the hole? “Indirect. If you mean to say something say it plainly. Do not guard your weak ideas in veils of obscurity.” Comrade’s laymen and women scuttle from the bus.
Our prophet lead his congregation to hyper-public events. Shopping centres. Rush hours. Football games: He waits at the edge of the stand and feels the empty seats calling to him. Expansive tiers of plastic stools arch outwards from him like the open arms of some sarcastic mother he once had. Slowly they fill with pestilent broth. Belched chips too salted and too sauced. Slick fingers are licked and the cold snap of beer dulls dulled senses. And then there are songs. Such songs that echo electronic fingers into him and there are shuddering claps which fill him with the euphoria of fascism. He is a soldier in the army of support. Clap clap clapclapclap clapclapclapclap clapclap. And there is an announcement of names, of teams and of dates. Then one minute of silence and the chill of it whips through their hearts and turns them angry; plastic like their seats. It is conducted with the respect of silences past. An homage to death. And then the teams jog out in a lazy confidence and begin the fight. Whoever can tame the unruly second law of thermodynamics wins the game. Comrade tests his knees and watches as a magnificent fluke of some kind sends the effervescent cloud simmering with chatter. They ache and churn in the middle of his legs. He nods to himself and raises a long arm into the air. A flag of pink is distilled within the blue. Comradeâ€™s Congregation, all around the upturned hemisphere, begin muttering prayers. An unsettling hum amongst the growl of the supporters. The prayer is enacted, the spell done. A hundred tiny gods, personal gods, flit out of the stand and into ears and boots and armpits and noses of red and blue striped soldiers. They fall to the ground in a twitching heap and Comrade lifts his fingers to his too wet lips and leaves a kiss upon them. He turns and leaves as the blind referee searches the lines for his vision.
At times Comrade would sever his congregation. They would grow loose and forget him. He was riverside, a large fire of dry pallets burning beside him. The occasional crack of expanded air between nails and wood punctured the quiet. A wizard, upright and well, swollen with health, emerged in the light of the opposite river bank. His voice was flutic, ocarinarial, recorderish. “Hail young poet! Why do you sit upon my opposite side, burning stolen wood, when you could be warmed by the holy heat of WORDS?” Comrade had no good answer, so the wizard shook his head and Comrade found himself nestled in temperate grass, looking across the river to his distant fire. The wizard looked spectacular up close. He wore a patchwork tracksuit of glossy pinks and oranges. Six plastic bags from various supermarkets were held tightly in a hand studded with glorious rings. Around his neck was a thin chain looped into an old cassette tape. Tattoos crept up above his flabby neckline and his beard was as patchy as his clothes. “So, young apprentice, what drives you? What keeps you chasing the sun? Where are you heading? Whose claws pinch at the skin of your feet and by whose burning embers do you hop skip and jump over the coals of life?”
There was a long silence, stabbed sharply by a blue crackle in the fire opposite. Comrade spoke before he thought: “I fell into this world in an act of sad desperation, and it is within this desperation that I still writhe. Whether it is sad still... now that weighs heavy upon my squirming limbs. I decide that moment by moment. Pain by pain.” The wizard listened grinning, and returned: “And now? This moment? This pain? How does it weigh?” Comrade closed his eyes and felt the weight of his heart pull him to the core of the earth. He only wished the tunnel he left above him would close that he be forgotten. “Heavy. Every inch of me has a mass of sadness thrice of atoms. I am tortured.” The wizard grinned wider, his shining teeth seemed to be his only feature. “Ha. Well. Let us climb.” The wizard lifted the shade of his arm to the night and a great light descended like a glowing cloud. Comrade was submerged entirely, and he grasped within the brightness and felt horizontal poles... wrungs!... a ladder! He looked about but could see the wizard no longer. He looked upwards and climbed the ladder he could not see.
DEVA FERN O’Neill
OROPHARYNX when I opened my lips there was the world undersides gleaming wetly water cupped and dipped and drunk I had something cut away - world-cut rooted to the operating table as Delos to the seabed after I had gone, dreaming of saline and finding it sweet the flow of honey into salt, gold settling like fishfood all-yellow all-ending, the waters broke tadpole, jelly a lump of rock no longer afloat stumbling over my mouth hole throat
caught mid-flight in the kitchen where the windows are where the windows are not each wing like water drops each wing outstretched hands or cut from paper and strobed static, yet with the certainty that this is the cusp like something sprung. little flashes of red.
SLIPPING looking at all those bells, bristling - blue on the edge of tumbling crazed call of the blackbird shiftingreen - the slipping of lime underfoot the slipping about on life body doesnâ€™t move only mind moves only mind flies and looking, looking and thinking of the dull sheen inside rather than observance flat against the ground crawling sideways one eye binocular-stuffed on owl watch hopping on the wing too like I see seagulls do then the sun a moment ago now the moon: I ever the shadowy impercipient and what difference does it make none only owl only moon and sun only oon and un only o and u only u
TAL the ceaseless pouring of water into a bottomless container water - white, pink, red the foam of the waves harden to become the shell of the egg: O little honeyed babe above, liquid life, bloodred the wombed dome of the sky the corona borealis the crown of his skull and his mother circinus, andromadae, cassiopeia the bull taking hold of the girl like the beginnings of the earthonce one, now one and one and then two though between them only a little air a little thickening of substance a little water
fullbellyroundmoon bloodbabysizedfullstop cupofredfortheplantpot unwearable clothes and some I cannot stop wearing is womb organ I suppose it has a use
the patter of midges smacking blindly against the polythene again, again, again this high : the simmerdim holds. lambs butting at the bag of the breast the poles a beacon, fringed olympus had its forbidden room too, heatherdark mushroomy. barely enough light to see
MICHAEL J.H. Milner
5 DAY ROMANCE WITH A GIRL CALLED BOY 5 day romance with a girl called boy, She makes pork with the meatcure nextdoor, I enjoy our little get togethers In the freezer. 4 day romance with a girl called boy, I took her swimming to the Kraken catastrophe in the middle of the lake (They exploded it on Saturday) And we necked in the bending wood. 3 day romance with a girl called boy, I’m selling coffee out back with ice, She seems nice They all say Good for you. (I know they’re lying) 2 day romance with a girl called boy, Skinny little androgene She sells cannibalism, -The people that she’s selling pork to Are pork. 1 day romance with a girl called boy, I wake up postboner, Gone. She played me borrowed banjo The night before I swear.
WHY I SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT A PEUGOT The lag on it Is ridiculous! There’s nowhere for my right arm, And there isn’t a built in SatNav.... But it’s white which is cool and HYUNDAI is a really fun word to say! I’m not really complaining, I just preferred the Peugeot!
THERAPY Unbutton Shirt and Trousers and Get Right In There For about half an hour before you get tired and bring Self Orgasm She left breathing (never a good sign) But never mind. He’s walked in on himself and now it’s time to Cover The Tracks Never found it That Exciting Before it was all such a Taboo. The apotheosis of Evil Now. Feels good. It’s all relative, Right? Even saints May be raped into existence.
REASIST! Thise is Englend. And we aways reasist. And thoaw we trie are best, In rane and grizel and thertie yeers Pluming and washing the streats, Whear gray is wolked upon, Oald Bildins, heald deer, nevar struk Buy wore, taim is all we have To deckoreat th nayshun with sumfing moar, Moar than the currage of thoas who faught Or dyed And liffed wethot farthes, moathers, Cheldren boarn etearnalie that eaven with nufing Stil say no To etheriving. Laik moansters, wea nefer dye. Beckose thes is Englend. And we aways reasist. Praid of a iland, Whear we ar glooryus animels awl.
PRIVILEGED PEOPLE OF ENGLAND RISE! Donâ€™t Let yourself Be Oppressed Any longer You Women are Suffering At the Evil hands Of the Patriarchy You Men are The Evil Just die And Taxes Taxes Taxes That Attack us Day and Night Bellowing Nonsense To our Children Who Fail us Eternally For They Are Raised By Monsters Oh Oppression Hath a Name And that Name Be England! 57
2109/6##LITERaL**EXGES1S##9973/2 Why Ursula, let it go! I gather it from trees my dear, Made pitchers for the farmers Never got why though Made so much sense at the time In flatulence I find it hard to breathe My friends, I finally nailed it! Ferried and thankful Fathered through Wankford Blithered in Mansfield Never in Rochdale Bicker in fondles What is El Grande? Hetero-Billyâ€™s fuckable anti goat surprise. Burnt fish?
BEAR PIT Cool Like the calm of the precious crĂ¨che, Babies of poison writhe in A playground grown of stone. It realises its own solemn body. It eats. The drugs are cool and refreshing. Things are replenished. People are replaced by machines. In the Bear Pit GOD Is intrinsic. It looks for him in the detail. It searches for him in the tiny folds between clothes crumpled. It stays. Bugs crawl over it. Soon trees grow great roots Through the spine, It merges with the park. Things realign with themselves At the final second. The jaw snaps. It wakes from a dream It was unaware it was dreaming. It becomes paralysed by an erection. Things are touched and stretched. It breathes limitlessly. Past requiem and scratches thin, A baby claws red fingered edges From a playground grown of stone.
THE WHALE Ix Breen Catioum Fichote Par Whelian Coputste Mar Elim Toiled and spoiled Black moon Rises. And naturally I Fall, like a Wind hit me Sideways and I Shake as I do, Loosing rotten Planks of Biscuity wood. Oh what am I? Object? Mammal? Human Being? (Perchance to dream) I pondered this to myself And the whale Consumed me whole Never once noticing That he had done so. Nur Mar Elim. Ganrahad Exegisto Covrenand Unwild Toiled and spoiled Black moon Falls.
SONG OF WAKING In this sky-blue cock-pit water pools leaf dirt boot mud leaf boot mud baked nails duck fluff onion grass white bells, long lilac horns. Ground up beans drip fire dust, rope brine, bow lines, engines sunk in shale. Swill out, bicker, brother mine our cool carp caravan. Smoke-thin, diamond-blue, flat-cross your neck as a guillotine of milk. Kettled beady in damp cramp nooks just breathing in the olive pepper shade. Brandy bilge and pig fat steam awake, am hungry swaddled damp. Leaking clambouring I furrowed in memory foam fumbling, find the matches blind, find the radio. Strike them, wind it. Paraffin the cedar. Shake out the mud.
Where are you? Remember what you learned. Last night by tonight forgotten learned tonight by tomorrow. Broke busk drink broke. Red dregs thrown lateral. Leaping sun, hearts, feet. Grey mullet day break. Broke busk drink smoke bust. Soft gullet swamp mud. Storms wind up, refilling moons spilled sluicy out-glugged down the creek. Silver shale, cleats and booms, spoons and radios. Solar fisheye, drinking or dropping blond or brown, beached or drowned kedgery fastnet, linseed creosote greenest Hibernia, diesel marine. Irish Sea. Becoming good, becoming bad. Sleeping and sloshing, all day become night. Dolphine-phosphoria, dysphoriant-phosphorece. Dispersing out like a birth glow through mackerel dark waves weaving tapestries of light. My night watch! My bath of jewels! And this morning’s golden sugar burning brown and bright. Nakedly clean as a crust of quartz, a deep Dionys of clinkers and ribs, pitch pine, dark sap, coal dust and wine. Soap in a bucket, steel wound cord.
LABRADORESCE Leave me here love, labradoresce. Beamed like a soft plate and wait to be high taste fate in the water, I saw blue stones arching out to the fade, fading out as my god the sun is going down and breathing in this supreme mess to be alone by the sea which is warm still and full of fish like rainbow pebbles. The cliffs are red and white like wine is, love donâ€™t leave me here. Labradoresce
LAMBS LAMENT We are not alone, I talk dumb. Behold: from this waving brow the town a sop of whetted light, dank and low with sulphur. Some noise is there to suffer like a lake in chilling haze unmooned. Here firing down our silent gun of sight we are with oak and tary lips lengthways. You and I are men now to bend by the grace of money in the straw of sun and meals to our house, by houses and river weed. Another place where I stand a lot. Â The arrow, is the river. Blackbent to leaf. Draked with slips of mermaid green dragged smooth. It is dead in town, and girlless and warm. It is summer, we were waiting and then not any-more, but now, somehow there is a pain.
Mermaid of my childhood fancy be real! Rise up shaking out the bottles and bags and rats and let me lay my head between the cool wet breasts of your white rivered body. Clear me with the flashing fish flank of your eye. Love me for my red blood, lay me under riverbed. Â We tragedians in the soft gore of sunset squared. In one pair, dry grass strums our guitars step us over barbed wire harp strings liquid late, turn from me and look on this our lake. You let me turn away lech, and drink you underground. I am terror and bones for the clutching pennywhistel of the thistle love you promise. I despair tonight for feeling fine and for time gone undone we are just far apart.
I SEE BOATS ON A LONG LINE I see boats on a long line. Lights in the boats, men round the lights. They are heavy, not to the ocean now. I am heavy, not to the ocean. I am flakes on oyster shores. I hear nothing, cleanly, all there lying down still not wanting not lying or wanting still too still fervently, the time has passed and does so even now, cower, take me to yourself or kneel there is no time, it has passed. Keep me, I am skull and harpoon meeting fire, with fire meeting moon blade with proffered throat. Keep me, I am smoke in quartz. That’s no wallet, just torn card. No painting but canvas with paint panting, short of thin substance air. This air is thin but fills me brimwards. I see boats on a long line and men round lights and fevers with leavers grinding cogs for gods goods for gold, bits of paint. Huddled in the chill banana dark some work at lights or roll on paint patient. Patients of the storm occulting. Cleverness is love to me and the patient storms booming when they have a clap to utter or an isophase peel silver down to outline leaving lines of brow and nose for knowledge of the cloud you.
A cloud well formed becomes you mars bar black, this lacquer sea produces fumes that you are the cloud well formed. I see lunar tin licks your limbs it irons out still as foil in one immortal flash fix limbs and face and hair to bright hard edges of tin. Stupidity erotic, a field force forbids, throws daggers all those hands from arms to pin and eyes which make clean slits which close behind and travel forever. My love an insult now to the wolf I constellate. Chain away to symbol-pikes set jewely in the bulk-head night of my life. Spilled diesel speaks and breathes out nacre sour on the sea skin Falmouth’s tower hard against a Turkish cloth of ploughed lime evening, clinched thieving on-fire feathers, the dropping bloodstar egg. Hurry, sad or happy you are blown through a loop of perishing thunder, a billion nooses close behind. Clamour the air, calm or not calm it comes quick to us all, and the marrow of the word as it lingers is the stern love of passing time.
WAINTHROTTLE I should have spat down honey and spoiled the lathe with butter grit should beg should I, beg about the cauldrons edge aclustered. Should break, should I break? Those wheels, black and sticky cogs workers in the fields, breaknecks in the wainhouses. And spoil the vim and vigour so acerbic bechucke, aclustered about the farm and factory clucking blades. Fresh fresh! Inside the plastic crèche crushed, purpling pliant and grown quick, too too quick and gathered in the veins and causing quite a headache. Fresh fresh brown to polished limbs. you ‘sir’ and demand it and spit. I should pestle your face to pepper crumbs and guilt and pour down the grit and honey the fingertips and stop the work, stop it. Stop.
NOW TO HOLD Now to hold. And to keep. I To boil wheat seeds, and meat and season it well, and stoke the fire. II To clutch claw the new, roots and blue stew chutes nettles, cowslips slipaways. Canary, candle, pea. III Throat-full and loving. Hot and lucky in a warm lucky world. IV Calm and blunt, in the slip deep creek soon to furnace green as a forest drunk. V Humble as litter, antler as bone champing cold calm war, clean liquid mornings. VI You know me well and I am stone for you. Hard small and willing, willing hard in your palm.
THE AMBULANCE BOAT OF SAILORS CREEK Spilt boat loggedÂ pours leaking blood clear over the open shale throat of creek and salt, in peeling bowls of portholes buckling, in its thick green ambiance this ambulanceÂ pulled broken volunteers bone-necked to this brackened isle. The salt and the shale and the crush glass showers.
AND THE BEASTS ARE LIKE ME WHO IS HUNGRY AND NEAT Damp ash in buckets. A great many leaves. A desire not to. And the beasts are like me who is hungry and neat. Green stream is shouting, lemon balm and blue. The smoke is thick as toast and turning through an oval. Sip a golden bubble as I sit and read the rainbow. Under moons I have cooked, touching fumes to matchsticks. Touched on the hand down the bent minty aisle dipping rainy, kissing coldly. Under moss I hook a golden braid, chorded and pissed upon and the green stream is shouting lemon balm and blue. Your eyes, thin and hot. I want to kiss them one by one. But don’t. Touched in the deep. Dark Loops touching. Particulate awe.
Neutral Norway are a poetry and arts collective founded in 2009 in Falmouth, Cornwall. www.neutralnorway.com Thank you to Harriet Lee-Merrion, Vita Sunter, Joe Prendergast, Kevin Gartland and all the Kickstarter Pledgers who made this possible. ÂŠ Neutral Norway 2013