the junkyard procession issue 4 Art and poetry
Welcome to another issue, Better late than never naivety got the better of me . I have been waiting for other submissions to roll in well I am still waiting for them, It may not look like a lot of hard work but it is, Constantly searching for writers and artists , contacting them then flyering for the publication but in the world of elitism I assume people think that because of what this is , its not up there with great magazines unfortunately I can only do what I can do. We all have to start off somewhere .Maybe this whole thing is made me sceptical
There are some great physical releases out all of which do not sit within a particular genre ,maybe that’s why people are not buying them, I still do not have a lot but everything I do have goes into this and everything junkyard related.
Maybe I should stop before I lose more money than I do not have, then doing so I would lose that sanity and focus that this gives me, Although this and all things junkyard related may not look much I am proud of it so far and in the future who knows , it could grow into a team rather than just a one man operation which would be great , To even publicise what its about and to get potential contributors , I have taken to performing again , this time alone , I am no longer holding onto promises been made . Enjoy this issue ? Maybe contribute to the next ?
Contents
Lauren Dye
Front cover –by Lacruxx Lacroixx – Must destroy them
Diamonds-32
Cunt –61
Don’t bank now-32
Welcome –2
Men in suits 33,34,35
Ginsberg is my boyfriend– 62
Contents-3
Sits with Budleia-35,36
Andy N
Lacruxx lacoixx-
Mark Staniforth
Staircase in the wind 63
Baby Donavan 4
Cosmonauts-37
Translation 63
Fuck off –5
Farm Girls gone wild-38
End of the world 64
Fucking Youth –6
Taj Mahal-39
Stutter 64
Invasion -7
Elizabeth Veldon
Wrestling in darkness-65
La Peluhair Girl –8 Magna Fluor-9 Baby dance 10
Sunset comes to soon-65
–Like Lucy –40,41
Descent 66
London Road-42
Furia –11
My Brother’s sudden death and possible proofs for the existence of spirits.-43,44
Mina –12
Portobello 06.09 (second draft)-45
Punk star and Keisha 13
Bob beagrie-
Pandilla De Colores-14 Carnival de poya 15 Rock -16 Sucker ANGEL 17
The Art of Forgetting
Owen Findlay
Rhymes of Might (a hundred syllables to someone gone)-18
Tides for nebula -50
Born-21 Ado-22,23 Chrystine intones-24
Kath Reade A young guitarist 25,26
Rod Tame Pride in a cold climate-27,28
Dominic Berry Call of Dooty—29,30 Solid with stardust 1979-31
Hidden strings no 2 70
No one spoke of the cloud-48
MUSIC & HINDSIGHT
Middle of the Brilliant-19,20
Cave Rave -69
Green-47
(After Jannis Kounellis)-49
Mark BurrowBody Battery 68
Bare Birches-46
James McGrath
Burnt thorax– 67
Sea faces 71/72 Sea Hyphen 73 Matthew Hedley stopard
No Age 52
Someone left the landing light on 74
And you will know us by the trail of the dead 53
Releases-75
Kari 51
Castrovalva 54 Delat sleep 55 Lite 56 Bad for lazurus –57
Rachel BondSand 58/59
Keiron Higgins– One Glass
60
http://www.postkekas.blogspot.co.uk/
MUSIC & HINDSIGHT James McGrath
Rhymes of Might (a hundred syllables to someone gone) Your Jess, your girl-friend, said she might be round Sunday; today. It’s the afternoon now. You couldn’t eat your dinner. Your Gran threw out your beans to the birds. It’s downright rude, your Grandad says again; she’ll wait you mad. You shout that you love Jess. He tries to laugh. Love her, and you’ll be like this all your life. Jess kissed your blood warm, and promised she might be round today. All your hopes turn to hurt as the sun puts out the wait, and your world.
Middle of the Brilliant no salford no obscure love of separately denied sides romance work
intellectual work
wonderful work
industry robbing the fuck enough coming discovered. I have language in this town welcoming January.
this second openness
influences apprenticed
the business of knowing
I come from insight doing right
traditions learnt much
and progressed
the occasional stage
occurred on the town
and stuck dodging the film. expected my first summer thinking arts up ran
when I wasn’t allowed much sure whacky parrots remember me walking anarchy everyone wanted what I wanted.
I argued the censored had something to say. tragedy is life
you can leave.
god recently started a story into this dark hall
and screamed bright this sky
the autumn every night
worried my rambling
my cut distant
floor in the audience
things connected
my best mate became a place the mythical right thing
a club to anyone out
most generous ever average
to pay a catholic interview
other words behind marxism
playing back love and a house onto the page caused a meeting except obviously dostoyevsky and told a pop star
involved something.
formal blood let finding a world absolutely
had something on the wall
this world had a conversation
being weird worked suddenly
a demo.
one night I was home in the small basement . had the version
the cassette knew
music said why people
regarded years
remember don’t understand working with change
the thing is beginning (Words in Middle of the Brilliant selected and ordered via Tony Wilson’s final interview for Q magazine http://news.qthemusic.com/2007/08/anthony_wilson_the_last_interv.html )
Born In a way, they set us out on the street like runaway miracle genes. Each night we’re plied with magic historians and blue seaside-wide schemes. Hung in cages while the headlines dine, home feels fool-inspected, I’m lettin’ out over some wine. Maybe this crown drowns our moans at the back, it’s a breath-sap, it’s a screwed seaside map, we’re not to step out where we’re flung – ’cos chavs like us, they say we were born to ruin. When we let them win, we get a new best friend upon our starving televisions, who claps our hands, gives us pelvic hymns and grabs our minds by our hinges. This weather, we could shake this trap, run till we’re copped, I don’t carry dope or smoke crack. Oh, will you talk with me, out by the fire? ’Cos maybe I’m just a scared and cold outsider and I gotta stand out, how it heals don’t wanna know the laws ain’t right, girl, I wanna know the laws ain’t real. Yeah, cramped like us, they say we were born to ruin. And classed like us, maybe we were born to run. Behind the malice, heavy-hour clones gleam down from some blue Yard, earls phone their heirs with their rear-view wills and pawns talk like sad old guards. The amusement sharks hide some stolen Marx and spinning judges come to preach and insist. I wanna hide with you when they call the peace tonight with their justice-blasting fists. The headlines cram with token heroes on a class-transparent ride, till everybody’s down on the news, sit tight, while there’s no chase left to guide. Together, when the lords are calling us dad-less I can love you and roll our sadness on the dole. Some day, girl, we’ll both know when, we’re gonna slip from our place and leave our dreams like snow while we walk in the sun, but till then, chavs like us, they say we were born to ruin. Churnet Valley Music Archive (List of Bands Who Performed Locally c.1964-2009)
Ado Food or Thought Wheel On The Stairs Auto-Therapy Nextdoor But Four & the Urban Birdsong Trio Between Galaxies [not sure if this was a band or a night? Was advertised as part of the Saxophone & Candle Series] Charabanc The Staff The Second Hand Clarinets Novel Seed (also performed as St George Is Gay) Get The Empire and After Band Output Bubbledub (had only one piece in their repertoire, ‘BEST NOT TO GO BACK’; would play it in different keys, speeds, with different lyrics, pre-recorded versions, postrecorded versions, etc.) The Kingsley Moor Avant-Gospel Façade Chipstop Piston Randy Specific
Queen Meadow in Stereo (weekly Friday noon to night club in Kingsley, alternating between the Swan and the Plough c.1983-c.1993) Comfortable Stomach Sentence Engineers Bloody Hell (Methodist metal band) Jung Summer Tunes The Old Cow Died Of Jack ‘Lord’ Rambone Samson On Cymbals and Jeanie Off Speed Space on a Course (spoken word artist) Deep Down the Inbox The Flu The Self Jukebox of Delusions
Chrystine intones I'm nineteen and I live on a farm? my Dad and my older sister brought me up in the van like a day late? I know Craig, he lives in my block and Han and Max - sorry Mike. Mike! I want to study literature because I care about people? Sorry that sounds - really weird! My Gran and Grandad bought me this phone as a present for passing my A-levels? Is that enough about me James McGrath is a writer and lecturer based in Leeds, currently writing a book about autism and literary studies.
A Young Guitarist by Kath Reade A young guitarist, touched my heart today Howling ruthless voice, damn-burst release, thrashing whirlwind, travelling the spiralling void of a lost canyon. His clenched face like a map of his anguish Sings like he's driving a mad black stallion up a mountain. cant stop till the top. Almost on automatic pilot, his relentless tattooed hand, Striking hard -chords and discords Absently flying the length Of the pile-driving Gibson guitar classic. echoes of the spine-cracked, pill-hazed Hank Williams, lying young and dead beside his guitar case old friend, in an impossibly finned American jalopy under a purple sky, No more pain nor lonesome cry.. A young guitarist, took my eyes today Another strung out genius poet Destined to suffer sweetly, brilliantly, describing the knife-blade twist in his gut. the artist knows the exquisite joy in hurt The yin- yang qualities of his sorrows That envelop, like a hair -shirt cloud, like a familiar sweat stained blanket against the world, Dark bittersweet solitary retreat, no toothpaste, no comb. His pain, the bedrock where his hot-spring inspiration bubbles - he shouts with burning eyes'Now my scars are open and it's impossible!' Oh the long hot night that birthed his song! Oh the blade of cool grass that greenly grew as he drew out his raw rough verse! He honed it , loved it to life Played it till he could die,and die happy in a blaze of deep defiance.
Again the furnace melting the iron of his whiskey will to renounce what he CANNOT MASTER! ( frustration caught in crumpled sheets of crossed out words scrawled in fever, cast aside) The song cannot but come. Come it will, screaming, cooing. A young guitarist touched my heart Today God and Goddess of song Speed him on his mortal way And I shall sacrifice a verse this day To please you For his talents sake Amen
Pride in a Cold Climate –Rod Tame Siberia and punishment. Hand in glove. Labour camps once the penalty for questioning an oppressive state. Imagine being born there. Imagine being born gay there. Your criminal nature judged and sentenced before any deed is committed. A sickness that must be treated like a tooth that hurts. In a region rich with precious ores, pride is a rare commodity for a queer boy, whose teachers would exile him, whose public representatives would flog him. Blending in, he crafts outer shells, elaborately painted with caricatures footballer, drinker, stud. On-line, he searches for a connection; a stranger offering a fleeting touch, warm-blooded and real. But the clandestine meeting snaps like a bear trap. Masked men and women closing around him like metallic teeth around an animal’s leg. Their words sharp. Their collective grasp powerful enough to subdue the wildest beast. Boots take turns to kick out, target shins, then stomach, then head. The frenetic tempo speeds in a Cossack dance of violent intensity. Shins, stomach, head. Cries, groans, crack of bone echo to indifferent passers-by,
while a video camera inflicts a wound that can never heal. Captors strip away his protective layers, leaving this un-Russian doll’s delicate core, naked and exposed. Viewing this broken form, covered in blood and piss poured from a bottle, Mother’s face will twist in rejection of her mutant offspring. Father will brandish a gun, eyes burning with a fire lit by dogmatic tradition and fed by legislative papers. Pride goes underground, deposited with unexploited minerals and waiting for icy conditions to thaw. A buried treasure to be found at the start of a rainbow.
CALL OF DOOTY– Dominic Berry Made a grave miscalculation playing games for this duration. Call of Duty's cool fixation. MP7 callibration. Eating burgers. No hydration. Crisps and chips continuation. Feast on fries. Exhilaration. Gorge on junk food... Fat inflation. WiFi's bad in this location. How you hate the host's migration. Online lag can cause frustration... Not as much as this sensation. In your gut... there's a... vibration... In your colon a... gyration... It's not your imagination. You must ... poo... ... Defecation. This game needs your full attention. You can't risk mobilisation for faecal elimination. How you pray for constipation. Feel your stool's accelleration in your cruel incarceration. Mouth is dry. Exasperation. In your pants: discolouration.
Here it comes! It's your damnation for not leaving your playstation. Here it comes! Your situation is trouser annihilation! After the emancipation of your bowel's evacuation. You have won the game...! Elation swells with smells of... celebration!
Solid with Stardust 1979 Mother and rising son alone. Thatched Britain burning. It’s a witch hunt. Mum is single minded. She will protect with not even a broom stick to call her sword. Me, I’m a baby goblin, warm blooded reptile with a lion’s tail. Those who were friends would now watch us burn. Watching, whispering, “Dirty girl.” “Yeah,” Mum smiles back “Dirty." I marvel Mum’s strength. Solid with stardust. Woman powered beyond comprehension. Shows me life’s sparks. Dark, mystic arts. Lizards and butterflies ink dance her skin. Flower fairies leap in bedraggled glamour. Eyes speak of wardrobes that all lead to Narnia. Sweet and sour truths brewed by midnight candle light, cauldron deep.
A witch’s familiar, this black cat's tight round Mum’s ankles. She's always been proud when the good people have come down, crucifixes in hand, preparing our bonfire. If she had died, then she would have been human but I know she is super natural. Love will lead me, spellbound.
Diamonds We are ring without stone. Rich belong to rich. Diamonds are mean, clean jewels for tidy, shiny families. Diamonds, a boy’s worst friend. They’re forever. Aren't they? Reminding what will never be. Lingering fingers flaunt sharp rocks. Always pointing. Don’t Bank Love Our love in shoe boxes under the bed, in brown, big envelopes stuffed, loaded under the arm chair. Banks give plastic. Don’t see or feel. Accept transaction without question. Our home takes love with one sugar. Stuffed, Loaded, sprawls through woodchip.
Men in Suits, Boys in School Uniform "Did not drown!" I drowned a dream. I’d dreamt I would conform like men in suits. Boys in school uniform. Dreamt of how I’d march through life, proudly wear clothes men have worn, men in suits. Boys in school uniform. Tight, white clothes can disguise in handsome shades of truth what kills or cripples youth. Their hearts look smart. They're smart. Not warm. Men in suits. Boys in school uniform. "Did not drown!" I drowned a dream of dressing in their style once I learnt I never would. Never could, not while what filled my heart would tear and gash. Viciously fighting for designer trash! To covert and claw, always aching to own just a little bit more. Heard the sound of a shirt getting torn. Men in suits. Boys in school uniform.
So stripped down to my swimming trunks! Derobed desire of trendy junk. Competitive greed now defunct. Dived in water, clean and free, able to see my confidence was far from shrunk. Rose like Neptune, pierced and punk! Thrust my trident far and near. Blast my conch shell down your ear. "Did not drown!" Make that clear.
I drowned a dream. I’m still here. Not My Father Tomorrow, I'll go dancing because I am not my father. Buying books on How to Breathe because I am not my father. Buggered at Goodwick Youth Club because I am not my father. We're there, so fun at weekends because I am not my father. Read Six Women Poets on a cliff edge at night because I am not my father. You’ll have to come back in the morning because I am not my father. I'm sorry Mum because I am not my father. Sometimes I'm a bit Elaine Paige because I am not my father. A pin-stripe man with his brief case leaves because I am not my father. Yes, I do like being violent because I am not my father. Never say I love you because I am not my father.
I would take a bullet because I am not my father. Call me any name you like because I am not my father. Call it "the little death" because I am not my father. Tell me I won't leave you because I am not my father. Can't let this poem stop because I am not my father. Sits with Buddleia A man’s hands click fit in puzzle of plant. His solution. He’s not clumsy here. Fingers earth brush as the land paints him. Foxgloves pattern his fingers far from office men's acrid chatter. They want things nice for a visit. Think they own the daisies. Tell him this land needs weeding. He clears the stage for roses to work their confident flourish in theatres without seats. Their best shows need no audience. Bluebells fill empty country homes with Judy Garlands of applause, warm as a beckoning kettle.
He grows in sunshine. Meets a hot mug of tea with a hundred types of biscuit. Sits with buddleia. Sips and dunks. Here he is. Dominic berry
Mark stanforth
farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild FARM GIRLS GONE WILD farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild farm girls gone wild
Like Lucy.-Elizabeth veldon
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rni likd – I, her and you – turning
AndTrud turning tug some Love Knot we
turning turning
An e a toy on a string Which dropped will always return.
London Road, Glasgow. 6:30 am.
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My Brother’s sudden death and possible proofs for the existence of spirits. (for Tam Veldon, d. 10.10.08) 1.
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Portobello 06.09 (second draft)
Portobello clouds christ In but distantly, a falls Of Sorrows) Throws lightening brilliant as Of the the faces Island and I shall make and lighthouse On another Evangelists in a make Black Hours I shall on the Judgment (Never Man horizon Will make And the men To light the Brilliantly night like that – into light The busses ship take a us terminate and In the photograph storm something and the boarded the failing of fairground And the Dirty sand light Fit to. fishers of
Bare Birches– Bob beagrie Have those four naked silver birches standing in line beside the boulevard noticed how the creeping fractions of minutes of extra sunlight each day, now reaches to a quarter of an hour since the solstice, are there any early stirrings of sap in their tubular cells? All of them clench tight, tiny buds at the tip of each fragile twig. Their skins, coagulated cream, as if my fingers, should I touch, could sink in, pass through the peeling strips of skin, even those puckered darker knots although I know this is all an illusion, their phloem is harder than my flesh their taproots run deeper than mine.
Green Murderous weather spins the blades of the turbines, sends gulls cambering, banking, in a flurry of drenched feather as traffic spray showers flood warnings but the sheep behind the hedgerow don’t give a dag, their heads are down to the ground in their relentless munch on straggly weed and green green grass; but upon reaching home I find, despite the weather, neighbours out in the street police tape and uniforms cordoning off the corner; the bloke from over the road says, 'Someone in No 8s been murdered.' He doesn’t know who, doesn’t know them, 'Refugee types', he says, 'from elsewhere'. Then he turns back to scan the Bobbies, passes a spliff of good green to his mate.
No one spoke of the cloud though Marie played dutifully on the pianoforte and sang, and somebody complemented her voice, “Exquisite” was one word used, another was “Unearthly”. We ate. We drank. When Sophia laughed she gave an involuntary little snort that took her, and Claude, by surprise, but no one spoke of the cloud. It was a foggy, damp old day to begin with. Mist hung heavily in the grounds but the cloud on the lawn was whiter, starker more alien, spreading quite disturbingly beneath the conversation which acknowledged the flock wallpaper, Lady Dampier’s ball gown Phillip’s new pure bred and how all the children grow. While the cloud unfurled like a pallid octopus in tissue paper locked into a silent skirmish with itself, until thankfully it appeared to strangle itself and the trails and fronds drifted away toward the damp trees and the ornamental lake, and, fortunately, no one thought it necessary nor reasonable to mention it.
The Art of Forgetting (After Jannis Kounellis) The chairs would like to watch the pantomime of black coats. (Yes they do, oh, yes they do! – Oh, no they don’t!) Watch their ritual dance upon the wall, absent of bodies In a vacant enactment of commerce with nothing left to gain As flat and alien as a soundless Super 8 projection’s flicker Of some ancient family gathering you choose not to remember; (No you don’t! Oh, yes you do! No you don’t!) – Mothballs and the texture of the heavy weave on your neckThirteen coats of gentlemen who shook hands in agreement Took the path of the handlebar moustache, set their jaws, Filled their pockets, made a stand, played the pantomime Of pennies, guineas and pounds with stiff upper lips. The chairs would like to watch the parade of black coats But they have been shrouded in mourning sheets (Yes they have, they have! – Oh, no they’ve not!) Those thirteen gentlemen are long gone and their coats Retreat behind a waterfall of semi-precious myth.
Sand –Rachel Bond There's sand falling from the sky coppered bronze burnished in silt and grains containing secrets of a magicked East that became known around these parts as an overspill from the brick yard, but this dust is Saharan crustacea from planes Dead lost places with no witness. The heat of the sun bears down its mirage and admires its own reflection over vast skeletal lanscapes, overwhelming in the beauty of narcissistic bones born down brittle with dessicated stickleback cracks over its rib and slick swathes of that which man forgets in its mirror. Side and rear. I wipe the washers and flick the truth from Indian ceremony out the way so i can see, but in this bog standard rain I might crash in the reddish gravel and more obviously bleed my complaints to the road. Tarmac. A hand made blanket of rigid control and vacuous spaces. the safety of the sun can cake its mud in places where no body cares.
if a tree falls in an unmarked forest? if a man is is killed in the bright day of nowhere? if not one person can acknowledge the Sahara in our sky then what are all of your stories for and why?
one glass K. higgins 2014.
pouring another glass of forget me not lost in haze of endless vodka and a whiskey shot i'm at the lowest and all that matters is drink i don't use it to use it to ease my mind or have to think living with this addiction has caused friction with all i have loved and met no shame for how drunk i get i hate days when i awake from Jekyll and Hyde persona because its just a reminder i'm a loner with no future no ideals no class time to drink the blues away with one more glass so here's to chewing on another glass of ignorant bliss as it needs must at times like this.
CUNTS! Lauren Dye A pained chorus of voices protesting while among them friends decapitated, raped, or tortured. Knives stabbed in their sore cunts after they become blistered and useless. 20,000 women were left to die. Do not forget the rape of Nanking Remember the massacre of Nanking As fathers and mothers were protesting in pleas on knees, 'don't let my children die,' before themselves are decapitated their daughters are bound; their pleas are useless. Soldiers shouting, 'we're gonna fuck your cunts, fuck your daughters' cunts, mothers' cunts, nuns' cunts.' Once China's city of greatness, Nanking became a sanctuary of useless walls that held out nothing. While protesting China, mid speech, was decapitated. Hearts were gouged from chests of those picked to die. Women in their struggle prayed, 'let me die.' Soldiers taking and sharing each new cunt they find, throwing each decapitated head around like a ball as their Nanking becomes a playground of crowds protesting. But the tears that fell were all useless The safety zone was useless. All useless. The Yangtze River filled as children died of bullets in their backs, not protesting, just trying to escape from Riben cunts that stole their homes, their parents, their Nanking. With samurai swords: decapitated. With tears in their eyes: decapitated.
Ginsberg is my Boyfriend I am walking arm in arm with a lover through the dizzy streets of torture Our genders akimbo. I am preformed as a woman that wants his arm around my waist. I must want to look at the shoes in spotlights in the window. He must want me to. I am surrounded by warriors, plastic weapons drawn racing to the front lines, marching, marching marching until feet are blistered hands are slashed face is running Men are watching from the side lines. They are taking bets. They are rearranging their tightening dicks. They are spitting on the pavement covered in spat out gum, lined with laughing shadows, overhung by imitations of day light spending. We have neon tampons inserted We are women. Look at the living drain out of us. Look at us bleed. We are outside. We have no home. Bags of armour weigh us down. Our drink canisters grabbed for hurried sips. Dropped. Coca Cola rivers formed from their spouts: fountains of commercial ineptitude. The men stood beside us: replicas of each other, moisturised, hair styled, scented, subjected to our Cosmo-created expectations. Gifted to our bodies, laid out, smoothed, straightened, not denying but not quite delighting in the act. My legs are akimbo as our genders are akimbo. I want to sit and read. You want to take the dog out for a walk. This town is too busy for us. Let's make love now, let's share this exchange of expectation, exchange of compromises. You don't have to get too involved. It will be over soon and we can get back to what we were doing. We purchase our roles and go home to fuck.
Staircase in the wind
Andy Nicholson
I discover a spiral staircase Dangling on the handles Like a burst blister Volunteering to go to war But instead charcoaling watercolours Threaded through forests Right across broken gates Preparing to twist anti clockwise Like a key in a lock
Translation Another language frost rich Shifts across the snow In badly shaped curses, Cutting through the fences starstuck With bells ringing out At the turning of Christmas Day Married in a un-easy silence Imprinting happiness and misery Across a spilled out breeze.
End of the World Sweat tangerine coloured
Peeled across the silence Before melting on my cheek Then both of my wrists Staring out across the hills Over minor roads Marked with tiny blue dots Thinking we’ll never Find this place again Make love in the moonlight. Stutter Stones cry out across the sea As the waves parry them Backward and forwards Bouncing off the side of the pier Burdened in sorrow Onto the nearby cliffs Lifting up your ears In a softly spoken apology As white as a seagull Standing in for a conjuror’s dove Stuttering amongside the wind.
Wrestling in Darkness Low cloud leave a trail Over damp wet mist Circular in the light Beaten into silence Over the top of A celestial choir Ripped over the bridge Catching on the surface Of creation Sunset comes too soon Thin red ragged lines twist
Across the skies Walking wounded at The end of the day Clothed in a limping beauty, Out-stretched like unploughed fields With a postscript offering Little reasoning Covered in lines of mercy
Descent Spots jump in front of my eyesight As the fog sneaks from the ground Before imploding on the wings, Colliding motionless Thickened by the wind In a timid improvisation Sharing the descent Prisoners in freefall Caged without chains In a circular pattern. My website - http://andyn.org.uk My Creative CV - http://andyncreativecv.blogspot.com/2011/10/cv.html My page on facebook - http://www.facebook.com/andynwriter My page on myspace - http://www.myspace.com/andynukpoetry My current band 'A Means to an End's website - http://ameanstoanend.yolasite.com/ My band with Amanda Silbernagel http://amandasilbernagelandandyn.yolasite.com/ My blog - http://onewriterandhispc.blogspot.com/ My 30 poems in 30 days blog - http://30poemsin30days.blogspot.co.uk/ My youtube page - http://www.youtube.com/user/andynpoet
Burnt thorax
Body Battery– Mark Burrow Hold up your light bulb (Above your head, if you can) Is it illuminating? If you get a dim response Put it down and fasten Your HERCULEX BODY BATTERY BELT With your new native vitality Your new life Your new snap ‘n’ vim Nerve force Strength and energy Business push Your new strength Pick up your Atlas Stone Hold it high and aloud Watch your manly strength grow Like a high wattage light bulb Until it pings petal fluttering glass Like plectrums & you have to recharge Your Body Battery
M Burrow 26 March 2014
Cave Rave (For Adrian)
Pilled-up as high as stalagmites & damped their spoon of ‘90’s Techno-language, They plugged in the double dancehall decks Into boxed G-funk generator & unsleeved Trance, Italo dance, hip hop, Italo house, In their progressive cave-house In acoustic echo like a closed UK garage
& the hands of the happy hardcore audience waved & the legs of the breakbeat hardcore raved In that Cave Rave To the big beat drum ‘n’ bass Until the jack swing early hours In that Cave Rave Lit by G-funk sunlight In the waking hours Where the sleeping hardcore Wake to downers like stalactites.
M Burrow 17 March 2014
Hidden Strings No. 2 (For Miriam and Martin) Lifting the lid of polished black sky. Dry evening scents, our vespertine brings. Cicadas pause their diurnal cry. Anticipated notes will float high Through the valley like they have wings Lifting the lid of polished black sky. Trees are tuning forks, for notes will fly Like Cicadas, those quaver-like things – Cicadas pause their diurnal cry On scented terraces, now too shy, As hidden pianist hums then sings Lifting the lid of polished black sky Where nature hides in darkness to spy On residents. Empty wineglass pings, Cicadas pause their diurnal cry In olive trees where they wait and lie. Scented terraces like hidden strings, Lifting the lid of polished black sky – Cicadas pause their diurnal cry.
Mark Burrow Seillons-Source-d’Argens
Sea Faces (Absinthe Bar, Antibes)
I Changing Faces Jockey turned the tap of his ride.
The white of the sugar cube changed him into a gentleman.
Sea Liquid II The liquid ascended, sugar dissolved,
then the cowboy jumped
Sea Hats III
The liquid dissolved into cowboy’s warm stomach - a bowler hat waved over to our table, shook his tambourine in unison with my wife’s.
I became braver, the liquid disappeared from our glasses.
Sea Friends IV Where did it go? I was an explorer, on safari, shooting, poaching non-existent wild animals in the desert land of this basement bar where laughter created new friends as we changed our faces, our personalities, our identities, for the basement is where we dissolved, where we
Sea-Hyphen Driftwood appears Overnight, drydocks Itself on spiked inlet. A superb rectangle, Like a floorboard. The sea knows the Secret of the seaHyphen. Seagulls Steal the commas: Curved full stops Are polished for Bathers in Nice.
Sea Ghetto Speedboats threaten the drive-by But these streets are drowned, Lighthouse is the law: try Spraying the sea with Your tag. At night, it Always washes and When you awake You’ll see a Beach-full Of witnesses Staring at you like Washed-up jellyfish After a storm. The smallest Of children are not afraid to Catch you in their playful nets.
M Burrow
Someone has left the landing light on- Matthew Hedley stopard Eyes are observatories this evening: crater-sized iris and pupil eclipse the white, upstairs illuminations tap at the windows and let light slice darkness over elderly hanging baskets. Sprawled out like a diary entry on a wet deckchair, childhood Alsatian bites distinguish these hands mimicking red admirals that wingbeat each other into comas in a cleavage of dahlias. Forcing the door that should have been answered is hopeless for the house, and its siblings, held together by gristle and dripping, is starved of occupants. Colour pours out the jennel into the avenue, including the lawn uniformed as a greengrocer’s display and the pond rippling like ruddered water in a tugboat’s wake. Burr-beaded tomcat fur and creosote stains can’t revive these pavements or the hill boys peeling clemantines on the bowling green, hair and hedges cut short-back-and-sides. Neither can they document the barley wine dervish declaring his love through a traffic cone. Let the unmanned market stalls chatter like surgical skeletons among the ghosts of rent rebels and lanterns under the railway bridge. Fraternal leeway flickers, then dims above, inviting a burglar’s torch to circle the daubing across the house’s front wall: no lead, no copper, all gone.
Releases Prolonged version– All watched Over by machines with neurotic disorders-junk01 4 stunning tracks of haunting ,ambient ,drone loops of glitches from a circuitbent mic Review from Jumbo Records
By the title alone, you KNOW this is going to be an interesting ride and it doesn't disappoint...Electronica, with industrial leanings but not at all harsh or noisy and with a firm foot in the unexpected camp. This plays around and wins...
Robert M.Francis-Broken landscapes junk02 4 track cd of spoken word ,looped guitars Review from jumbo records 4 tracks of avant poetry put to some darn great music...Frothing with idea's and a masterful lyricism that creeps stealth like into those soundscapes. Recommended
The finer points of sadism– the finer points of the finer points of sadism-junk03 An American band combing spoken word and post punk
,noise, drone somewhere in the realms between
swans and jack ruby their music is multi layered.The cold harsh vocal delivery is the crowning upon this beautiful chaotic harshness
Sound Artist creating straneg and weird sound poems coming soon
Thankyou to all those who have contributed, To you folks reading it, You can find everything junkyard related here facebook.com/thejunkyardprocession twitter.com/junkyardprocess Soundcloud.com/thejunkyardprocession thejunkyardprocession.bandcamp.com http://thejunkyardprocess.wix.com/ junkyardprocession
Keep your eyes peeled for some exciting nights that will be happening in the next few months
Deadline for next issue is defiantly the 5th july