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kaddish Emily Howard, Mark Cobley & Simon Howard

The Red Ceilings Press MMX [rcp 12] http://redceilings.blogspot.com

kaddish Emily Howard, Mark Cobley & Simon Howard

with guest contributors Richard Barrett, Peter Philpott & Tom Watts Edited by Simon Howard

All text here was first published as part two of Plus-que-Parfait http://plusqueparfaitblogspotcom.blogspot.com/

«one» There is a welt in my side where Dead Souls was poking me last night. I am not immune to irony despite my condition. Every night I think that this is the night when I will, at least, move the books off my bed but I have to buy bookshelves and that would require me to develop a whole new personality-Yithbarakh Obama, audacious hoper. I don’t know from hope. I only have hope on a rope that was cut from the ceiling last summer. But here I am making you uncomfortable. My apologies-oh say shalom and shake on it. There are deaths and there are deaths. There are black holes and you shouldn’t stand so close to the edge. I can’t help but pace around the circumference and so I have made a levy of sorts with books or is it a fence? A levy implies a wave on the other side but I am the wave. I am a wave and a wave and wave of nothingness. Hey that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? YitgaDali Lama and make me one with everything as the Buddha said to the hot dog vendor. But then again, it’s not good. Speaking of not good, this raisin bun is not good. It tastes like something you’d get for breakfast on Air Hades-except would you be flying to Hades? At least it’s something. I got it from the store on Coney Island Avenue that is run by the nice Jamaican lady. She said “where’s your friend” and I said “New Jersey” because that was the final address. “You must miss her”, she said. Yes, yes. I got the raisin bun all sealed in it’s plastic casing and a big Stryro full of burnt coffee. Food for the deadKaddish Danish and some coffee on the side. Still better than Starbucks. And still better that I have something to eat. The kitchen is covered in books so it’s hopeless to try to use it. I went to get some milk for the coffee and found the book “Grieving the Loss of Your Pet” inside on the top shelf of the fridge. It was appropriate since it smells like a dead pet is being stowed there. I flipped through the book a bit. “Even the loss of a goldfish”, it told me, “can result in grieving” Yish ge fish –

people take photos of each other outside this building they have been and now they have gone. artichoke oregano basil the corn laws. a bird flew into the front room window this is a bad sign.

I watch the sea come in and it reminds me of a church an old church a small church and the skating rink we used to visit. this was the germ of things. the sunday delft overlooking the long wall from the window by the fir we watched and ate in silence. hungry cigarette smoke drifts past the window they are smoking outside the pub. it is going to rain I can tell.

I am sat inside reading yesterdays newspaper. ~~ know the of hill sketching all the strokes/altered night blue/room rapid heart oh the hundred/s and hundreds of beat between the silent which will never do anything moves night cloud into new shape our eyes our observing eyeshadow. Attack the screaming ambulance the hurrying ambulance the ambulance with arms with tubes the ambulance full of calm frantic people fingernail nurse understanding of robins as we sat down to eat listening to the incoming aeroplane when you would smile the same again the summer that never came. see so the absent word & soup & oil

& the empty sea nothing will be alike (under the single silver birch) into the dazzling/sunshine from the shadow as we wait by the white bed of the rapid eye as icebergs, any iceberg, blue iceberg gone now bridge bright red lip ~~ I have your notebooks the image of the girl in a teal dress, antigravitational toes. Lilacs are tunics of bees.She catcDrhes raImmanuelin in a butterfly ntheyet,blisses out Dental okissn Idenwearilytifying,map of plaguthe streets are unidentifiablee city Maps of plague cities. KAPITAL holds the rocyberbot’s arse up to the lpornight. door closing. a lawnmower. sun: oily. an oil-egg. brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. ineverdream.the2 dance as the others break their heads among dust & dolls sippiss dr immanuel unclocks a history she’s been painting 17 years the surfaces are inneringly flat they sink into behind the canvasyour moustache tickles alltimetv.hummockhammocks > cloudcorpses. an old child rothat such monstrous byrthes signifie the monstrous myndes of the people myshapened with phantastical, dissolute opinions, dissolute lyvynge,

licentious talke, and other such vicious behavioures which monstrously deforme the myndes of men in the syght of god cks rocks back & for there’s notalot to do here at night. 1st they drug the sailors, sink the boats. the last train’s gone before he gets there. tvson in the corner. noones watching it. anotheroldchild drags a statue-head out of the tunic of bees. sucks where cowhells lie. do you want to say goodbye. shesgotamoustache. Plagues of map city. HOWOLDDOYOUTHINKWAS? im strolling the park with youknow. there’s nothing of a moon caresses the path. traffic growls like movie killer. iwantosmellyourhair, to be you. imsuchaliar. we try not to look. screen the scene. imitation fireflies begem the river. warehouses. warhouses. letsgotothedemo. in scene 3 only the left big toe is aware of its situation. god begins sucking that big toe, music plays itself metamusic. piethogoraus. the plague is big with city. people laugh a lot. they tell the angels in their fetish wear & with their clipboards you are welcome among us, eat us all up. the irrelevance of art etc. is a final joy. everyone looks pretty enough for staying put. i thought in terms of a journey says someone & looks pityingly at itself language is a stone storm: “hello. take the bodies away from there please. cr” ossed out; summer & a dogheaded rose in the starpool summer & a dogheaded rose. in the starpool the bodies initiate summer, imitatively. i’m ending this call hell. o, the suitcases are pre-opened. a book to read the summer by. yellowinged grass, es, dogshit & beer. almost kissing this is what i mean by a song. up on the starpool revolutionary slogans. there’s blackberry juice at her lips o you are alone now the suitcases won’t open themselves. inside several old newspapers, winged like yellow grass. dressing up in her tights & jumping thro a starpool into cartoon undeath the backs of his hands have blackberry juice veinsblotch. he can be lost, i don’t want to wear his shoes. these effigies are strange, because they are familiar from tv. the wife & her children harvested heaven szluîp/frqqq. kacxzio xzavzio. sprikkkkkkk

thelittlebirdsgodabrokkinwing she walks beside the bodies, sprinkling them with white charcoal. a recalcitrant star lolls in the corner of the heaven. s>designifyed tearstuff. archived lustre. gogogogogôg souls jump across the thames from abandoned warehouses to traffic lights & the caff & he just stands there his over blowing head wobbling on his legs kicking crowds of bees & mainlining petroleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee um. ive got punk badgers on my jacket. &sugar in my hair i take the smoke from her mouth & roll it about. there’s a recalcitrant sun in the nocturnal sky, it rolls round heaven the heavens reduce to a needle poin t of bruise se takes the smoke from her mouth & rolls it round. iron bridge. metapsycho-lizards trash the warehouse devices estbl 18. pulling her tights on, a pair of elbow length gloves. a perma-moon shudders against the starpool’s beat. yawn. wont you kiss me. its like im knot alive

ÂŤKaddishÂť Tag best friend funniest person known forever absolutely amazing a bit of a weirdo smarty pants good music look up to just because used to be close spotty freak missed muchly pretty eyes far far far far away new friend electric fence bee hive party animal glam babe social butterfly coach or teacher a boy a GIRL lives nearby met travelling bus pass shares your first initial gemini the rain beating on the window the window beating on the rain beneath the white sheet fear like a galloping horse flooded the floor

movement in the foreground movement in the background line of no variation knowledge of change leave the gardens to decay irises in snowlight and it was snowing the room was full of white light where the windows were broken don’t believe that when this switch is turned on electric light illuminates sister fragment of a wall fragment of a figure your other lover by the bend in the river the place the river enters the sea She runs from the room. The sky is an elaborate system of scars & failed trees. She kicks open the door & jumps from the tower. The bed is unmade, the trees make curious ticking noises. “Very unlike a clock’s.” She pauses on her way to the tower to wear shoes. She cannot stop sleeping, whatever the situation was. Close beneath the sky are the names of God. They are difficult to hear, for the noise of the clicking clocks. You’ll not learn her name from this, puts a needle to the flame. Rats gather among pools of salty honey. Her hands dance, she takes the cigarette from a flame. She cannot sleep, though looking down from the pit she sees a cinema melting. Her eyebrows are a motto of moths.

She is perplexed by uncanny correspondences between the map & the city where she is dead. She laughs, once, quietly so as not to wake herself. There is a storm blowing, terrifyingly still. She gets on hands & knees, to crawl the last few feet to the top of the tower. The city hovers above her, stinking & bejewelled. Fucking fucking near where the streets drown•shakes into jeans, hurries into the room•cameras listen, blindly, to shimmering laughter. The names of God run from the room, they carry drowning suitcases & circumstantial murderers. She lives in the room as still as the storm which continues in melted down cinema. Her hands have detached themselves from their suitcase, & follow the poetry of maps to the ends of the. She runs from her room in the sky. She burns the bed & the door & pins a curse to every tree. It is dead inside the bed, her hands dance on the pillows she pulls the needle from the flames. Shakes into jeans, down to the shops. Thieving time. Cameras watch, deafly, fucking fucking where the streets near drowned. 2 texts 1) They gathered at the location of dispersal. Delirious apples redirected crime via immodest science. It became irrelevant as police cars & their wailings faded into her dream. & in her dream she sleeps on buttercups, the river above her head the stars at her feet When she viewed herself again on the perpetual news she desired herself as an abstraction desires salted bread. 1 day it will be the weekend oppressively. She said goodbye as though it was possible to mean anything. 2) But our patience is wearing thin.

In the call center, the cubicle is bamboo colored. I have pinned a post card of a Victorian lady to it. I look at her and she looks back. She tells me that she’s dead. I tell her I know. I ask if she likes her ghost home on my wall. She says it’s as good as any. All over the room, there are voices murmuring and tinkling. Although I know the faces of the speakers, I prefer not to look. All of us give the same information over and over and as long as it remains the same information, the voices stay cool, quiet and shady. Only when we are made to stray from this do our voices start to frazzle, to bray and break with impatience. I don’t like this effect of the outside seeping in because this is a heaven of a kind. It is dull but then again so is heaven. In other heavens… a light box where he reaches me. A radio sound accompanies whether or not we can hear it. There is an attic room, a bedstead and a washstand, a pearl colored slip underneath the pillow, a lamp, a cigarette and a pack of playing cards. There were foot prints in the dust that led you or maybe messages rolled up and left in your pocket. It might have been a page from an old diary that, once treated with lemon juice and held up to the light, revealed a map of the ether. He is an artist maybe, a farmer, or a Victorian lady driving a truck. Yehe shlama rabba min shmayya. Her ghost has entered my blood stream swelling and bruising my legs. They ache with nightshades, with poisons. I take pictures of them in the dark. I take pictures of my still lively breasts and of my face all withered with insomnia. Earlier, I had thought to leave my face suspended in the black plastic window of the bus. I had thought to do this but must have left the bus too soon to stare at waxy fruit in bins. In the 99 cent store, I saw two dolls suspended from the ceilings as if they had been hung. Even in representation, bodies are alarmingly expendable. I buy salted food from the market and preserves and carry them home. I sleep, or don’t sleep as it may be, with books I have carefully chosen for this purpose. I have books of philosophy and autobiographies of old singers. All of them are dead, this is important; Hegel and Ethel Merman, Heidegger and Mary Garden. I hold them above my head as high as I possibly can so that the texts loom large. I hold them until my arms start to burn and shake with the effort. Something like my people have done on Saturdays for a long time, parading scrolls and kissing

them like madmen veshirata tushbehata venehemata the mouth of the statue of liberty is 3 feet wide man running backwards over the brooklyn bridge cobble stones in dumbo boys on the windows of the condo home of the girl in a floral skirt. it is based on a grid system right angles some squares are green courtesy, professionalism, respect Take a r. on tilbury towards the prom go 2 blocks. cadman plaza west turn r. half a block to clark st turn l. 2 blocks to henry st turn r. there is peas and pickles. 68 jay st bar down in dumbo with the bridge shaking conversation if you ate all they gave you you would have a heart attack within half an hour. sign (good design) CHOKING VICTIM he says i said read the read me file butt head. i want to be arrested by her the one with the haircut the hot cop

one way ONE WAY STREET look at the way the paint has been rubbed off the brick. nice shapes there this is bergen street on the f train future bloom tracks like tiles coney island bound avenue X neptune ave. like next stop is.

ÂŤThree:KÂť Featuring Tom Watts the ghost (connect trans.) Telegraph of my | breakfast is singing on | the radio fleets of armour belonging to Germany or China perhaps a forest of humming prayers of witness | of balance | the books | the tie-ins | the star billing of the honest eastern prayer of 1943 portray them cow-eyed, ushered (from rum & coke - tremens) (o) (&)

(disconnect trans.) [open the white smile of the news I remember you in Lodz between photo polish & grain under cedar trees or was firs] Fragment ends [was firs, wasn’t it? the cones or amongst them in them - mouths full of them] (connect trans.) in New York you leaned against the white box-van’s graffiti’d flank & pointed at the moon

or was it the reflection of the moon in the glass of fifth avenue & you asked me to give up [smoking] (o) (&) (The Bronx ghetto used in an early ‘70’s movie as a stand-in for the ruins of Berlin, 1945) (o) (&) (flawless snow & cold beer) (disconnect trans.) He had been in carriage No. 162; his name was hidden in a pendant. His mother came to Rostov & recognized him & took him home. (o) (&) (welcome home, Kolya. Welcome home.) ••••••••••••••••••••

this house is too big for me alone At night they play music very loud and laugh at my discomfort bitter as wormwood. this is silver music over salmon rock in amongst last autumn’s leaf colour

look here is the



the windmill

•••••••••••••••••••• In the Call Center, we are asked to redirect those souls whose bodies were burned in the big fire. The problem with burning deaths is that those who died this way tend to feel more entitled. Don’t ask me why but I suppose they feel a certain amount of purity in that nobody was required to dispose of them. What this particular group of burners don’t understand is that they were riddled with plague and that is why the offices were bombed. It did not have to do with the rogue protestations- it was a simple Alliance maneuver. We of course keep our voices neutral and only give the most basic information, affirming their deaths and advising them to call in two weeks for reassignments. In all likelihood, they will be assigned to a group whisper project in which the various names of God are released via the collective whisper into the higher winds. This is done as a sort of comforting measure to the citizenry below and has no other known uses. Group whisper assignments are often tedious despite the spectacular views but they don’t know this yet. It appeals to their egos, makes them feel like proper saints and why not really?

Today has been madness, so much so that some of the fetish angels have been asked to help out. They are, all in all, useless but they make the room livelier. One of them even brought a box of lurid pink donuts from some crime scene, which they keep tossing at each other and giggling. None of them really ever sit down and they get the death codes all mixed up. We keep telling them to enter DBF/PLG CARRIER for this batch but they prefer IMM for immolation because they like the operatic effect. It is irresponsible but what do you expect from fetish angels? They see so much gore on a daily basis that they can’t help but be irreverent. One of them starts humming “The Ride of the Valkyries” and the rest join in. Since the great fire, only the mouth of the Statue of Liberty floats on the water. Riders on the Staten Island ferry blow it kisses when they go pass. Nobody knows how this trend started, but it is not intended as a joke apparently. Mr. Hegel says to become free is every thing but to be free is nothing. I wonder how this applies to the floating lips if it does at all. He has not been calling here lately. For a while it was every day. I think he is angling to have some phrase of his group whispered. I told him that this is not done, but I think he also just likes to talk to me. He likes to talk about Schumann and Berlin. He will talk about the Alliance sometimes, but all in all they don’t impress him. “One secret note rolled up and hidden away is better than fifty cameras”, he tells me, “and that’s why they’ll never succeed”. •••••••••••••••••••• I wait for the call that will be from her, but it never arrives. it is in the barcode some lean slight to the left others to right.

6 hours to do 3 hours work so in between I remember you in a boiler suit

your hands the colours of christmas wrapping paper whisky in coffee.

black and white the light scans the rice pudding her apron the photograph when stood at the front of the cottage by the new electric lamppost. It comes back most when the leaves are rotting away the pond is still and green and the bubbles in the ice move. I love the noise of moving ice.


I stand at the garden gate and look towards the house. the pig sty, the hen house and the orchard of small tight red apples shook to the ground. the clouds were ploughed grey

ash fallen from the grate eyelids powdered. everywhere was a storm of green red crocosmia in between daisy white it wasn’t far to walk across the field to the church. then it would happen the red slate s would slip but t hen we would walk straight towards the ol d oak. the smell of hand cream warmed on hot water bottle the foxglove purple on that bank where once they tied horses.

here i always take a taxi. we like taxis. we like taxis very much. we like being driven around new york •••••••••••••••••••• zargzap • heaven hot as coins • whiteouts roaring • husher, surgical • stuck-o, on wreck • all that year’s pop song • songed in the attic • grassy • revolutionary violence • communiqué • an asleep in the pub; a god • •• attentive. tongues coilingnail

scissors, scratches . the eye • PROPERTY ••• •• drumming ode to a nightingale onaspine • • • antic: cannibal hats cry in out the night • freaks + majesty clingfilm cop • •••magnetic ••exh~ibit, outland nark, o.ordinary street waves o••••••••f••••purplNOe • • procession. >a thin sheet covers her thighs to her throat her legs blades her feet the lost night • terror enact speechlessness •••••••••••••GOODBE••••••••• •••••••••••• her eyes alone

The texture of the room fake. QuFiet boy in cold s•o•cks at a window with metal shrubs rattling R to take him in their arms. His sku All OBSERVED dearchived in mirrors of paper • blotting thMe storm continues, a communiqué • i’ m learning to talkeEd. & radio dust on the floo.r • scratch the way to the bathroom. i.n sun, let’s be freak . call the Exterminator don’t replay& the door shut & never.hallucinnation:owstrangers nshutme down “robe so pale to rub with fire human inhumans economico units the darklings & their guard word Then” begins to howl. Hesitantly at 1 st, all the world there is & obliterate

units, zuzzing, in cold socks thumps the shrubs cackle back. warehouse siren/miles away. specimen texts: 1.they could not jail us for we did not exist 2.by cause it calling out the name it called recoiled summarise unillusion sweet stinging jug of ash trespasses corres ponding postindustrial storm-hammer, a gut brace of instants in love powder s draining from her acrobat blanketed operate the zero droid blüio bluïo law efflorescence immanent flappy angels hurtling teeth on teeth sidelongly zephyrised coveralls, unpathed mazes sign ••••••••••••••••••••

ÂŤNow Here's the ThingÂť Featuring Peter Philpott then the cypress tree

so dark the slow moving river asleep down the long black lazy corridor lit by chestnut candle bluebells and forget-me-nots honeysuckle and hosta red hot poker bluebell rose eating from the shadow the hostas will grow v large this year and our small lower lawn will be stepped through on slabs York stone bald barren islands as it disappear and over there things will hang like weeping willow like fox glove like lilac like meat


they know I love the silver birch trees their bark their little leaves since childhood I have by the lakeside by the small white pebbles and slow lapping said good night. tall trees little stones big leaves wild branches knelt when the rain fell on the weaving grass the hills above a heart shaped mouth.

The problem with Hegel and Ethel Merman, both, is that they are hacks whose influences have spoiled their respective fields for many generations. Yet, people secretly love them anyway, especially the post modern types. Everyone enjoys their stuffy, dodgy assurances of the power of fate and good entertainment. They are good bed partners. Ethel wears her cowgirl fetish gear and Hegel is dourly amused. I have to leave the house. I am talking about nothing at all. History is the study of times gone bad. This is a bad time

Foods that begin with A: apple, apricot, almonds, alligator pears. All of these grow on trees. (Next slide please). Begins with O: Orchards. Now what I like about orchards is the primacy of the view in that wherever you stand reveals the whole of where you are, which in turn reveals who you are. Speaking of which, there is no who anyway, only where and sometimes why. I lie, there is never a why. Just a where, ready to wear; I am already feeling better. Where am I? In a bed full of babbling books, watching a slide show about alphabets. The Alphabet Angels have flown in. The whole office went to cheer the landing. Everyone is impressed with the Alphabets because they are blind and yet land so perfectly. Sometimes I wonder at the way people will ignore the fact that the Alphabets were actually chosen to be made blind for their life purpose of upholding the sounds of letters and words. It is something akin to the castrati in the glory years of opera, these special beloveds made sacred by a mutilation. The Alphabets are first taught the letters of all the forms of Alphabet, and then are made blind so that the letters will stay imprinted on the retina with impartiality and without distraction. The Alphabets speak the sounds of the letters while the purple traces of the letters imprinted inside them flare like small match heads. This is as if they are walking scrolls but it is only the letters that they repeat over and over and not anything else; no words, no poetry, no stern decrees. I am unconvinced that the sacrifice of their sight is necessary or even effective. Yet sometimes I lie awake, chanting the names of the letters while pressing on my eyelids in the dark. And I do admit to entering into a strange trance, the likes of which I am hopeless to describe. B is for beep. I have another call.

the tower’s shanks shimmer mauvelustre a dragonfly discourses

The extinguished their grieving shadow.

so far pretty as clover.weepin away •mathematics surrender passport such a lovely life & flower sellers + informants hawk ”My shoulder is broken“ •••is the city her ancestors experience walk arm to arm •fragmented•clapperclaw System[ok dance to this & if you don’t of malinformation activation sunset incoming ululationnation graciously exploding limbomb huddle venuse s 1a hangnail 2a rattling pin 3furnaced great ••blind observatories at antigravitational typologismaticism 4cars skiddng from a top multistorey carpark 5humane salami opened toxic “A pretty dressskybluedarksash ”grape listen¡ The dead woman singing in the shower let’s go.immense corpses rearing up over the scorched earth.multitudes of frozen spiders.taken from a location to a location.dis Posed

Clumsy kissing•frighteners all dreaming love text found junk alleys• wayCapimpitaerialists cramming limbs into a machine resultant paste puke hair & Multitude AURATIC •1st remove the tongue •witnesses will be annihilated •Clumsily twitch inner thigh •history of pop music of amnesia of jellyfish of prosthetic brains of snuff movies, cardboard violinists cognate• lipdancer noSleep at night no at the window gazing outin at The inunvisible Heavens an aeroplane thrums undistance to distance sneezes shivers goes back to bed Aeroplane shivers & shimmers s waying ephermeral cool breeze before •another heavenly day•skin from head peppermint dog shit a few base coins > lost Caress

war• sometimes i feel so sorrow i just ice want to to the


didn’t even want to be•

“awful scar-r-ed” night a|flooding dragonflies & war > so peaceful so happy specimen text one The future is oursangrybrigade specimen 2 text rags of garden & slang travellin g through

•the skylight stars

tickle her toes she rolled his sleeve up went the stars through the sky light & she swarmed the noonday moon weaved bee stings in vests & drown his sleeve in traffic song there go the bees through the bright sky•

She was surprised to have been born into a world shared with God She searched around for some sign or glyph to help communicate with This Her birth had spread blood and fluids over all the books The language them were written in remained unreachable even on the dry bits: Flkeofftab thakmor o-sanyavin Washti ma thakma o-da Vvva vva How can I live in this world in which there is God and This is unreachable? There were she knew messages form This everywhere Especially tag clotting and drying f “Hi! Capital One, MBNA and Barclaycard… I thought this was New York! Why? Maybe I am the girl from Jersey? Like a new potato with a delicate skin, light gold and edible. The stronger words thuswise languages of your Solanaceae: Flkefflab tamer o-sandy vain Washtub ma taka o-ad Eva via PREPARING A SALAD NIÇOISE EATING BREAD AND HONEY WATERING THE GARDEN These words were like city blocks, dull heavy things that had to be got through Mopsy looked at Milliband, who was asleep on the stoop, with hatred in her heart In this light, only prose was possible, she decided: “Framing the experience with a certain evanescent smear Like the liquors of afterbirth and a painful coming into being Kicking against the blunt facts was useless but well? Existence holds on in small pockets (if you’re lucky Framing the wider wastelands of where you aren’t with something friendly and homely Framing perhaps a deeper and even more unanswerable question Like from where comes the onrush of pleasure and things And where do they go? Between this. listen, tamer o-sandy vain Washtub ma taka o-ad Eva via

out here in the jersey suburbs, the kids bike around at this hour The air’s glutinous and lipaceous with BBQ Stray partly burnt hydrocarbons haze it with the meat particles It is good to be born here now The text isn’t so much illegible as decorative, like the God This hovers over the smoke of the fires, and breathes in their goodness That’s why the sky is yellow, matt and near and gentle The blocks are flooded and abandoned How their inhabitants wish they had chosen Jersey But in This world there are neither bridges nor tunnels A muggy night again EATING A SALAD NIÇOISE “SVre now to transmit of you, gliding without corruptions & epitome, while I warble on the sullen Pupills of George victorie. dull Mildmay, charming white North, and I’ve been up all noise, thrilling, tied, rold the Kaddish angry, lost to Robert Charleton beams steer bright on the Poetrie the Ruines the Relique—and your Monuments in my heaps twisted years after—And rifled Æsons last transcendent senses animate—write, rak’d how we soare— And how dust is that rise all Suns drew of, subdue, resigne, possesse as in the Hebrew aire, or the Bacchus bodies of aire—and in my own Immortalities of a woven life—at Day— Deserted back thru lots, Your teares—and mine all-consuming towards ashes, the fleshie men—the frame buried in the death—and what contributed after, l” “Downtown, and his dark knife, Snowman’s, almed In all the shocks of care; Sanity’s covered by entering, for the new honesty Exalted Elevateds from the mother, Talking to city, which the bed passes With an imagining Death; Dress too by fur exploding fat cough in, When our financial plots worse did see, And Opened verge to graves death, Talking the flower of the first Theater: And as when Strange Name her Death seen Through the virginal cancer of the accumulations, and shut A Valise o’re big Hague, we delivered

Our bottle, to cook our Stew to ruminate: So our enrolled summers shall likewise be Dead o’th wires of their Mama, When doom shall an empty night drive Through all those flowers that with life created. And as when the gaunt end o’th Darkness drank, In the I” And what could be said about it all? Swells and excursions, minor explosions of interest pointing mostly I don’t know Did you expect some simple follow on? The operators don’t work with something so difficult to parse as things and words Which are things of course, heavy and sticky you know this now but ignore Everything is very deprecated BUY THE FOOD EAT IT This is the music they played at David Chaloner’s funeral Hooked on by the kitsch of far Baltic mysticism – aren’t we all? How far are we from Jersey here? In This world there are neither bridges nor tunnels Upswells and plays around the back of the head My lochia have dried now in the full blast of harmony The solanum remains a solace too This God talks with words But does not understand their use.

«all those poet's who died for the love of sound» Featuring Richard Barrett the standardised cries close cropped & woven catch at the mattress in lovelessly two wire pigs a riverbank of gunmetal turned the dark bread to its headline foaming a shimmer postponed landscape 2 wire pigs a riverbank of moleskin the car turns over afternoon evaporates hey Veronika is that the cinema two wire pigs shimmer the evaporating mattress flesh eating post-dated land-flow redacted flowers shoot up saviour & bottled apricot shivery silks as beautiful as nowhere stopping to kiss a bridge bending its back 1000s of missiles tumbling the lake little dog chasing its stomach so gho street eyes clicking out & in smoky rain unimagine the flap of skin along bottle groove & grove halo minstrelsy xzarpxzarp, the standardised cries cropped & mattressed lovelessly to the slum to wired pigs turning the woven bread whispers from abandonedbuildings mutated, veron’ka is that the Cinema:1000s o’butterwasps the blade soft. shake out o’white sleevecuff nail wrist. littlelittle dog chasing its stomach,another surveillance curse old&alone. spectres rare vectors mbrace for Time then let goe hot of hair in’s mouth. in absolute voicelessness

stuffing clothes into flowerfire a breakfast was on table a long time. dog being a cat beseach a rat next time they visited the seaside with capitalist they had executed. & the shakes, fierce & upon us all. walked towards the sea. the sea in a park in a city. chased its stomach type words on a screen. on the wrong side of the screen. throw windows at bricks let’s have a milkshake & vodka the human equivalent is effect of several bright discs darkening the hills start to writhe “hushclicl. k. format, bleak. stunned, at risk.mystery of the animal. lastwords. 1st ecstatic for,matnaked. brink of misery. indefinite animal screaming allday&night.going blindnessed ~~~

i. nothing of importance is happening here. the woods are getting closer clouds take away the stars the parts of your feelings that count

ii. the unkind things that were said at the gate rain grey rain cold hood tree long types of cloud and some tied into the shapes of animals the fence how it followed the curve of the hill towards the wood the wood we don’t speak of the wood where the children wont play the wood where the bracken whispers lords and ladies fungi big as umbrellas puff balls grasping bramble blue overcoat. red glossy glistening shiny berries. red lipped berry big cup fruits sunset mist coming. bent hawthorn. a damp wet wood silent really really silent.

iii. we always avoid forever dodge never count at all times cracks in the pavement ladders magpies. we skated across the frozen lake big red sun falling behind the hill black rooks rising in a squall quite wild geese simple silent snowing trees. iiii. we have stopped talking we are full of word in winter the hill is shrouded in fog for weeks. i miss you when you are gone.

~~~ ?!) + closed, + confrontation, + fast-food, + Sweat, + the ingredients, + the thought that + those -ing so bought, -ity of the guilt, - satisfactorily 33 About time, Absolutely not, A layer behind, A necessarily drawn, A settlement Behind privets, beginning), By questions Can only try, Ceaseless, Childish (at 10 though, Closed, Closest, Coming Consequently, Continuation Difficult talk, Disclosure (at least, Dissemble Either, Endpoint, Energy, Expenditure, Experienced as Fashions, First thought being, Fresh as yesterday, For the day, For too long Greater hopes Her balled tights, Here + going, He should, Him to, How outmoded Impossible to imagine, Irrational Linda, Line Maintained until, Memory, Mid-row terrace, Miserable mainly, Misunderstood Money can be saved Necessary, Nose full, Not him, Now, Now being a parent Of cat, Of eye contact, Of hers, Otherwise Passing, Past, Pieced together un, Problem even, Protect the boy Re-boot now though, Rested, Round the floor Sense, Shouldn’t have, Shouldn’t see, Sleep, So can’t chew over, social fall. A, Strange how, Such things Tan is, Thankfully but, That aroma, That smell, The corollary of, The opposite way The perhaps natural, There, The tired couch, Third person, Those unpractised, To contrast, To then spit out, Too much + Understand, Unforgettable, Unplannable, Unpleasant though, Unreliable Unthinkable, Unused Was silent about, Wasted, Well, What he, Will stay, Worst Year of the Undergraduate, You were fat – ~~~

pples-A for. When we are driving we see wooden signs with painted apples along the way, one per hour. By this, we surmise we are yet alive. Your breath is on my neck. It is May. We are in love and driving once more to Berlin. Yesterday, we climbed the hills after a long breakfast. We had heard something about Alphabet Angels landing on Kinder. You were laughing at the thought of them landing here. We did not see them but did see well dressings along the way. They were pictures of musicians and apples. You could not read the Aramaic along the bottom but I could. It was Kaddish. Question-are we still questing? Resting? We are restless, that is true, missing our friends the way we do; Otto, Veronica, even hateful Rennecke. But they belong to another time, to Biological Time. Some have protested about the way in which Judeo Christian concepts still dominate the Way Stations. For example, this emphasis on language, on sacred alphabets; some rightfully feel that this is an obsolete distraction. I’m inclined to agree about the seeming meaningless of it all. It’s more than just language has been rendered such by overuse. I think that anyone can recognize this phenomenon and after all the Alphabets were created to address this. It very well could be that certain vowels and sounds can indeed restore order if perfectly intoned. One of the reasons they are made blind is so that they can resist the temptation to describe. Still I don’t know if this is all ultimately a foolish exercise. Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya seh aleinu. Ve’a kol y’Israel. Ve’imeru Amen. Has a ring, I must admit. German has always been our favourite language despite the fact that we barely speak it. I love all those poets who died for the love of sound. No harm as my darling frequently has said. There was no need to describe nature really. When we walk we merely fall silent and that is as it should be. But somehow, it’s never enough. I write a letter to Mother, gushing about wildflowers and lush green hills. I suppose I want her to experience it too but it’s more a desperation to add my voice to it. It comes as tinny and incomplete. I don’t struggle until I am pale and feverish the way that they did. But neither do I pin the world to a board, words fluttering to their deaths like sad butterflies. Now we are driving to Berlin, wunderschoenen.

«Six» Sometimes, all the time, I like to curl up in the past. Or rather, I find it unavoidable. Because, if I don’t take an idle doze in it, it comes screaming in my dreams. It is a mistake to think this is psychological. It is the workings of time, which works as irrationally and effectively as the body. It’s akin to circulation problems and the way that flow of blood can collect and pool anywhere when a vein goes weak. The body does not always intuit other pathways that might keep the blood in motion. So it is with the passage of time as it collects and pools in the atmosphere. It’s almost as if one has to create the phantom limb that will provide the means of circulation; that is to say re-member. Sometimes the limb is a collective limb; in fact they may always be collective limbs for all I know. Maybe this is always how time is circulated. I miss you. Limb, limbic, limbo-the body needs touch. If I can’t touch you, then you are not here. In this way, I am limited. I have to return all these books to the library. I think this may help matters a great deal if these things I have been touching return to their place on the proper shelves. I love libraries and the feel of them. I love the cool and spongy spined books waiting there patiently in arrangements that turn mysterious even in the face of a simple organizational system. It is such that if you turn the corner of a bay of shelving you might encounter anyone you’ve ever known dead or alive. I think this is true; then again I haven’t been to the library in years. I am too busy searching for angels in light boxes. I must return the books to the land of the tactile circulation. I dream of books making their way across the bedroom, going slowly down the stairs and out the door, moving as things that are surfacing from the bottom of a long stagnant pool.

it is in the barcode black and white in the photograph some angles some lean slight to the left others to right

considered, arranged, taken

so in between I remember you your face in the right hand mirror the ipod your open mouth singing into the wind then I thought. this is it. this is that which my father told me of I am about to die. not now but soon. time flies. tempus fugits and all the helping in the garden didn’t help the apples shook down form the trees I would kill for a cup of coffee. I can’t get a connection. no

black and white the light scans the rice pudding her lines microfilm the photograph when stood at the front of the cottage by the new electric lamp post. see. It comes back the pond is still

and green and the bubbles in the ice move. I love the noise of moving ice. I love pink I love love

This is our land our garden of dahlias.

And the wood I would love to climb those trees again. my arms are those of a teenagers. I would climb and climb and climb.

The ground got steeper, & we climbed with our knees until the sun, naked & ill coordinated, rests upon our shoulder blades. She slouched in the hotel lobby, her bag on her knees, & he creeps at her from behind to rest his hands upon her shoulder blades. It got dark, & we could not move or cry out. The sun is unmoving, weighing like a sleepy wren upon our shoulder blades. She got to her feet, shrugging his hands from her shoulder blades & says: I waited an hour for you, now I’ll wait no longer. On the worn carpet a vase of plastic flowers, spill of grey & pink, + a

penknife blade. She asked him, how did this scar come by you, & he was learning to speak in the Dutch language & he answers saying someone cut me with a knife the blade was dull. We had to bump the car from behind, to escape from the parking space, David can see the scar on Lisa’s naked arm as she works the steering wheel dull in the pink & grey streetlight. We skipped downhill, no one laughed, the fat old dogs on the dump growl at us, Lisa displays her scarred arm they fall silently. In the library I was blind; the police said now you have handled the knife your fingerprints are upon it. Amsterdam resembles a wristwatch wrapped in cabbage leaves. She walked from the hotel out on to the street, he followed her they don’t say more than two words the entire day, the knife is where he left it in the library. I followed her all day, & the ground got steeper & she floated up into the clouds & I prised my eyes out on a knife point & make a balloon of my tears & float up to join her. Lisa swings the car into a suburb, zigzagging between 1. parked car & 2. dreaming horse. They buried dead words in the library garden, a wren wakes from its slumbers & flutters down to rest upon Magda’s shoulder blades. The sun was cold upon the blade of the gun. It lay there, stretched in fine wire, & the fat old dogs laughed. David took some drugs, lay down to attend to the future, a police car swung through the hotel corridor into his room right up close to the bed. The clouds were disappeared & rain fell fizzing from our shoulder blades.

They walked around on the TV, helicopters buzzing them. Lisa jumps through the mirror. The TV floods with tears.

«Sparrow» I live in sorrow. I live in sparrow. I wish to lie down among bells until this grief passes. The problem is that I live in sorrow. The problem is that I live in sparrow. I live in sorrow. I live as a sparrow in a sparse spire. Everything I like is black and white. At night, I watch films while playing the piano. I watch a film about a nun on a windy hill. In the film there are great bells swinging. I am breathless with the anticipation of her inevitable madness. The music on the page has many sharps. They sit in curlicues like gates to many previous keys. Even in sound, they sound like the past. It is a French song about war and it is sad cabaret. It is a feminine song. I nearly feel as if I should be well dressed to play it. The nun is ready to jump. Her madness was never tampered down by gates and sharps. All wind is microtonal and wind will get through anything. I love a windy day myself. She takes to it and we don’t see if it takes her back. Mad women identify as birds. They begin to see themselves as augurs; as things that might crash into castle windows after scrying too long in the mossy well. My voice trails out like smoke and fringe. The tone of it is all shawls, stockings and smoke in split glass. The restraint required is killing me. The sharps are gates that offer a glimpse into something like bars in a window of a downstairs restaurant. This is a glimpse into previous life; one lived in tableau of excess that had seemed romantic at the time. It is so lonely to look through the sharps into another life.

The languages of night. Languages of the night. The night of language. S. Pornopanoply. Colonisation. A walk in the rain, while spiders scuttle through her hair. Poor visibility. Motorcar in the dark, an orange cat on a shed roof attending.

Winter speak. Do you love me? Haaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa>z誰ol. Shirt hanging out of his trousers. Lips slideslither : mind my lipstick! Another night. Unlanguaged. Eerily still, only the whispering of spiders in the ivy. 1 orange cat enters the room. Switch on the TV. Invisible poor. A walk beside the river. Grey trees, matt cloudscape. Do you recognise the handwriting? Do you hate me? Lips dry as poetry. (As). Photo-spread of a prison cell. In white & black (yes). Disturbingly, the lower left corner appears to ooze disturbed. Spreaslitherding. No sun here. A gasp of sun. Bare back & the trees spitting rags. Down among the blades. Spying their feet. Erotic cars motor away. Central London. Took shelter. The world ominously fragile. Where are these whimpering their origin? From my own throat they come, touching your breast bone, beating at the window with sensationless fingertip. Turns the last photo over. The river vanishes for a while. Endlessness of world. Uniform fetish.

Good clean food. Sleep here for unintended consequence. How longing is an elastic bound? Deliriously navigable church. A lacy rabbit hutch in the sky & the river besides. All living things are quiet, all dead things attend. She tells him “closer.” In close focus mist. Strange colours, the prison walls fold in. Shooting dots out of the sky, making necklaces of beaks & hard eyes. Anxiety, desuetude. Backed into a corner. Jeans & lace up boots. Scary motor cars now. Taxi with smashed windscreen. Stinking mouth. Karl & Erica had lived in Stockholm for 9 yearsThey loved how you could buy pastries at midnight, how when it snowed all the church bells rang outThey spoke Japanese beautifully, they grew pineapples up among the owls, high in their rooftop gardenWeekends they would sail away, to a quiet place & vanish9 years later Stockholm seemed so changed, but so did Erica; &, as if implicated in last century’s thoughts, lace making no longer calmed herKarl played cards every Wednesday evening, as in the past, but often found himself thinking of George W Bush Snr. + getting an erection when he should have been concentrating on the game. The bank robbers screamed at Erica to get down on the floorBut those days she moved too slowly for crime: the bank robbers knew their chance had goneScents of drug overdoses & frying beef & wild honeysuckle drifted through the windows of the bankStockholm forgot them. & lace up bootsOn one side, the river; at his back some empty boxes, rubbish binsNo stars along the wallA scuttling soundKarl awkwardly brushes Erica’s lips with his lipsThe songbird in its cage starts upErica calls out to Karl in JapaneseHe listens, but understands nothingIs she saying goodbye?

They eat their pastries sat in front of the TV. A beautiful human is explaining: the crisis will pass. Sacrifices will be made. Democratic values will prevail. That makes Karl glad. & Erica ...

she cries herself asleep, curled up in a ball on the floor of the bankThe robbers have a new set of demandsThey want the Orchester der Bayreuther Festspiele to be flown out to Stockholm & to perform the Prelude & Liebestod from Tristan und Isolde, right there in the zoo“You will sing Isolde’s part,” they tell Erica“But I cannot sing,” Erica answers them“You can sing,” they say“Trust us”

hues of we made choices there I love the sound of the wind in the trees in the trees in the hills now the blood has left your body and your heart beat stills by the side of this muddy river. payne’s grey cerulean blue raw sienna yellow ochre cadmium yellow permanent mauve no black ivory black wax black the finger on your hand

the fingernail on your finger the ring on your finger your fingers in the trees. ars moriendi absence that stopped us Unter den linden with a name like a bird or a river will it ever stop raining. The winds come together then go separate ways on this coast the snow on the branch and dressed in blue you turned and walked away reservoir half empty ferns opposite of white and grey when does night arrive. we are hungry nobody dies afterimage of night cobbled path through the windscreen wipers we can barely see the road you never wear sunglasses. cool isn’t cool.

30 things I noticed filled with angels what is left behind? your free eye test relics in boxes Herefordshire and orchard a needle through calico the black death of village a boil under the armpit you are in my contacts i love my iphone and the red bush. the bush that seemed to speak. she had not stood there long he had not stood there long they’ll sleep only when there’s a need how ridiculous is money i dream of the rood.

Creation Spins Again there was only emptiness the sad absence that stopped us. forgive me my town in Mexico by the fountain. I really wish you were here with me watching movies on the sofa. before/after cold generates more cold as energy does energy seemingly heat makes heat a transition period between wakefulness and sleep. things I remember happening lasts only a brief time counterpoint. Body temperature starts to decrease and heart rate begins to slow. I am lost. there is a fine mist. very fine mist climbing limes. If you awaken someone in this stage, they might report that they weren’t really asleep. I think I saw this film before. certain bits are the same as between light sleep and a very deep sleep

five stages of grief five stages of death in the small things like russian doll. Salt marsh and mud flat. A black car still rusts by the red broken down barn. Electric eel shock. grabbing out at the rope. we drank in the bar together after work the one by the crossroads under the beeches by the zebra crossing. when I walk past the iron railings by the park I remember the birds sing without urging in the scholar’s garden. Where they chopped down the trees new trees grow now. I think I saw this film before red as rowan berry. Like bamboo. Lasts only a brief time in the small of things. There is no air in this room. its blinds are down. Things I remember happening. They love beginnings. Can’t get enough.

Apples bruised. Fruits decay. Wire rusts. Forgive loss. There is a fine mist. It breaks into pixels. The scene becomes cubist. We are all depicted by little squares Yours are blue, mine are red, a transition between. Between the room. A curtain of gold. We are in the Guggenheim. It becomes automatic New York. New York Public Library. An article on the 5 stages of grief. We take the slip road. Heading North. Something is playing on the radio. That security guard has a photographic memory. On 5th avenue. In the shop windows a triptych jewels the blueprint of the songbird genome So be it. I love the way you say that. Say it again please. ***** By midday it had stopped not raining. Then the animal impersonators emerged from the crowd & climbed a few steps to the stage. There was warmth to the sea & a smell of frying meat. A few police lounged near the abattoir, their tongues flickering in & out to catch passing dragonflies. Becky’s bare arms were white as oil. The animal impersonators began their act. Becky began to massage her face with nude fingers. The animal impersonators, slyly, began to terrorise the crowd. A few police smiled, hypnotising. I’d borrowed Michelangelo’s coat. Becky was slumped in the doorway, listening to the wristwatches of passers by. Nothing could distract her, not even the soft singing of

her mother becoming wilder & wilder as night came on. We were at the location described in that silenced film. It was difficult to get sufficiently clean for the animals to agree to feed us. I asked Becky for sex. Michelangelo’s coat was punctuated by cigarette burns corresponding to the disposition of corpses expected for tomorrow’s riot. The king showed us around his palace. In each magnificent chamber dozens of humming birds fanned the air, cooling the ripped bodies of the king’s soldiers – victims of the animal impersonators. The king ordered Sarah to read from a book of jokes, & this she did in the queen’s silvery voice. The queen took Michelangelo’s coat from me & lay down beneath it to die. & the animals set up a moaning which intensified becoming wilder & wilder as night turned to day. becky said we must do sex. we left the train at vauxhall & walked a few streets to a terrace house backing on to the railway line. i said where’s the sky gone she said under the earth, that’s where the sky has gone. we lay on the bed & she threw a sheet over us & she said this is what you do. i was younger than becky who was older than me. when we were finished i said i’ll go now becky. i don’t remember her name. she got up from the bed, pulled on her dress & some blue woollen knee socks & left the house. i heard the door shut then 0thing. it was very cold in the room & then i heard tomorrow’s riot. it was frighteningly alone. i love you, but i’ll never see you again The king said now you must leave my palace. But 1st you must help me bury the queen. A solemn music, darkglister with viols & sackbuts. The animals stood at the graveside, laughing & playing hopscotch. Now I am at peace said the king. Ask the citizens to hang me from a tree

***** In the Call Center, people are calling in droves wishing to be enrolled in the Death Stories program. This is a program in which the newly dead are given special stones in which they may record the story of the moment of their dying. The stones are then flown in by special Masonry Angels who place them in chinks of old stone walls and pathways along the countryside. I suppose there is a nice symmetry to this, a story of leaving the earth put back into the earth, but it also seems like a slight waste of time to me. There is also an issue of exactly who is handling this program. The Archives Dept says that we should send callers to the Lives Accountable Dept but Lives Accountable says that they don’t really handle moments of death. So, we end up bouncing the callers back and forth between departments as the callers grow increasingly more desperate sounding. I suppose I understand. There is only so long before they will forget the moment of death in the same way that the living soon forget the moment of birth. There is only so much time until their entire stories will be no more than a plucking of a string. But they don’t understand the importance of this either. P’tach lanu-the gates are closing on a former life. We hear them closing through a key of many sharps and further beyond a long forgotten key of no particular name. It is the key of the songs that our mothers sang to themselves while hanging sheets on the clothes line. When we pray, we can see a glimpse of them disappearing and reappearing between the billowing white, through the black crisscross of the back garden gate. A film flickers by. It is something about Jews dancing; a mass of black hats swirling in a green garden where a white tent flaps in the wind. Or it is something about Jews walking; women with head scarves pushing prams carefully though ghettos. Or it is Jews lifting their arms to conduct orchestras or play violins. Or it is not Jews. Or it is everybody, for everybody has at least one lifetime as a Jew. The film burns to the edges of the frame. It is a dark tear expanding to white, then nothing. Then after this we see the ghetto empty of people and filled instead with hundreds of birds; hundreds of magpies, blackbirds and sparrows settling on the ledges of gutters and windows and making a din. Hundreds of robins, nightingales, and songbirds singing impartially and yet urgently the start of yet another creation. Hundreds of birds in the empty ghetto and along the walls are the

imprints of mysterious graffiti that the Angels whispered into the brick. Here are the subtitles, right to left in a language we can’t read. Creation spins again, the film reel goes round and round, le dor va dor. A tired old man sits by the projector , dozing and dribbling into his beard. He is neither slumbering or sleeping, just dozing. As long he dozes, he will not reach out his hand and turn off the projector. May we live through at least another matinee. V’imru Amein.

Biographies Richard Barrett Richard Barrett lives and works in Salford. In 2009 a selection of his work featured in The Other Room 09/10 anthology and a chapbook collection, Pig Fervour, was published by The Arthur Shilling Press. In 2010 his first full length collection, Sidings, was published by White Leaf Press. He is a co-organizer of the Manchester based performance series Counting Backwards. Mark Cobley Mark was born in Cheshire in 1960. He has poems published in various magazines and ezines. He has two books, his long poem in three parts, The Flaming Man (The Arthur Shilling Press, 2010), and 40°38’51”N 73°58’11”W, (Knives, Forks & Spoons Press, 2010). He edits the poetry blog http://redceilings.blogspot.com/ and also blogs at http:// theblueceilings.blogspot.com/ Emily Howard Emily Howard was born in Palo Alto, California and currently resides in Brooklyn, New York where she works as a singer and stage director. Performing credits include appearances in venues such as Carnegie Hall, New York City Center and The Metropolitan Opera. Her writing has appeared frequently on The Red Ceilings. She was recently commissioned by American composer Michael Rose to write the libretto for his opera Ugetsu, an opera currently in development with the support of American Opera Projects in Brooklyn, New York. Simon Howard Simon Howard was born in London in 1960. He has published poems in Great Works, The Red Ceilings, Spine Writers, Venereal Kittens, Shadowtrain & Blackbox Manifold. His ‘nine terrors’ is in the i.m. Barry MacSweeney issue of FREAKLUNG. He has two books, Zooaxeimplode (The Arthur Shilling Press) & Numbers (The Knives Forks & Spoons Press). His blog is http://walkingintheceiling.blogspot.com/

Peter Philpott Peter Philpott was born in Martock, Somerset in 1949. From 1971 to 1981, initially with Bill Symondson, he ran Great Works magazine and small press; and started the www.greatworks.org.uk poetry website in 2001. He also runs www.modernpoetry.org.uk: “Best UK poetry site I’ve yet seen” (Ron Silliman). Through 2008-9 he organised & presented Sundays at the Oto and Diverse Deeds poetry and music performance events in London. His publications include What Was Shown (Ferry Press, 1980), Some Action Upon the World (Grosseteste, 1982), Textual Possessions (Shearsman, 2004), What Was Drawn . . . (Shearsman, 2009) and To the Union (The Knives Forks And Spoons Press, 20101), and he appeared in the anthology A Various Art (ed Andrew Crozier & Tim Longville, Carcanet, 1987). Tom Watts Tom Watts lives and works in south-east London. His poetry has been published in Equilibrium Magazine, Remark, Streetcake Magazine, and a chapbook is forthcoming on The Arthur Shilling Press. Away from poetry, he writes reviews for Rabbit Hole Urban Music, and his short story Wasps was long-listed for the 2010 Fish Short Story Prize. He is currently grappling mano a mano with his first novel. So far the novel is winning.

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by Emily Howard, Mark Cobley and Simon Howard. The second part of Plus-que-Parfait


by Emily Howard, Mark Cobley and Simon Howard. The second part of Plus-que-Parfait