Sunday, May 26, 2013
Eva Jackson: 0046
Bernard Black moodphase1
This is actually
Custard, you bastard,
And I’ve been eating it for days
In your blasted country
Thinking it was yoghurt.
This is actually
Custard, you bastard,
And I’ve been eating it for days
In your blasted country
Thinking it was yoghurt.
Victoria Williams: 0203
MAPS: Cornerhouse, at the movies with Mayakovsky (the flash went off on the second photo and we were asked to leave). Later we ran into a bust of Lenin at the Working Class Movement Library and I introduced them... a conversation took place. (I would not like to die because I am afraid of death, but lately I have been feeling as though, for the first time, I would not like to die because in addition to a fear of death, I can also see for the first time how my life belongs to me, and how enjoyable it could be. So I say this as an incantation... VL interrupts: STOP ALL THIS MELODRAMA!)
Friday, May 24, 2013
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Eva Jackson: 0045
I dreamt I saw the first electronic dog
And it yapped, sentient. We were doomed
Because I did not trust it.
Who could trust something that insisted on its own reasons
For doing things, but had been built piece by piece
Right up to its neck, a bronze coiled spring?
It climbed up the wall, hung almost like a cicada
Someone threw something at it, and it broke into parts.
And it yapped, sentient. We were doomed
Because I did not trust it.
Who could trust something that insisted on its own reasons
For doing things, but had been built piece by piece
Right up to its neck, a bronze coiled spring?
It climbed up the wall, hung almost like a cicada
Someone threw something at it, and it broke into parts.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Victoria Williams: 0202
I’m sorry to die. I would not like to die. I’m sorry that I’m dying because life is only just beginning. If I am dying, then it’s almost certainly by my own hand, but almost certainly at the same time, not on purpose, and death is probably the result of the consumption of too much of something that is bad for me.
Monday, May 20, 2013
New From Tearoom Books: Loop: Issue 2
Presenting the second issue of Tearoom Books' writing zine, Loop. Loop is published predominantly as free e-chapbooks. Issue 2 features poetry by: Jim Bennett, Marike Beyers, Owen Chirinda, Gary Cummiskey, R. M. Francis, Rosemund Handler, Peter Harris, Saaleha Idrees Bamjee, Eva Jackson, Aryan Kaganof, Kobus Moolman, Graham Nunn and Kenneth Pobo.
The chapbook can be viewed by clicking on the window above. Alternatively, it can be downloaded HERE. The embed codes for platforms such as Blogger, Tumblr and Wordpress can also be found after the link. Click on 'Share' if you would like to post the publication on Facebook or Twitter. Best viewed in 'Full Screen' mode.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Friday, May 17, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Eva Jackson: 0044
Going up
Manhood make you mad, manhood make you
Enter the lift in solemn silence. Manhood make another man enter the lift
Womanhood and me make me small, make me sidle into the corner and stretch my energy for comfort
Make me crane my neck into a cloud of condolence,
Make me smile at nothing.
Manhood make you turn when it is just us two, and say
You live here, alone?
I say colleagues, colleagues, many colleagues
Just around the corner in office, and I
Yes, I live here.
Oh, you say, but you live alone?
I have friend, housemate, I say. She here coming this weekend. Overshare.
Ah – but you are here alone, you say.
You are handsome, young. Maybe it is important to you
To know whether I live here alone. Maybe it is a courteous enquiry.
Certainly, my brain is excessively courteous.
Your door opens, 7, one floor below mine, you see I wait still, you close it –
Solicitous. A friendship blooming, perhaps, in some part of your mind?
I step out at 8, say goodbye, I wave through your attempt to talk further,
I am at the lock. I hear a sound: ks, ks. Voice.
I continue to work the key at the lock. Ks, ks.
I see your head at the lift door,
Maintaining its station so that you can summon me back.
I take strides, ask do you want something?
You look like a hurt boy. You say
Why you don’t want to talk to me,
In my country, I say, we don’t talk to strangers (which is not true)
Oh, you say, looking crestfallen, seeing my look of mistrust,
‘You do not believe me’.
And the door closes, and you go down.
Manhood make you mad, manhood make you
Enter the lift in solemn silence. Manhood make another man enter the lift
Womanhood and me make me small, make me sidle into the corner and stretch my energy for comfort
Make me crane my neck into a cloud of condolence,
Make me smile at nothing.
Manhood make you turn when it is just us two, and say
You live here, alone?
I say colleagues, colleagues, many colleagues
Just around the corner in office, and I
Yes, I live here.
Oh, you say, but you live alone?
I have friend, housemate, I say. She here coming this weekend. Overshare.
Ah – but you are here alone, you say.
You are handsome, young. Maybe it is important to you
To know whether I live here alone. Maybe it is a courteous enquiry.
Certainly, my brain is excessively courteous.
Your door opens, 7, one floor below mine, you see I wait still, you close it –
Solicitous. A friendship blooming, perhaps, in some part of your mind?
I step out at 8, say goodbye, I wave through your attempt to talk further,
I am at the lock. I hear a sound: ks, ks. Voice.
I continue to work the key at the lock. Ks, ks.
I see your head at the lift door,
Maintaining its station so that you can summon me back.
I take strides, ask do you want something?
You look like a hurt boy. You say
Why you don’t want to talk to me,
In my country, I say, we don’t talk to strangers (which is not true)
Oh, you say, looking crestfallen, seeing my look of mistrust,
‘You do not believe me’.
And the door closes, and you go down.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Victoria Williams: 0201
People should stop trying to interpret the pain of others. It’s embarrassing. Artists especially should not. Therapists are allowed, to some degree, to deal in interpretation, but only to help the patient in their own attempts at it. Everyone may interpret their own pain. Everyone may attempt to assist others in reaching their own understanding, although I would personally like to see this more strictly regulated. If you want to you can dress your pain up as someone else’s, but then you may owe us all an explanation, and you may owe yourself one as well.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Victoria Williams: 0200
200 things I did and you still left
At your house for the first time in eight years,
You invited me and I said,
If you want to meet,
Let’s meet.
When I came here before,
I broke your mother’s tea-set,
Just by looking at it.
Your sister said,
‘She is dirty and unshaven,’
I said, ‘That was normal for Elizabethan women,
And the ancient woods are just out there.’
In the ancient woods,
We both feel that we come from a land of great hymn-makers,
‘Should we fuck?’ I say,
‘Or kiss, or shall I lick your ears,
Or pet the cat?’
‘No,’ you say. ‘We are constrained by the age we live in,’
Or some such excuse.
I’d wanted you to come with me while I got my ears pierced,
So you’d cry,
And I’d have birds on my earlobes.
But no matter.
What if I told you,
I may have been a crazy bitch,
But that wasn’t all.
That all of my diseases were manifestations of love,
So love and time were never going to be the cure.
It was an allergic reaction.
‘Most of the past isn’t worth repeating,’
You say. ‘Magic is performance art,
I’m a sorcerer,
I’ll show you my herb garden.’
At your house for the first time in eight years,
You invited me and I said,
If you want to meet,
Let’s meet.
When I came here before,
I broke your mother’s tea-set,
Just by looking at it.
Your sister said,
‘She is dirty and unshaven,’
I said, ‘That was normal for Elizabethan women,
And the ancient woods are just out there.’
In the ancient woods,
We both feel that we come from a land of great hymn-makers,
‘Should we fuck?’ I say,
‘Or kiss, or shall I lick your ears,
Or pet the cat?’
‘No,’ you say. ‘We are constrained by the age we live in,’
Or some such excuse.
I’d wanted you to come with me while I got my ears pierced,
So you’d cry,
And I’d have birds on my earlobes.
But no matter.
What if I told you,
I may have been a crazy bitch,
But that wasn’t all.
That all of my diseases were manifestations of love,
So love and time were never going to be the cure.
It was an allergic reaction.
‘Most of the past isn’t worth repeating,’
You say. ‘Magic is performance art,
I’m a sorcerer,
I’ll show you my herb garden.’
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Friday, May 3, 2013
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Eva Jackson: 0043
dubai
Overlooking the gulf, were flutes.
1,2,3,4.
Together, they cost.
Filled with champagne, they cost more.
The barman took a drop
Of angostura, put it on a sugar cube;
It fizzed like the end of the world
In the champagne.
And together, this cost enough
To build a private battleship out of the entertainer’s float
Bobbing in the water in front of the hotel
After he was done singing his cover songs,
And push it far, far out beyond the other bar on the pier
And move it through the palm fronds of light diminishing every night
Until end.
Overlooking the gulf, were flutes.
1,2,3,4.
Together, they cost.
Filled with champagne, they cost more.
The barman took a drop
Of angostura, put it on a sugar cube;
It fizzed like the end of the world
In the champagne.
And together, this cost enough
To build a private battleship out of the entertainer’s float
Bobbing in the water in front of the hotel
After he was done singing his cover songs,
And push it far, far out beyond the other bar on the pier
And move it through the palm fronds of light diminishing every night
Until end.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
