Spill

The young furred tongue
unravels with languor by the oily water,
lapping three cautious times –

a crimson sock blanches dark,
a rich scent, a sense of things,
not knowing the better

uncouth and ill-equipped to discern,
the palette shrinks.
“Let them believe they are fit for the work,

and that the work is fit for them.”
In line, each of them in line, let them love their roles;
hungered, sick,

swilling fresh coatings, churn, a gastric impulse –
gracious nodding, stifled belch and back to the
spot by the rainbow water that puddles

on the factory floor.

11:01

a gruff rusted bell
 thick pages
a cheek with
    impressed our
last weakened blow to the chin
        a bell
clapper a cheek with
a clapped hand
    the cheek with
the bell chimed the hour
late
it is time to turn in

Holding a place

Good old bldg.blog - it is such a rich collection of the weird and wonderful, intelligently written and with a broad scope. I sometimes wish I could just swallow whole chunks of it and store them up to digest whenever I'm feeling despondent or a little fed up with work. I've learned all manner of things, and I was going to link a few up here - but to be honest, every time I dig to find an old article I stumble across something else. Just go, click at random and let your mind wander...

In other news, there's work afoot here and here. Both seem to be getting pretty positive responses. The numberstations work is for Futureradio - and I would take the time to talk a bit more about what we're doing, but it's very much an ongoing process so I may hold off on the grand reveal at the moment.

What other thoughts? Nothing major - no sudden outrages or laments to share. But perhaps that is a good sign.

the hark a wish

On completing and then strolling
to draw the chill between the teeth
watching what flaps and stalls
in its flight across the territory
Catching bird song also
taking in that same chill
envious then not wishing
to be so- applauding whatever
pastoral things should fill the mind
at these time Is this sense angered
the disturbed welcome the hark a wish
to sit on the bench even in this
is it even a consideration
sparked frosty layer that tips
the snow see even now
treading into the depth of it
surprise at how far the foot
goes I am grumpy I don’t
have a way to swallow that
bird whatever breed it is
or rather I know if I was
to do so it would not be
its pleasant song but my
own dry caw-caw that came from
the belly the throat the tongue
but then
sitting on the bench
feeling pity and the shame of
pity and perhaps even the shame
in shameful pity
and painfully aware my behind is
it is enough to take
in the chill and offer
our respective songs

A Fresh Day Beloved

a naïve
beloved flag falls under the tramp tramp of orthopaedic shoes not jack boots, there is no
beloved requirement for the them – a
beloved correction adjusted elbows scrape merrily against work desks all harrowed I lust after all women in
beloved trench coats a man troubles the pitted tar paper roof with his besocked and beloved feet
he tingles at the tips of his toes and steadies himself with slow
beloved windmills of the arms He is assured and
beloved – he is quick and
beloved – he can barely breath
beloved for the quiver of fluster excitement a breath pours right out of him
beloved the breeze troubles his clothes but he is not unsteady because of the
beloved wind

Technorati Tags: beloved, poem, avant-garde

Michael Clark

I like Michael Clark - I went to a show of his at the Norfolk & Norwich Festival last year where people walked out. One person sitting in front of me stuck his fingers in his ears for most of it. People were dancing nude in one bit. I felt mildly assaulted, abused but largely pleased with what I'd seen. It was a wonderful working of punk rock classics into contemporary dance - followed by a new bit of choreography for Rites of Spring. I went for a couple of reasons; one being that my (then) girl was a dancer and I was keen to understand what on earth contemporary dance was about. It's an alien world, and a little overwhelming - I don't have any background in dance to contextualise. It becomes like trying to understand thermodynamics without any grasp of basic science. I endevour though, and have got far enough to accept that contemporary dance is more than one stream of ideas, or one stream of practice. The term is as non-descriptive as saying 'contemporary literature' - you end up with a general context, but no grasp of what tremendous theoretical diversity exists underneath the surface. Ho-hum, there might be a conclusive point to all this - but I fear it may just be as simple as I like Michael Clark.
 
 

It's not who you know...

There is a certain issue I have with people who spout the old adage about success being related to “who you know.” Nothing has prompted me to blog about it, other than the usual grumbling tums and occasional discussion – but I feel it’s necessary to highlight a few home truths about this belief that the entire arts industry functions on nepotism and an extensive ‘old boy’ network. Sure, there is a degree of that – as with any industry where you have established figures that have dedicated lifetimes to their work – inevitably they do look inwards to people they know, rather than trying to pull up the young sprogs. The reasoning behind this may not always be fair, but it’s no different from working in HR, or architecture, or town planning, or being a chef, or – well, you get the point. The truth is, the world is not like the Apprentice – you don’t wander into an office as an unknown and suddenly find yourself a career. Sometimes it’s blind luck, sometimes it’s hard work and sometimes a friend gives you a boost. Creative practitioners have a tendency to feel the world owes them a living, and consequently that every events organiser, publisher, agent or drug dealer should bow down in awe of their talent. If they don’t receive this immediate praise they tend to reach immediately for our old friend, “oh, of course – it’s who you know.” Consequently they tend to go one of two ways: complete unhinged resentment of “the system”, or alternatively debasing themselves in order to get ahead. The latter of the two is sometimes harder to stomach than the former, though it is more consistently entertaining for the casual observer. I’ve seen some wonderful displays of forlock tuggery – but it’s unfair to relate them, as I’m sure I’ve done a fair bit of it in my time too. First stone and all that eh?

Yes, it’s true that we all need to network and make strong contacts. I’m not totally throwing out that idea, and please don’t feel that my conscience is clear when I talk about people dismissing others out of hand on the basis that they know the ‘right people’. I’ve done it too – but I hope I’ve done it with a sense that some of their success is as much down to talent and enthusasim for their work. Knowing some-one with connections is only half the story – in truth, if you are good at what you do then people will want to help you – and if they don’t? Well it’s no reflection on you or them. Perhaps they are busy, or preoccupied with their careers, perhaps they don’t like what you do. If that really is the case then don’t force the issue, move on – this unhealthy notion that there is only one gatekeeper who holds all the keys is not going to get you anywhere. It’s a sad thing that people take such a mentality where they must either force themselves into a situation or onto a person in order to succeed. The world of performance poetry I come from has always been pretty kind to me, but I’ve never really felt that I’ve needed to turn a trick to proceed further. The friends I have made have been friends first and foremost, and while I may benefit from the occasional advice and support, I like to believe that it’s done as a kindness rather than a sense of duty.

So to those who rage about the old boys – well, one day those old boys might do you a favour – with no askance of compromise or sexual favours. What then? Will you flatly refuse? Course not. It’s flattering when people want to help, why would you slap them down? Yes, the whole industry is biased, flawed and messy – but when a hand reaches down and tickles your tum, have the good grace to roll over and enjoy the compliment. If it doesn’t? Well there will be other hands and other times, enjoy what you do – don’t look for favours to do all the work for you.
Ah, I’ve not made quite the coherent, centred argument that I’d hoped for. Perhaps we can discuss it some more?