A lot of it has passed since I last posted here in the heart of the blackest fluid, the most noxious of semi-solids, the darkest of mucoused matter. The dark mucus blog. It's been long enough that I forgot my password and it took some hassle to get that sorted out today. So, this might be an occasion to turn that around, to visit this space a bit more, to reach out and share the stickiness again. Perhaps, hmmmm?

At the very least, I need to force my work down people's throats a little more, force them into becoming my benefactors, for I have come to a point where there is no longer any financial support available for me: I'm basically unemployable, and the money wolves have their teeth in my ankles, they want their money back, I'm running as fast as I can to escape them, but they've got me, like they've got everybody else, and I owe them so much fucking money that my only solution for the short term is to sell stuff, and the first things to go are my words, so buy a book and let's get things rolling so that I can, at the least, afford tube fare and vegetables until some office finally decides to let me in and offers me a further pittance.

I hereby introduce you to my newest little darling, my little nasty collection:

That's right. I've revived yt communication (at least temporarily?), which I had initially quit because it was far too much work to keep up, but now that I'm working hard at having no work, I might as well keep myself busy. Debuting in Germany last week, DWARF SURGE (or, dwarf surge, on certain copies, because there were only so many capital W's available in the limited number of dry-transfer lettering sheets I had on hand) has come into the world in a screaming bloody mess. It contains poems that will appear as part of a Veer book sometime next year. And a number of them are also already at The Claudius App, but wouldn't you love to hold your very own creamy card hand-sewn version in your hands? I think so. And I would love to send one to you, so I invite you to come on down to the little button on the right-hand side of this page (or see me in person) and indulge yourself in what may be shoddy handiwork, but is nice enough to look at and pretty fun to read and get confused by. This is my trade, words are my labour, and the world needs freakish words for hideous times.
So please, buy my book. It has 28 pages, it looks not bad, it reads not bad, and I will be forever grateful to you for your support.


P.S. I'm on the lookout for a guillotine, because I'm tired of hand-cutting everything. And somebody stole my long-armed stapler, and I know who you are, so come forward with it already. I am not amused. You've had it for years.


and now

The absolutely gorgeous edition of Down you go as made by Richard Owens is pretty much disappeared. If you're lucky there might be a fewwww more available at the little launchy festivity planned for October. That's right. Oktoberfest belongs to me this year.

It also belongs to Francis Crot. Get his HAX at Punch Press while you can. It is stunning in every way.

More details to come. Prepare your poetic lederhosen for HAXbruit 2011.



I have a new book:

Down you go, or,
NĂ©gation de bruit

loving assembled by Richard Owens

Punch Press

You should buy a copy. It looks purdy.


what about the Chair thinks
it’s a spine pathetically mimetic and all
empty we are sure a demon fills it
when it sits there middle-roomed
solitary. creaks
for protection the Chair should
be occupied at all times suffocated
by the body colonial
and the body may stay
and the body keeps guard
and the body makes lethargy ok
in the name of filling the Chair
forever and ever, it


The Eleventh Month

At the sitroom blog you will find the informations for November's weekly information sessions. Readings, performances, things to look at, &c.




My collaboration with Nick Scott and Lucy Hall will be performed tomorrow (Thursday 20 May) at Wigmore Hall. Our piece is called "Beige House".

It is meant to be live-streamed online, so if you can't make it to the Wigmore in person (it's a free concert), then you should be able to view it on the Voiceworks website, which is still under construction but should be functioning for the performance tomorrow.


SoundEye 2009

some information about the forthcoming festivities in Cork City this july.
my little sister julia has been very busy making lovely things. i think she makes the clothing to order? some samples here. she's also a professional tree pruner and landscaper. and a certified esthetician.


foolsday scrape for change

The trial and execution by beheading of CAPITALISM featuring the Final Repentance of the Accused for Crimes against the Planet.

at 11am they ride

for lunch at the bank
cake & brains & glass
red from moorgate
green from liverpool street
silver from london bridge
black from cannon street


from naturalised state of emergency

that hell quack boot stomp again
kitchen shakes sprays filth water & cat parts what. What
what is the end Of rolled bubbles, shot eyes, every sharp-slip in the sink
hideous, calm.
what object wants to always fly. what's the biggest angry. what's the most Hurricane yes roll again the tantrum for what. there was no sound - what
should have been known


hears & thinks I have spoken
something other than gangrene I
say my lips are peeling & it hurts
to tear the skin. simple rot is
this the utopian sweetbreath the
ladyfighter must ooze or else
could it be! she is only her & what
is without is without is why it hurts
to Say, what am I to say beyond the head
"Drink this & be saved


for while I sleep
at bones the slathered pillowcase
my greasy habit hell be silent
for the salt. one drip, two
for wet spots on the nice wall
my shake is quiet, the wound sound
I have no hate I have no hate
I'm sugar with an angel's zero mouth


then sleeping among heads, buildings, things. I came here to - but my lungs are Twitched these days & there I choke & leak, rattle, toothgrind with 3,467 skeletons
behind the fridge
whooping blue with burnt hair & paint & glue A Mouth
of scissor blades blest with ash and bone dust -
Cats! Paper balls! arachnids, Everything!
To sleep, to sleep among heads & wool in every orifice I came here
to. but this guerilla nightmath rips up floor & kicks & grabs &
pincushions my kidneys un
still crawling over the body combustible


said the basic general sensation
is this is not
who visits the room the hair the poem
needle-theatre pitch or spittle
off the battery sting, that sizzle, bitter,
love or drip turning hair
we'll open the casing & be found, plucked out, used & cast to
to jelly, to irrelevance to drip, err arm length & where are you you


the basic general sensation is immediate & is morphine & every trace snaps
slow an accordion drag, single burning reel move
(What's Move to broken dogs in the next cubicle
howling on their tubes & tearing from machines
the fireworks Pretty & human as hair.
that long spewed glimmer where I'm tied down & asked my name
The date. This place. what about your head. Do you Can you How do you
mean to calculate the body shake, the nerve zap numbers
What do you mean you're sinking uncontrollably


now 416, pettiness, machinery.
we open the casing we discover forks, engine oil, pulmonary indications, crushed buttons. offal, ossicle, epidermal crumbs. &. the suspiciously organized presence of green lines in a row:
its geometry interrupted only by the frights of landscape it projects: pointyhat barley huts, wind farms, electrical pylons. we suspect a haystack lingers & it's already inside with its simulated weltschmerz its urge for digestive well-being. I walk among with my bowel diary, screaming proper algebraic magick, oh, night math, go away. oh shapes, you speakers. this shit for posterity, as prophecy, for mapping omas in the furniture where coins & mice are burrowed, constipated by sea sponge & eager to be found, plucked out, used & used & used til the parts wear, the cavities dry. we will open the casing & husks will tumble out, empty things, awed. & we'll be hungry. & with all this slicing


to awake & see
the sudden heart & all its pinholes glowing its hairy spark, the waiting water takes muzg fuzzy with blood & Boring cell flakes, well. Our water hears all skins. It's thinking. Our water thrusts wire into paper, to kneecap. Our water features the stiff dance of barnacled students frotting with txt, what barricade what careful lack of planning what so unlike locked interior & how am I to answer


"It was like I was a fake person, like
I didn't really exist. I was just there",
she said of living for so long with a machine
pumping her blood I was quickly removed
& shoved down the throat of Matmos & oh the jelly,
irritating mouth-muck with no words but eroto-gobble
well I have no politic I never said I could do more than pervert
& there's the zero gravity:
come out & undress

untitled (32" x 22")

an oldie (2006)



from untitled spinal series (49"x29")



from A Discourse on Vegetation & Motion

(forthcoming from Critical Documents)

today I battle Aphids with oily Hands


today I prepare to stab
the larval Thing inching


today I'm ready to succumb to a Flashbulb


today the Cat is Blood


today there is no Horizon there
is leching & Froth the whole
Window goes white in fear
I must undress for Money


today, Epiphany:
I am Ally Sheedy
ripping Scalp for Dandruff
to snow onto the Desk
(& the Void is white
& to be blind in not Darkness
& to disappear…)


today I swallow Hair & Bees
I knit Mistruths, I crocodile


today the fascist
Insect that preys
upon the People
my Face in Two

sb and vaneigem (48"x28")

untitled thing (58"x44")

new curtain (84"x48")

from BLACK GLOVE SERIES (56"x31")