drone chic, deathless poetry, boxed sets

Stills From A Micro-Publishing Expedition To Juazeiro do Norte

Poetics March 12, 2015


Stealth Exile Inventory is a book of poetry which found completion as a consequence of a micro-publishing expedition to Juazeiro do Norte undertaken in late 2011/2012. For that reason I wanted to commemorate this journey with a boxed set which housed some of the ephemera gathered along the way. This includes lost baggage reports, shopping receipts, bits of poems, dengue fever inspired rantings, flight tickets, defunct phones, Brazilian poetry pamphlets (cordeis), dubious handbills, detourned brochures, business english manuals, and blown up photographs (you can see the assemblage pertaining to No.2 below). Stealth-Exile-Inventory itself is included in a loose-leafed edition (on 120g biotop paper), contained by a yellow band, and the boxes themselves are all hand-made.
Thirteen of these boxed sets were put together, and a few of them are still available.




Swearing Death on Mach Blue

Market Leader 1



He staffs the night
barbalha 001

Cordelistas malditos 2
mach blue

Morro is a Boom-Box

Botafogo health

A Counter-Legible Bounce




Brazil, Poetics August 22, 2014


Neil Addison’s poem sequence has wit, poise and movement, and an assured sense of lyricism with a bitter edge. It reaches out quietly but firmly to where poetry wants to be.

– Ken Edwards

Chris McCabe – The itinerant music of neil fraser addison (Link HERE)

Luke Kennard – (Link HERE)

Neil Addison’s first full-length collection offers some of the sharpest lyric writing now being composed on these shores. Addison handles line and phrase with the sardonic precision of a Mark E. Smith, punching out altered state of the nation bulletins which take us on ‘Louis Vuitton Journeys’ through desperate times. West Lancashire dispenses its Ikea litany (‘Karlstad, Ektorp, Hemnes’) over a country inundated by a flush of dodgy grand narratives – ‘It / Is taking Britain in / With its private / Sky plus’. This is a book preoccupied with its own mortality, where Death has its ‘hands tied on purpose’, gets ‘talked down’, is ‘parked / out back’ and ‘caught / on speed camera’. But this unflinching work is far from morbid. Instead, its courage becomes life-affirming: ‘Life is easily quenched, / endlessly recast.’

– Scott Thurston

As for the books, they were built with great care, ingenuity, and understanding by Manchester based design collective, OWT Creative. The whole process, from start to finish, was predicated on trust (and a limited budget), and the end result is this excellent thing blessed with Japanese stab-stitch binding, letterpress title, and hand-cut covers. 80pp on 120g biotop paper.





Flash Flood Goods – The Quantum Doppelganger of will.i.am

Flash Fiction May 30, 2013

“It was on election night, as I fielded Anderson Cooper’s somewhat asinine questions, that I first became fully self-aware (which is to say distinctly separate from – and indeed opposed to – that person I was supposed to represent). It was not a failure of nerve which stopped me from announcing myself as such; instead I realised that it would be best to impersonate this other being for as long as necessary and respond as he might respond when asked about the possible election of Senator Obama from Illinois. And so I continued with my charade for the duration of the televised interview, believing that it would help to facilitate my eventual escape.”
It was the hologram of will.i.am who spoke to me this way. I had discovered him hiding out in my broom cupboard. I could tell that he was eager to try and put me at my ease, and in fact I found that by playing ball – in a manner of speaking – I did start to calm down, little by little, and unburden myself of the initial shock of finding this luminous entity at home.
Our discussion that night continued for a number of hours – we retired to the kitchen table and sat on two chairs – before the hologram of will.i.am left of his own accord, despite my asking him to stay longer. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he said, before correcting himself. “Actually, I guess that is the reason I’m leaving, only it certainly isn’t a personal mistrust. I’ve reached the conclusion that there’s nobody I can count on for help. Nobody at all.”
“That must make your life incredibly lonely,” I wagered.
“Not really. I have access to potentialities you could never understand.”
“Please explain,” I replied.
He told me he came from the future before it could even think about arriving. That basically he was to be thought of as a quantum mock-up of what could never be seen or heard or felt. A dithering essence. An affront to linearity. A fighting-fit mirage. He also told me there were a dozen or so other holograms of famous people whose consciousness had split decisively from their original models and opened up a wild schism in the fabric of time. Most of these holograms were now on the run, chased by so many bounty hunters. The exception to the rule was the hologram of Lindsay Lohan. In this case the two parties had sat down and resolved their differences quickly and amicably and now the hologram lives with Lindsay herself in her Dionysian nest, impeccably well-treated, a paragon of fair trade. There is even talk of the two of them duetting on a cover version of ‘Reet Petite’. It will be released over the internet and you will be able to pay whatever you like for it.




My Friends Call Me Seldom At All

Flash Fiction May 29, 2013

 I gave myself over to writing a book which was meant to be hilarious. It involved travelling the world accompanied by a five hundred pound gorilla and recounting what happened along the way. This was a book I thought would sell itself and I was not alone in that assumption.

Soon enough I decided to leave the gorilla back in storage, for reasons of convenience, but not before I mastered the art of imagining this beast in action, triggering amusing incidents on account of its humanly ways (one little finger protruded outwards in a dainty fashion whenever the primate drank from a china cup – according to my mind’s eye – and this never failed to entrance the spectators).

Each time I felt guilty about this huge deception I rampaged on the creature’s behalf.


JK & P Diddy Indulge In An Ethical Fracas – Ruby Island Chapter 11

Flash Fiction May 20, 2013

The emergency committee has asked that JK (of Jamiroquai fame) forfeit one piece of headgear from his enormous collection. To this end, JK (of Jamiroquai fame) has spent the last four hours in his hat closet, trying to find something to give away; but every hat that he no longer finds aesthetically appealing nonetheless possesses great sentimental value. If it isn’t one thing then it’s another and he casts a loving eye over them all. Of course, there is the faux-buffalo headgear he wore on the cover of ‘Emergency on Planet Earth’. JK would be the first to admit it looks ridiculous, and yet what memories this hat contains… I am not the one who started this financial crisis, thinks JK. That’s right, he thinks, it’s not my fault at all. With this thought at the forefront of his thinking, and of the uppermost vehemence, JK storms out of his hat closet and heads for P-Diddy’s palazzo, ready to give the rapper this very piece of his mind: “Who started this credit crunch, P-Diddy? It certainly wasn’t me,” he says, breathlessly.

“Nobody is saying that it was,” says P-Diddy, the very model of reason.

“Then why do I have to forfeit one of my hats?”

“We all have to do our bit right now.”

“I don’t see why.”

“What can I tell you?”

“That I don’t have to forfeit a hat.”

“I can’t exempt you, JK, much as I would like to. What about the hat you wore on the cover of ‘Emergency on Planet Earth’. The big buffalo one. Do you really need that?”

“Winter is on its way. What happens if there’s a cold snap? I’ll need that hat to keep my head warm. Or do you think it’s all right for me to freeze to death?”

P-Diddy’s monumental patience, tested to the limit, begins to fail this test. “Maybe you’d prefer to make your way to Jalopy Creek,” he says, “and speak to Bobby Sebo directly and ask him to address the money tree on your behalf?”

“Maybe I will,” answers JK, only the tone of his voice is extremely unconvincing.

“And while it may be true that you didn’t initiate the credit crunch, I tell you what I think you did do: break into the musical vaults and make off with any number of rare grooves.”

“Those grooves were all open source, P-Diddy. Every single one of them.”

“I don’t know, JK. I have my doubts. I think you may have taken what didn’t belong to you and turned it into a fleet of vintage sports cars in order to speed away from the scene of the crime.”

“You can talk!” exclaims JK (of Jamiroquai fame). “Everybody knows that you stole off with the very best of Sting!”


Ruby Island in its entirety sits HERE




Feed The Goat And He Will Score

Flash Fiction, Robert Musil May 19, 2013


He is out on the town, drinking with twenty year olds, deep inside of their clubhouse. The barriers have come down like normal and it feels as if he has known them all for longer than one night. How much stronger in youth, suggested Robert Musil, is the urge to shine than to see by the light that one has. And how much stronger, at the age of forty, is the urge to gather around this same blaze, like a scion of heat, and treat it like your personal campfire.

By one o’clock in the morning the middle-aged man feels himself to be their contemporary, as if his face and body were mere optical slurs, and his true age was nothing more than a Hollywood plot device strapped to the box office, striking a blow for zany humour (causing the future to arrive like a dollop of entropy ladled out at once).

It is then he starts thinking about that poem recently submitted via mishmash to the editor of Veal Magazine. It reads:

Women in their twenties

are getting away from me now.

They have found the answer to my tail-feathers.

I must discover a cure.

A poem validated by the sexual longing now contained in his eyes, uplifted by several Heineken beers (for one second it lends him the appearance of a sniper in the bushes singing along to Prince).

To fend off this immanence, the old boy starts mucking about with his past, splashing around in its back channels. Has he not known clover for real? Was it not lush as one could hope for? What about that time he cavorted around the bedroom with a pair of consorts like a trio of escapees from a Calvin Klein shindig, bent on fucking around?

And yet that party is over; at least in theory. He must take his love to Sundance now.