a quick 12 syllable game to warm the heart strings....

urban archeaologist seeks e sourcerer
for aquisitive days out and magicke nights in...
must like digging, travel and all kinds of landscapes

More installations and interventions.. Writing The Visual

I think I said something like this:

"...some kind of low resistance plastic linked by a system of tubes would work... you'd need a pump and an oscillator - or something to blow air in and out - but , basically - everything you're talking about can be made analogously to the internal combustion engine. it's all about displacement, pistons, pressure, vacuums - that sort of thing. I can also see how the visual presentation of your ideas might become more achievable - and interesting - by considering the basic principle you are dealing with - the absorption and re-distribution of energy - across several different platforms: you can look at mechanical engineering; kinetic models; automata etc. You can also look at the idea of absorption and re-distribution from the perspective of medicine and biology - particularly shi at su and massage and the internal absorption and re-distribution of energy in terms of in and out flows of food and emotions - which I know interest you.

I said all that and more. All for free. They don't want me to teach tho - so stop reading.

ps

Thin slices of city, augmented in every detail. Wiki webbed with invitations to annotate in detail. Landscapes with lists. Photographs, paintings - whatever.

Social Urban Archeaology for E sourcerers.

Yep, that's it.

Christmas Day (An Homage To Nick Park, Bob Dylan, VAn Morrisson and the Proclaimers and Plainsong)

With the wide mouth of a great poet we say:

"Morecambe and Wise" and "More Cheese?"

It's Christmas Day
The years failings will make us cry
We remember godfull or Godless to take stock.

-more or less palatable-

Nick takes Van to desert island
in camper-Van among the rolling hills
as we go from market town to market town
stepping lightly in homage to the giants of word and song
who did not stint

And we look up and we remember
very few things
from which to make a litany
or obituary.

At 11 there will be no common message
Popes, Queens and Cardinals do not speak together
over our internet connections...

Whether good, bad, Flaherty or German Byte -
We will not know
'til his littany written, he, wrapping his last
(and billious as a snake after a rat)

ascends to mince pie heaven
and Boxing Day
The football....

All's well in England

naughty boy blues

ah sung mah soul
to the devil
ah didnt sing it right
ah wasnt on the level

ah got plastic hands
an mah legs r made of metal
but ah never sold mah song
devils watchin on the kettle

ah got plastic hands
and mah legs are made of mettle
ah sung mah song
devils waitin on the kettle

AH, THE DEAD PEOPLE
HOW WE DONT CARE
THE DEAD PEOPLE R
DEAD THEY LOSE THEIR
STARE. FULL STOP STOP
THEM ME HIM AND HEIR
STOP ME FROM SCOTLAND
WE ARE ALDEADY THEIR
HAIR FLAIR HAIR SUIT BEAR
ITS CREEPING OUTWARS
AND THATS NOT RIGHT
TO PAY A TRIBUTE YOU
HAVE TO BE INTERESTED
AND BREAK ALL THE RULES
end

eat kids

i got me some cheek bones
no mashed potato
no dignity
no fairplay
altruism
is not a word
 (make up yr own feckin meter) u use everyday


I want to say thankyou
weak by 'please'
love to look
smile and
weak at the knees


got mashed potato
and cheese

those brill eating fat bastards...

...whales

e-cards from me to me

Art:
Bride and groom; batman and robin; chalk and cheese; yin and yang; civil and criminal; morecambe and wise;

Silk screens; silhouettes; motifs; wot taz said...; brands subverted. Commodification of infancy and infantiling of the visual.

Bridal suite to suit a suit collage Tom and Jerry onto bride and groom; the veil;

Read up on wedding ettiquette.

His n hers; tax; children child benefit; tax; pre-nup; divorce.

Fathers for justice.

Salt and pepper; fish and chips; executive and judiciary; crime and punishment; love and marriage; bride and groom; dagenham and redbridge; laurel and hardy; rich and poor;

Still life: cake decorations.

A series of images in different media....

Notes: the commodificatiom of infancy and the infantiling of craft...

Can I cut strips of mount which can be decorated? Also clothes film pva idea... Health and safety detritus etc all to surround the lovely couple?gender roles kids inequality whose dream? All as frames? Also use mountcutter to male concentric squares of decorated mass to very very very grandly and overcomplicatedly - perhaps frame the MC.

Or,use wedding photography conventions, baby showers etc the nct,  think on...

1.       Norwich station single living as avfundamental social problem (see Japanese study)

http://www.crfr.ac.uk/reports/slpresentations/Richard%20Ronald.pdf

2. The Cambridge Train: helen gibart thevsedgwick vollection Bertie Brighton and Charles Darwin

Rascal flats
I spent all that time trying to be nice....

I hear
Rme ooblaa aaa haas jasa of a baby which stops ad they do and I wait foe the second ooombla which will usually be even louder, am on swimming g pool chvrpoms. I have time to study the words of another parent as the second burst never comes. A clever parent has diverted it and problem solved... I think. The second daddy says no Im only telling you once and if I tell u again I'm going to be angry. Then Wales eat brill not fish... No they font daddy in memo they eat fish. Killer whales eat fish.., angel scotter discusses andvthdn daddy had happy birthday sung as my sauna sweat dries. It'd not his birthday, thi and now it's mummysvzbywY.

Tractor seats and stamps...Bathroom cab. Drawers for bedroom. Oytobox mobile launderette idea for festivals etc... Utility and devised theatre performance where you also hey your laundry sone... Design and cost it appeoachvtheayrr xompany and get funding... Messge in bottles for framing

connections

connections: where am i?
all alone
can I have some fish
no
its cold

if not 'alistair the scot, then who am i?' (words collected from experience of others)

nothing owed
and see what tommorrow brings
goodnight to the crack whore
and yes to the x box
vicariously,
out.

Chocolate Hostages

releasing the chocolate hostages
is no more than a euphemism for 'dropping off the kids at the pool'

enough said

I have 19 minutes left on this public terminal computer and a man with bleached hair has 'Europe' as his ringtone. Twat.
He is in his forties and is seated beside a young foreign language speaker with eyebrow pircings who appears to be in blondie's awe.
I'm only really saying what I see and should go get a paint brush or a camera. I'll go for camera.
As if there were secrets in development.

In reality, the eye is the best camera if not the longest lense
It doesn't get caught up in mixed metaphors, or doggerrel, easily.
Im going to see another human being for cake - which is disgusting on top of the full English with extra black pudding I ve eaten.

But Hey.
What is 'but' in word classification?
Not a preposition? or conjunction?
Yes, preposition
so: "But hey", is 'perposition-exclamation'

mmmm

A List

There Zounds!
However Jeez!

or maybe its  a conditional conjunction?

So -

Indifference by charm
made Alan sad
lost the best girl
he ever had

his diver got fleas
in Brighton
and washer insurance
by triton

a sunken eyed mother
who's dead made wishes
and ruined the whole
limerick

Stomache cramp

And leave the dog out of it

Send no tributes
ask not of your wallet
try not too hard
to remember me

because I know
that on all of my
pestilence
I am unforgettable

and you will never have to
grasp
or make up songs
unsung

we ve done the do
and we singed the dong

so get on with it
you were loved as well as u couldve been

pass it on

twats

x

i think im but a fleeting thing and not like me to knowit, i come around but twice a year and then i usually blow it

Xmas Decorations.

When blank for words,
fire silently; the calibre
matters to catchers.


To be counted
would be flattering deception
when you're a part of


this cryptic war.
No crosswords and no space for notes
on your epaulets.....

Kettering

One hour to London
the end.

A child's poem: legal aid withdrawn for divorce proceedings

and I, i will be king
and you, you will be queen
and nothing - nothing -
will keep us together

just for one day.

HOW CAN I SHAG YOU WHEN YOU'RE DEAD? (MY BIT)*

*(THE LEGAL BIT or

'SMALLPRINT'):

Andrew Marvell. 1621–1678



357. To His Coy Mistress



   HAD we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Lady, were no crime

We would sit down and think which way

To walk and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side 5

Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the Flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews. 10

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires, and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast, 15

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, Lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate. 20

   But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found, 25

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song: then worms shall try

That long preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust: 30

The grave 's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

   Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires 35

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapt power. 40

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun 45

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

one of my bits

this is my bit
this bit is my time
and my justice
and the wait for a cup of tea
this bit is the bit I will see you in
after which you will see me

and how....?

As a fawning feline fingered file o'faxier?
A svelte pelt of girded pinstripe
without the pins?
This bit was never to be negotiated
I make no sacrifice to obedience
for abraham, goat, hen or cow

I am a two bit free man
and i'm coming for you now

You patronising, lying cunt from the legal profession

I could kill you with my teeth
but I choose to talk to you in hell instead
How would you set out those particulars?
In bits of your own choosing - no doubt

You will leave my children to me
Or I will seek re-course to your bits
outside of due process;
I will allocate each to a fast track of it's own
and bury independently with tax revenues.

Leave to end sir? (granted).

Stand Up Notes (one Day)

1. posh mother of young child, affixing flip flops to a two year old (just like mummy's) changing two year old into 'swim sox' (just like mummy's). Two year old, not doing well on wet floor, cuts head open on edge of locker: Mummy: "See we have to learn how to do that"

2. There'll be more when Im in the mood.

More Ideas

A circuit of people
steps down to nothing
in plasticine and foam-board
and all the vagaries of that
and difficult fastenings
glue?
Somewhere a potted plant
and an absent studio cat
some pictures and
maybe a broken chair
beneath a 'false' floor
to do...

little strips of city
thin slices augmented and illustrated
stylistically -
something between architecture and archaeology
with tags: source; material; make; model; ownership; stock price; other interests; country of origin
that kind of thing
about two inches wide and as long as they need to be

Ideas For Buildings

The Centre For Malfeasance And Remedial Therapies

The National Emporium Of Lies And Liars

Dads Cafe

The Agoraphobic Institute

The Doodling Institute

The Pest Control Regulator's Office

The Office Of Laziness

The National Centre For The Re-Habilitation Of The Conscientious Objector

Slave Trade Apologists Guild

The Debtors College Of Licensed Guilt And Inequity Management

Centre For Lost Pets

Anger Management Institute

The National Collection Of ASBO's

The Regional Alliance Of Fat Children Headquarters

The Centre Of Forgetfulness

Wax Museum Of X Factor Apologists And Holocaust Denial

The Centre Of Forgetfulness

The British Institute Of Melamine Floor Layers

Centre For The Homeless

The Poetry Regulators Office

The Gay Truck Drivers' Benevolent Society HQ

The Bastard Institute

The Smelly People Refuge

The Scottish Gallery Of Dustbins

National Repository And Disposal Unit For The Poor

The Guild Of Excuses For The Rich

The Remedial Centre For Anthropomorphology

Gay Grandparents Benevolent Society

The Nail Technicians Library

The People's Centre For The Historic Study Of The Sun-Bed

The Dislexic Gould

The Society Of Forgetfulness

The National Re-homing Centre For Postman's Lost Red Elastic Bands

The Aural Library Of Racist Chants

The Toe Nail Clippings Collection

The Flea Simulators Pension Authority

Conservative Repayment And Posthumous Partying Yearly (CRAPPY) aka - The Centre For The Campaign For A Yearly Celebration Of Margaret Thatcher's Death.

Heaven's Fundraisers Pension Fund Management Society HQ

Ministry Of Wincing

Ministry Of Tweets

The Tweet Regulators Office

hippy shit

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass... It's about learning to dance in the rain..

Tariq Aziz

they killed him in cold blood and he was our friend
we loved you tariq until the end
but now we realize malficience is the wrong word
and weve drunk too much
to even complain properly
which must make you chuckle in heaven
with your virgins and other
stereotypical jingoistic stereotypicalities
its nice to forget big words Tariq
we hope you feel the same
and I hope im not guilty
when the long run ends
of writing to martyrs
who should have been friends
in heaven?

Grandad Ted.

trick outnumbered
swansong
deteriorates
ameliorateable
decriptions
of oafism
and tongues
I sit with my mother and we speak
and I remember cold moulded boot dirt from on the stairs
her anger
a hole in the wall
the carpet, the cat,
amblings
cockington woodwork
the red nosed bastard and livingstone fagin
David Koresh
77 Stotfield Rd
Robin Hood
They all come to no good don't they
Do they not?
Do they?
Who?
Do we?
The butchers shop. Details of thirst and dizziness
a pain in the lower back from exhaustion and hedge hopping
dehydrated hedges hopped for your great dissatisfaction and apples taken at will
Frogs smashed with wooden mallet
Gnomes nicked.
No PCSO's
The Googly; the gollywogs
The buggers nicked 'is ball
OOOOOOh Liam
"Come And Get Your Dinner"
in the fan club
with David Harpin, Trevor Cole and Maurice Seagrave.
through the bushes
between the fence
mrs hughes not in?
apples.
Jam sandwiches, weetabix, egg bacon and sliced potatoes fried and dripping and bread and beans and cheese grilled straight on to the plate.

Cleaning Blue Children

No
Again? No
Blue again no?
No blue again, OK?
OK, blue again, no way!
You ok? blue again? no way
OK blue, you again? no way home.
Children! You blue again? OK, no way. Home!

Cleaning With Children

Cleaning
Angry cleaning
Shouting angry cleaning
Shouting with angry cleaning
Shouting children with angry cleaning
Angry with children, shouting, cleaning, murder.
Angry blue shouting, cleaning with children, murder.
Cleaning with children: Screaming angry shouting blue murder.

evidence

oooooooooooohhhhh
bum
idid it again
oops
c

fear

i broke off
 for fear - or something-
of i do not know

why do we not say what we think?
why do we not know what we think?

what?

i dont know

endsong

the eyes followed me round the room
twerent his fault
i gave away the sex
but you werent interested

youthspeak

by way to clarify
and demistify
to open up my wall to eye
isay: this:
i and i
we are
k

the matter

you'll say:
"I texted him yesterday"
and the timimg will fall off
and he wont say anything
coz he's dead
but there might be something
about lloyd cole
and that will sound trite
because this is the time for dying
and the time is now
and it has been for a while
since we stopped living
selfishly
but, and, off-
taht'll be it
without ceremony
or something you should have said...

end of the matter

Ja - texting...

there's nothing left for vanity,
chastity or insanity
I and I are in agreement
a thumb with it's own life is clever
when the owner's dead.

browsers welcome

i wonder where i'll be if i log on to you tube and just click the main link in 24 hours
(line one)
That was crap
(line two)

postscript
'No Sacrifi - i -i - ice'
by Elton

was the end

need toothpaste

and breakfast

chastity

I'm chased
my willie as good as fell off
the bits of it that did
strangely expanded
on touching the ground
and left a trail of desire
I cannot explain
it chased me to the left
and chased me to the right
I had some attention from
ladies of the night
a part of me was, erstwhile found
blocking the entrance
to a football ground
for a crime deemed heinous
they blamed my penis
so now, I am chased.

I was born on the 23rd of July 1968. I don't have any more information about that event, except that my mother always said: “Never again” First Memories: buried somewhere is a memory I have had, but one which has not lately returned, of a flat over a butcher's shop on Cockington Road in Bilborough, Nottingham. I just remember being carried up the stairs in a cot. I moved back to a house just around the corner from Cockington Road's butcher shop in Stotfield Road when I was five years old, after a few years in some flats on Old Coach Road in Wollaton. Memory has never served me too well. How do you write the story of your life? I have no idea. Chapter One I don't have specific memories. I'd love to begin with: 'it was a warm sunny morning and my father was up early....etc.', but i don't have any recollection of such details... I am beginnng this story with a profound sense of vagueness and maybe even disinterest. So if it ever gets published – I'll be more surprised than you.

KEEP WALKING

there's a dull thing
on the beach in front of him
and he cant care to bend to
it's being the only thing
around for miles

the world is in mind and

no flat skimmers will need counting today
only a cup of tea at the end of the way
and there is success
in that.

no news is good news.

and aware of every foible,
he listens to the screaming sands
underfoot knowing every pebble
speaks well for the silence

that will be an eternity.
a dog would like his attention
but he will not meet its master,
afraid of any complications

to the perfect flatness
of a sanguine fool
who knows when to
just keep walking...

Chris Eubank Phone Sex Poem (to be read with a lithp...)

Fuck it, write a poem
Dangle it down like it's Christmas..
As if you were sitting on santas knee and
Pretending like you don't know him....

Fuck it go on
Write a poem.

A master of the language
It's a bard that it is that You are
So come, I want now, write me poem
Write it hard come on... That's it

Yes

Mmmmmmmm

That's good.

Click

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

empathy

white-skinned and out of the sun looking,
two of them over-dressed in coats,
thinking, maybe "ah - how gauche - QD and Cheeseburgers"
-maybe- some others, with kids and trainers and a manbag
others - of course - everyone under the sun
with opinions and ideas and the self concept of Rogers
between them and widening - very much between

and getting bigger.

the shopping centre has been condemned
and the Flowerman Of Anglia Square has gone
into these words and others, sometimes hidden
in my own in between - ness.

No meter and no roll off tongue
for anyone and everyone is gone.

All together.

can you write me a ballad?

ok, so you're not in love with this one
its ok to be shackled and torn
if your dad was alive hed be speaking aside
to your mother, crocquet on the lawn

but when he gets back with a monkey on his back
he.ll be sorry youre all trhats been born

and he'll do something big in the morn

yep.

apart from the uninterested words trhe form is intact and genius awaits around patient corners.

pensionable

one summer evening drunk to hell
i sat there nearly lifeless
an old man in the corner sang about a thing called love
and johnny on the juke box sang

thats ok i remember

a pair of brown eyes labelled one to three
yep, thats it, a war song
ol piss head who penned it got his teeth done
which makes us all re-consider

neglect, bravado, war, dentistry
a pair of brown eyes 1, 2, 3,
a thing called love
thank god for mobility scooters and trident

The Fullness Of Time

im wanking over words
im wanking in the moonlit sea
some people sailing by
are walking in the sky

im wanking over mandy maloney
im nowhere near a moonlit sea
no people passing by
or walking in the sky

im wanking over you and me

mixed metaflunfs and bananarama

gazing
now it comes to the fingers and the spread
too much margerine
very bad for the head

at the back pages
and everyone is yellow
to park your soul on double lines
is bad form good fellow

marketing
in the ether
pay paul marry pether
ok said suzanne

and i lost my train again
i lost my train
it was a steamer
in the pouring rain

so i sing a blues song
do a reggae riff
beat away the raindrop
with strict prick squiff

and the chorus go
everything gonna be all right
(repeat)
(repeat)

then it was very sunny or rainy or whatever you Haille

dobheads

Die now boys? trying to think of catchy slogans for the men's movement....

if you've got a big knob then u get used and show your age quicker

Die now boys? trying to think of catchy slogans for the men's movement....

if you've got a big knob then u get used and show your age quicker

"I'll be a Cunt and you'll be a Cat" (and we'll realise that somewhere between the two lies fair play)

Cunt: Nice of you to forgive me
Cat: What's new?
Cunt: Surprises
Cat: usually
Cunt: What's surprised you lately?
Cat: i could ask you the same question
Cunt: the same things always surprise me
Cat: Like what?
Cunt: ok
Cat; Hm..
Cunt: Try this

cunt: I don't think of myself as being nice
cat: youre a cunt
Cunt; but...
Cat: yes?
Cunt: Intelligence
Cat: What about it?
Cunt: What's it good for?
Cat: Don't answer a question with a question.
Cunt: Don't be such a cat.
Cat: Ok, ...so?
Cunt: I asked you first
Cat: what?
Cunt: Dont know - can't remember
Cat: That's probably because you are a cunt as well
Cunt: Thanks.
Cat: You asked me what has surprised me lately
Cunt: Oh Yeah, never mind that though, I was talking about intelligence...
Cat: No you weren't
Cunt: What surprises me about intelligence is that
Cat: you're a cunt - don't forget that..
Cunt; i know
Cat
Cunt: It has no measure on success
Cat: twat.
Cunt: thanks - Cat.

endish

generation Sex

When you've not had blood to keep you

and temporary rich waifs have extended

their needs and wants to suffice you (and they

will have a day and a time to recognise) about

where the butter was spread and where you are

your day will come and pass and all said

it will not matter.

Even the closest (as it seems) will show

true colours

you are alone, but well. Swell.

Ok?

life improvement, death better anticipated.

Macniece was right about snow and chandeliers.

Right, no shame. there's a tendency to leer after the age of 40 which, if not checked or balanced, can develop into a more severe tendency. This could be towards having affairs with any younger woman who can be trapped into believing herself attracted to the older man by means fair or foul or it can be a very large motorbike. whatever.. boring.

Our Lady Of The Moving Pavements?

Madonna's bell chiming sounds on classics like 'Crazy For You' and 'Like A Prayer' invoke a poignancy which only those of us born in the late 60's will really understand. Don't ask me why. This is not an article which has anything to do with music. It has more to do with design and transportation. But you might not realise it. Ok, it has a little to do with both, as they are the only things Angel Scotter has felt moved to think about in any worthwhile way at all this week. The People Of Beccles would be surprised and possibly disappointed, I feel, if I did not trust my instinct and let the truth out:

 I heard 'Like A Prayer' on the radio this morning and was priveliged enough to also witness her video to the song at a children's party recently. It was agreed by the parents present that it scanned like a piece of work that had been put together by a committee whose sole task was to insult and offend every religion caste and creed in one go. But what really strikes me is the signature 'bell chiming' 80's sound that you notice now much more than then, along with the very smart arrangement of what are, after all, consumately produced pop songs.

Whilst the Good People Of Beccles are busily and responsibly putting their pens to paper over our previous and on-going concerns for the providence of the worlds lost and misplaced art collections, I have taken the time out from writing this column to do some travelling and some reminiscing. The Science Museum was my destination on Friday, where I took my son Angel Jr, to regard the nations expertise in scientific endeavour. We liked the ships the most. But what caught our imagination was the theory of relativity and it's practical use in everyday science.

I explained Einstein to Angel Jr. by using the example of the ball being thrown into the air on the train by a little boy, who 'sees' it go up a foot and down a foot as he catches it. Another boy, standing in the station the train is passing through, does not see the ball, as it is too close to his eyes and too fast moving - to him it happens invisibly. Another boy, however, who is standing on a bridge 50 yards behind the boy in the station sees a ball being hurtled along for about 300 yards by the train - in seeming mid air. Life is, most definitely, a mystery...

'I hear you call my name and it feels like home'  Indeed.

My son asked me: "What if the boy who could not see the ball had thrown it into the air from the platform and the boy who could see it (on the train) caught it?" This was an excellent question and caused me to re-invent the transportation networks of the world.

With the absence of the trains forward motion, a ball thrown up from the station would, in fact, land with all the force that the forward moving train might be generating. Not good for either boy. If, however the boy doing the throwing was moving only slightly slower than the boy doing the catching, they could, quite easily, play ball.

In the conversation which followed, the idea of moving conveyors, which would travel short and long distances, side by side in ever increasing and decreasing speeds, each with different destinations, came into being. The difference between two adjacent conveyors never being more than 3mph would mean that it is quite possible to move freely between conveyors no matter what speed they are moving at (it's no less dangerous to step from a thing moving at 1000 MPH onto a thing moving at 1003 MPH than it is from 0MPH to 3MPH.

Once The People Of Beccles have quietened from their task of re-discovering the worlds artistic inheritance, I am sure their minds will turn easily and intuitively to this small matter of transportation. For now, the benefits are immediately obvious: Cars will cease to be. Roads will cease to be. Traffic will cease to be. People will only ever walk to get anywhere.

Madonna's opinion of the new transport network proposal was very encouraging and optimistic. She said: "I love this idea. I think it would look really pretty from the helicopter and it might speed up the international adoption process as well. Well done Angel Scotter and The Good People Of Beccles."

In the forthcoming weeks, Angel Scotter will be publishing the submissions of those distinguished Becclesian minds who have decided to turn their attention to the mysteries pointed to by Madonna herself, regarding, in this case, the missing art collections of Europe. Specifically, we look forward greatly to the reflections of our own International Art detectives in Serbia and Croatia, who will also be making their findings public in these pages.

AS

bracket:
a park night. teenagers drinking, house music a bottle gets thrown and broken

morning
old woman bends down to pick up broken bottle

Why All the Bone Moving? Strontium Carpet Dium

A major find: Queen Edith, Alfred the Great's grand daughter. In a German church.


Why did medaieval bones 'get moved around a lot'?


I dont know. Does anyone have a good explanation for why there was so much 'moving around of the bones' in mediaval times? The People Of Beccles require to know. .....

And these professors: They say things like this:

"By micro-sampling, using a laser, we can reconstruct the sequence of a person's whereabouts, month by month up to the age of 14."

How clever? Really very very clever. I will attempt to formulate a series of academic questions designed to test the theory of 'Laser Whereabouts And Edith':

1. Where was Edith on December 14th 929?

2. Where was Edith on January the 12th at two am in the year 920?

3. Where did Edith spend her 14th birthday?

The People Of Beccles are concerned that the fourth bone-shifting event might, for Edith, be one too many and want to ensure the highest of moral and academic standards.

Angel Scotter has become aware of the possibilities of Strontium/Rubidium 'Radiometric Dating' and would like to suggest possible uses of the technology for the betterment of mankind. For Example:

A database might now be created wherein we can analyse the geological trace elements by way of dental deposits. Should this method of tracking individuals become refined beyond the age of 14 to say, the age of 26 (which is the most common age for terrorists to be actively terrorizing) Angel Scotter feels that the 226 CCTV cameras which were recently installed in order to recognise number plates and spy on people in Birmingham could, with some work, be replaced.

The rationale for this proposed revolution for the counter-terrorism industry is that dentistry is currently suffering it's lowest ever rates of recruitment. This would be an opportunity to re-invigorate both Dentistry and to solve our need to know the whereabouts of potential anti-social terrorising Moslems in Birmingham - and then - potentially - anywhere.

All that would be necessarry would be a six monthly check-up. There is absolutely no doubt, from what we already know about terrorists that they have teeth. They are as prone to all of the vagaries that this can involve from gum disease to root canal infections. The terrorists ability to lie (and therefore interfere with the gathering of 'intelligence') would be conveniently diminished by the use of vices, anaesthetics and muffling blood soakers.... ('soaklets').

Angel Scotter expects that even a five minute check up could furnish the dentist with the precise whereabouts of their patient-terrorist for up to 26 years before their visit. the People Of Beccles feel very strongly that had they been listened to earlier and this technology had been developed earlier that it would have been possible to have discovered the location of Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden (Smethwick) on any given day since 1976.

At a time when High Sugar Diets and The Terrorist Threat (See Gig Guide) walk hand in hand on our streets, The People Of Beccles are determined to ensure that Dentistry is not over-looked.

A senior adviser to David Cameron has given assurances that the matter will be fully and properly put in front of Mr Cameron and congratulated the people of Beccles on their un-ending foresight and wisdom.

ends.


----------

Original Telegraph Article:

Scientists have revealed that they think bones found in a German cathedral are those of one of the earliest members of the English royal family.




The remains of Queen Eadgyth, who died in 946, were excavated in Magdeburg Cathedral in 2008.



The granddaughter of Alfred the Great, King of Wessex, the Saxon princess married Otto I, Holy Roman Emperor, in 929.



The findings are due to be presented at the University of Bristol later.



A spokesman from the university said the bones were the oldest surviving remains of an English royal burial.



As the half sister of Athelstan, who is considered to have been the first king of all of England, Eadgyth had at least two children with Otto and lived most of her married life in Magdeburg, Saxony. She died aged about 36.



She was buried in the monastery of St Maurice but her bones were moved at least three times.



She was finally interred in an elaborate tomb at Magdeburg Cathedral in 1510, wrapped in silk in a lead coffin.



Continue reading the main story Eadgyth seems to have spent the first eight years of her life in southern England

Professor Mark Horton



University of Bristol

A study of the bones at the University of Mainz confirmed that the remains were those of a woman who died aged between 30 and 40.



Professor Kurt Alt found evidence that she was a frequent horse rider and ate a high-protein diet, including a lot of fish, hinting at her high status.



Director of the project Professor Harald Meller, of Germany's State Office for Heritage Management and Archaeology, said: "Medieval bones were moved frequently and often mixed up, so it required some exceptional science to prove that they are indeed those of Eadgyth.



"It is incredible that we have been able to do this using the most recent analytical techniques."



Banished to a monastery



Crucial evidence came from the study of teeth in Eadgyth's upper jaw.



Researchers at the University of Bristol's Department of Archaeology and the Institute of Anthropology at Mainz University studied strontium and oxygen isotopes that mineralise in the teeth when they form.



Dr Alistair Pike, from the University of Bristol, explained: "By micro-sampling, using a laser, we can reconstruct the sequence of a person's whereabouts, month by month up to the age of 14."



The queen was interred in an elaborate tomb They found the isotope results exactly matched records of Eadgyth's childhood and adolescence in Wessex.



Professor Mark Horton said: "Eadgyth seems to have spent the first eight years of her life in southern England, but changed her domicile frequently, matching quite variable strontium ratios in her teeth. Only from the age of nine, the isotope values remain constant.



"Eadgyth must have moved around the kingdom following her father, King Edward the Elder, during his reign.



"When her mother was divorced in 919 - Eadgyth was between nine and 10 at that point - both were banished to a monastery, maybe Winchester or Wilton in Salisbury."



Her bones will be reburied in Magdeburg Cathedral later this year, 500 years after they were interred there in 1510.

Come to The Point Early and Simply

Wednesday 6am: I wake up bullshitting and unable to tell the time.

Fine Art: Price On Application

Prices:

All works are marked as: 'Price On Application'. There are three taffifs:

1. The Price:

 This is the cost of making the piece charged at an hourly rate of £10.

2. The Price + negotiation:

This will entail negotiation with the artist in which the artist will decide what it cost him to make it and what he thinks you should pay for it.

3. The Price + negotiation:

 This will entail negotiation with the artist in which the artist will decide what it cost him to make it and what he thinks you can pay for it.

The artist reserves the right to distinguish the difference between 'should' and 'can'.

Hourly negotiation fees will be charged at a rate of £10 an hour and the artist reserves the right to wave such fees on application or non application.

Lawyers advice; KEEP IT SIMPLE!

The Word 'Sanscrit' Is Reproduced With The Kind Permission Of The Library Owners

Judah and the black halos
are out dancing again...
picking a fight with muscled
private security, then
the management,
then the police.....

grrrrrrrr rhymes with purrrrrrrr
saying 'kerwan' over and over makes kids laugh
according to the Building and Services manager of The Forum,
(made up moniker) it should be obvious how my taking a picture
in the private space of the millennium plain
could be a threat as defined by our anti-terror laws.

bludgeon and curmudgeon...
on the inside of his burned down library
don't expect the freedom of your own press
write: 'mohammed' more than four times
and your out.

ole ars ole arse ole arse ole arse:
there's more than one way to swing a dead bureaucrat
for his own good.
Planning a book about it....
 called something like:
'yerbumup yerbumup yerbumup'
 in Sanskrit.

Oh God, My day.

too long a sacrifice would make a stone of the heart
a middle english verb that means to make sacred
the comings and goings of a solitary abode
with children to secure you from over-kindness

I write to my under-self a contagious diary
Outward looking: anal fucking does battle
with the fascist brigade of variety

Anti -terror laws interfere with bike locking,
going for a shit, letting go of a load...

I sit, politically, with mindlessness.

I shit, prolifically, with piety.

Chronothusia - the sacrifice of people for the good of society

phil an' thropic

A million dollars would get you through,
but you'd still have less storage than you need.
Phil sells records at a Sunday Fete
and Thropic counts profits and waits.

The Sunday punch, good only for plantfeed
has been reconnoitred for personal use
and all the angels in the world will fail
to pass you by go or get you from jail

It's the end of the line and so you deduce:
that you haven't been philanthropic
and the storage that you need is free
at the highest branch of the wishing tree

The cancer that grows in your tropic
will not be returned by good deeds
The vacancy open is 'Charity':
Greta Garbot and bio fuelled polarity,

Cocaine prescriptions and speed.

rules

here i expurgate, i liberate - i i i
catharticise - and that's no word to be reminded of
when you've worked hard at forgetting
the beans, the hard worn seams of the clothes
that you wish no-one upon and back.

you do not wish

(ties part of sock onto some kind of D I Y'er)
floats possibilities in Cork, New York Glengarry and Dundalk
)

thinks:

"ah y bastards - come for me now? ---- the midges and the sacred cows"

before the fifth and final loss.

then, wanting for tents,

baffles inwards

gives up for lent

that song by the pogues that no one knows

- wicked.

------

Blimey, pardon me, not sure where that came from.

Although I did wake up this morning understanding every word the wood pigeons said - which could explain something.

Over The Fence

how do you explain to the neighbours 2 year old
that you dont
want
to talk?

even, when he throws
his favourite sponge packed,
mini plastic coated football
over the fence,
for you,
to fetch?

What do you say?
Nothing.
just scowl at the bastard
(if youre stupid enough to catch his near to the ground eyes)
and let him know you're serious.

Do not let on
that his fathers' double address
(the one he mimicks so well)
is a sign of depravity
and that YOU
are a PROPHET
No. look away.

Some things are better off left unsaid.
--

"It doesn't matter" - wails a police siren
You aren't to know
as long as the cats dont shit on my lawn
we'll keep the secret
--
Driving through Paris in a sports car, in the spring, with the warm wind in your hair - at the age of eleven:

"If that cat shits in my lettuces, i don't know how I'll get to the punchline"

Can you imagine what it means for a ten year old to say a thing like that?

no-one will ever know how you stole that sports car, married a prince - or died.
Except, maybe, the cats.....

Radio Series: A Diary: Continuing Notes: 1984; The garden fence; keeping mum.

A Single Father and a Frame Maker for the past 10 years, Robyn, is losing his mind and his children and his house all at the same time. In the over sensitised and theatrical world that he inhabits we hear his thoughts and comments from the inside as they mix with the varyingly co-herent sounds and stimulii of the exterior world. Robyn is un-well and showing signs of psychosis/synasthesia/bi-polarity all at once.


ONE
Radio1. (A protagonist (in plain) speaks over various background sounds and voices: (in bold)):


Its not 1984, its twenty ten. 1984 was 26 years late and its not better late than never. It's absolutely and completely, extremely indiscreetly, agonisingly and benignly silently and repeatedly

(over a tannoy) can ticket number four thousand and seventy two please go to window number nine please? (repeat and diminish but continue in 5 different voices with 5 different sets of numbers and windows))

Here

(womans droll voice) well of course, that would happen in a perfect world, but it's not a perfect world is it? Its all computer generated, there's nothing anyone can do about it...

Do you get the picture? (coughing)

That was a deep cough. That said:  "I am Here" and "This is my voice" and I have two tickets "Ticket number ninety one for window three and ticket number four hundred and seventy five for window nine" - and: "You are all here as well... COME ON!!"

I am slitting my wrists inwardly. The first jobs of the day:  I am pulling out a pen and writing: Find Premises; Contact Insurers; Chase Printer.... wear a face that says: "I am bright I am here and I am alive; all my tickets have been handed in - try me?"

Ticket number ninety one for window three please

It's good that there's a different voice for every window, breaks the monotony a bit (why cant I help myself from thinking this?). A young father's voice behind me is saying: "Stop eating sweets, you're getting fat" and the kid says: "Can I get out now?" and the dad says "when we get some chips you can".

(Louder) Ticket number ninety one for window three please (pause)

Hello, I've got this bill and I think the amount is wrong...... (fades)

-----------

TWO
(narrator's voice is this time heard through a tannoy as in previous sequence)

This is me thinking. I talk to myself a lot. I am cycling along the ring road. I remember how I feel on a country lane. How relaxed and in time I am. There are no country lanes that take me where I want to go. Can ticket number ninety one please go to window three please. Can ticket number ninety one please go to window three please. Can ticket number ninety one please go to window three please? How can it possibly not be completely obvious to me that I am cycling along a ring road? Life has furniture. Not just houses....

THREE

outsider ins and...: outsider ins and...: Space Walking Repairmen?

outsider ins and...: outsider ins and...: Space Walking Repairmen?

outsider ins and...: Space Walking Repairmen?

outsider ins and...: Space Walking Repairmen?

Space Walking Repairmen?

I made some notes over a
Guardian article

Like a man making lists
for election campaigns

Twenty - ten; Space Odysseys
The Hubble Telescope

It was a bank holiday
rain then sun then rain then

Tim Walker, talking about
"Space Walking Repairmen"

Reminds me there are few things
which can never be fixed

In my notes I determined
to write about: Hans Blix;

The Child Support Agency;
A Hedgehog On a Spike;

Death (of Alan Sillitoe);
"Fuck off and get dive-bombed";

Organised trades and labour
in America - striking

For an eight hour working day
' hundred and twenty four

years ago to this moment;
winning: as my list ends,

My manifesto begins:
Weapons; Mass destruction;

Childhood; un-explained cruelty;
Death; sticking together.

The long and short of it all?
Back boys, against the wall

In Sillitoe's plain english,
Alan might have said:

"You didn't know me living,
but fucking love me dead".

Add To Checkout

"You wouldn't send a starving soldier to do battle for you";
that and other failed analogies got hurled down the stairs
in the great food war of this Wednesday, which I have lost,
again.

So she's off, carrying ideas of being a 'charity photographer'
and more pressing concerns about high waisted black pencil skirts
out of season; I think to write a questionnaire and offer New Look vouchers
so that we can stay in touch. How to cope with teenagers? shop.

and look out for over enthusiastic male cashiers in Primark who wink
at thirteen year olds and battle out the old trust versus cynicism
in your own private forgotten world of what it was to be young
and shopping....

All on one slice of Warburtons and Flora gone cold.

Posters

between fostering and the Norfolk Probation Area mentoring Scheme, in a small brown board matt finished for pins and between MDF (the new asbestos?) and card; adjacent to Aspergers' and Red Balloon Centres For Bullied Children and Brain Tumours is, wait for it: A Space.

So i write this:

You are were born and you have lived
You are perfectly fine
it's all going to be ok.

I've considered it and there might be too much that can go wrong and maybe there is an argument for: "Stopping Mythering"

But I still can't, so I take out the pins from the Brain Tumours and I place it over my glib and indifferent form of compassion fatigue writing, because, in all honesty and actually, I think, apart from the Brain Tumours, you are and it will be.

Who's going to pay me to tell people they are OK?

Maybe this is my message for The Big Society?

Maybe Cameron, maybe Brown, maybe Cleggy

Norwich. European City of Culture two thousand and twelve.

maybe i'll get some money then.

Maybe I should take my Vileda Supermop and my bungees and leave this library forever.

Kickstart - My Name Is Hope.

There is absolutely nothing which needs to be said

I hope that where ever you are, when you hear this (if it's being read)
that you will understand when I wrote it, at the library, in front of Richard and Judy's Book Club and the other posters about, for example, flexible working for dads; that I had nothing to say:

I did not turn my back on the truth; I will help you get back on the rails and act FAST if I suspect a stroke;

Kickstart - my name is Hope.

I have nothing to say but still, you cannot silence me,

You! you moped loan people....

workshop ideas

1. Location Writing: Go out to, say , a car boot sale. Write about it from memory. Try very hard not to approach it like 'a writer' - just go round and look for things you might need, bargains, etc, talk to people - if you have to. When you return, write 'the story' - as it happened. Compare

2. Are You interesting? Are you interested in anything? What are you interested in? What are you often thinking about? What matters to you? What are you trying to do with your life? Write Answers. Do not discuss, but read exerpts to the class.

3. Voting/politics: Choose something that everyone can agree needs to be done. How will you all do it? (For Children) How will you all decide that it needs to be done? Can you make sure that the thing you choose to do will be the most important thing for everyone? Allow 3 mins for each question and choose one writer to present.

4. x 2 Group Poetry.

Give each group a name of a character

Group 1. (Brian) Give a direction (eg, Go away, Come Here, look up, clean your shoes etc)
Group 2. (Derek) Follow it, while Group 1 describe your actions (in no more than six lines)
Group 2. (Derek) Give a direction

Group 1. (Brian) Follow it whilst Group 2 describe your actions (in no more than six lines)

Take it in turns to write an ending line and then all vote for the two best....

Have a small group be Brian and Derek whilst another two groups question them. make notes on the answers and build a character profile of Derek and Brian.

Suggested extension activities: 2 volunteers to read poems. (record?) - Make a collection like this - invent your own rules for the game. Start a poetry/writing club.

Voting: Rites Of Passage?

There's not been a lot of literature written about going for a shit. Or about needing one so badly that you start to behave in peculiar ways. It,s not something that has been endlessly chewed over by poets. There are few, if any essays of 'The Shit' and neither are there, maybe less surprisingly, novels dedicated to furthering our understanding of shitting from, say, a cross cultural, or romantic perspective.

Agreed, Gilbert and George did create 'The Naked Shit Paintings' reflecting directly on shitting, but there is scant else in popular or classical or art and literature of the Cannon to suggest that defacation has been given a fair airing. Peter Greenaway, in The Cook, His Wife, The Thief and Her Lover (sic), made effective use of the by product of this most fundamental of human actions in his early scenes, but it is fair to say the film treated shit as something largely dirty and not to be trusted.

In film the use of effluent is quite common: 'The scene' where our hero has to escape through one or another hatch into the foul sewage of his worst foe has, in fact, become an archetypal happening in cinematic narratives. Still though, we are almost bereft of any real considered literature about shitting as a human need and activity ~ like, for example; love.

I needed a shit this morning.

It was only a vague awareness at first and I ran errands for a couple of hours, parked my car and began the walk in to the town. Only when my conscious brain turned to the actual logistics of taking [having, or going for, in the UK] my shit, did my body begin to feel the need for urgent attention. It was interesting to me that only at this exact moment when my mind configured a route to the nearest [habitable] public toilets and axiomatically, pictured those toilets, that my need to shit became absolutely over whelming and intolerable.

I wonder if there is not something of a fundamental importance in this (I assume common to all?) sudden onset of urgency and intolerance - once the journey to the place of defecation has begun in earnest?

The parallels between this phenomena of the shit journey and the equally inevitable and sudden urgency of all of our election journeys to the polling booths is, again, irresistible:

All that is left for me to speculate on is what might be the consequences, upon entering the much sought after booth, of discovering that we had, in fact, failed to register ourselves as eligible to make that sacred deposit in that sacred box?

Is this not the true nature and beginning of The Protest Vote?

carboot.com.rain/hurryandgrab/taxfree.hate-url-y

for 27 minutes we queued this Sunday
between the police notices saying:
"No parking on the verges", in the rain,
under a violet sky where the last of the
weeks consumering was to take place.

For 15 minutes we walked in a muddy field
scraped and dotted and discarded on by
the booters who disappeared in front of our
(the booty hunters) eyes. With three over-priced
Tomato plants, some pea-netting and a drill bit,
we squelched back to the car and here we sit:

I experiment by looking into people's eyes,
most look away, some smile that ridiculous Cheshire
way that says: "I am smiling at you and mean no harm -
Please Go away". We are queuing again, in more rain
and vying for places, ways out, fast exit spotting
with our under exercised bargain spotting eyes.

I wish I had bought that stethoscope for £4.00.

6: (Sexis Ni)

compulsive thinking and compulsive behaviour are almost two sides of one coin: One thing I've developed a habit of doing is reading things backwards. it rarely seems worth investing time in figuring out why. i suppose it's just one of those mental ticks that comes and, hopefully, will go again. i'm vaguely aware that there is some arcane association with doing this which is not good at all - like speaking the devils' language. i am not trying to do this, but maybe there is an element of trying to squeeze a little more interest out of what the quotidian world offers - anyway:


Sexis Ni: note the cleverly arranged six syllable meter scheme which works only marginally (y llan igram) and is a bit forced (decrof) etc.


tags: cloying;clinging;compelling; donkeys and welding.

the thing is to be quick:
whether it's a welded
donkey or a garden
sale of things recognized,
whether the donkey is
full of seed collections
or not; be quick, as time
is so short it's running
out at a rate of knots.

Even if you are just
writing about nothing
more than what you see and
how you cannot prevent
yourself from reversing
the letters of the words
you seem to get stuck on;
that's fine, but just be quick:

even if all you can see
is that, backwards, knots spells
'STONK'!; be quick, no one cares
forever anymore.

The Rent Pensioner.

.comwhen tall he sees is needs
and to all else is blind
taking out the bins
bringing them all back in
is being more than kind

now:

he is;

painting the road,
moving a car,
reporting another crime,
watching the well-being of neighbours,
asking after residential status,
advising on the burning of garden waste,
tacking bamboo to fence and net to that
and saving cats from trespass
and the consequences of that
and anything he can do in the here and now
to help;
delivering the Labour Rose
clearing the drains, fixing a hose...

He doesn't know he is a Socialist.
From where did this concern grow?
How was he sewn?
We aren't wont to know.

No water will be left to freeze and
endanger the knees or otherwise while he's
in the neighbourhood because, because...

We cannot give thanks enough or understand
the uncalculating merit of this marvellous man
and in his marvellous here and now
He has made our world a sacred cow

so we can forgive the only trait
about him (when we violate with litter
or choose to ignore his signs
in the halogen glow of his lighted limes)

that might detract from his sainted perfection;
that small tendency to leer
when young ladies come near
the only distraction from the business
of sorting us all out and being
neighbourly.

if i havent pissed you off yet

wire joiner and do
that's the end of it
no sense. fuck off.

how could anyone forgive anyone for being a friend
of the finest and least self serving sort?
(as if it mattered that you ever got on or just wanted to be drinking buddies who hate each other?)
who - shamelessly:

and now we get into it

raise children to be be hardworking,
honest; engrossed; lovers of the beatles;
quintessential dedicated makers of original authenticated artifacts?

in their own sublime scumbag image
and then

chop off my foglight - ruthlessly and thoughtlessly
causing the onset of a failed MOT?

who?

voters.

that's who

other people who would dain to call you a friend
and then invite you back again

woe is, most definitely, me.

just look at the fucking shape of this on the page

just look at the fucking shape of this on the page
aye.
some cunt will try to analyse the bolox off it and I only wish I could be there, oh yes, faith have I.

but sense, that's elephant
and you are all twats.
equally

twatmanistan

thinking about ethics, aesthetics, homo erectic diaphonetics and everything before this line was pointless and I have the benefit of creation and foresight to make myself outtasight and you, I would like to think, are a student. But then, maybe you're not. and if you aren't: what the hell do you think you're playing at? Where did you see this and why? Copyrighted material is a lawyers imperial right to make money. Are you a lawyer? what's your credentials? to those who say: "Here" - mmmm and to those who say "eh" - The World and no less. ends

another memory

as if it were I
to remember
when the marginal, liminal?
space I inhabit
is doomed to unhear
and be bleary
and vague

that.

no way.

don't be ridiculous,
i didn't even live it
and to lionise after the event
seems easy
when i am dead
and you are forgotten

what else can I not tell you?

executor

executor

blasting sugar and cement
fairy cakes and sewage works
too many ands
chocolate sponge and a motorway
centre frieze made in succession
by lorry and form-work
mutable and moving feasts
attract denizens
of the pub

the thorny hands of a polish exile
hours spent underground
picking fights at funerals
Lithuanian? sorry.
and your hands are soft
but strong
let me go.
There must be some mistake

i have spent years smoking like a droop
all my mistakes came through the door
after I got back from tenerife
there must be some mistake
incandescence transmutability
I know big words
and everything
check the paperwork
no?

because you travelled so many miles underground?
but I have to see others off
is there no fairness of age?
you are quite sure
and you speak of my mother
owwwwwrrrpaiinnnnnn
dead and gone
who stole my typewriter?
you

Fridgeworks

Magnetic horse whisperer eats frugal mullion in Humpty Dumpty scare
Walls of linen tumbled as the cat (emaciated) brackets improvised
Stares with luminaries.

The alchemy of salt, brought by ship from Azaelea, quickened with despair.
Al barn-bracks and crusty loaves are thrown to the sea's gullibility.

Other elements await correspondents. Collage approaches hope's eternal spring.
Well oiled pistons in spit game life offering fire cover as bomblets drip accordingly

And in reflection of these odious blasts?

Round faces, duped. Huge noses; tiny ears. Winningly being born again and again and again.
Scrabble! the order comes from on high. All hostilities are B.E.L.I.N.D.A.

No names please. Over. Out.

Short Story: (3000 Words) for 30th April to The New Writer: it was a curious little piece...

I swear he was winking at me: Through one piece of architectural glass, over the head of Alison Stuart in the Romantic Fiction section, over the crossed legs and fake faded denims of two young mothers drinking coffee whilst their kids slept, through a second screen of architectural glass and then through the glass of the cabinet which housed the winking artefact; I first saw him from over 50 metres away: I thought the little flashing light was an internal phenomenon. Maybe I had an aneurism or some other irregularity? I shook my head slowly and rolled my eyes, but the the flashing continued to emanate from one spot alone. I left the public library terminal and made my way through the various glass screens, down one flight of stairs and down to the ground floor via the glass lift, where I crossed the open space of the library before climbing a spiral staircase to The Atrium. The winking didn't stop, but it changed, reducing it's intensity to what simply seemed like a faint twinkle in the eyes: I read the inscription on the plinth underneath him:

"Standing Man: Circa 430 -200 BC": Courtesy of Robert and Linda Sainsbury"

"Hello Standing Man"

I whispered to myself without allowing my mouth to form the words and feeling suddenly furtive. Was anyone else seeing what I was? I considered ways of gauging this possibility, half hoping that it was an explainable phenomena whilst my furtive side wanted confirmation that I was experiencing some paranormal event which was meant to happen to me and me alone. For a reason. A magical signifier... but of what?

That was the last memory I know I had in which I am all but certain I existed as a part of the material world.

I am no more than a concoction of records and observations. I am no longer living – as you might understand – but have become something akin to consciousness itself. Even this story as it presents itself to you, will not have been written by one human mind and hand – but several, who will have, inexplicably, after meeting their own 'standing man', made some partial contribution to this testament. Yes, I am a little bit like the bible or any other religious document that has been handed down and altered, contributed to and divided up only to be put back together again under the auspices of this or that, ruling paradigm.

What has been decided is this: There will be a shift forward in the possibilities of human understanding. The beginning of this shift is under way: This is it. This is one of many events (which might more comfortably be regarded as 'cultural artefacts', by some) which will lead the Human Race to understand that things, ideas and beliefs are not made consciously. It will become abundantly clear that the actions of many in history, despite their words, deeds or intentions, will have served a wholly unintended purpose – to the great surprise of the actors. More and more people will begin to act in ways which are committed, without the slightest understanding of their purpose or context. What is more, much more, is that we will begin to understand that the author of a book, or the originator of a painting, or the maker of a sculpture, will be no more than a minor contributor to it's making. A name, in essence and that is all. As such, there will be no more authorship and no more ownership. America is not going to exist beyond the year 2046 by the way. Every one will get paid piece rates. Communism has not yet had it's day either. Things will change. One thing seems certain though: I am the only one responsible for removing the Standing Man from his temporary platform in the Atrium Gallery and, as such, there is only me sitting in the surprisingly mediaeval cells of this police station.

Writing:

I don't know what came over me. I remember making my way over to the artefact and then, it was as if I wasn't in control of my own actions. I have only some very faint pictures in my mind of what happened next and then I was arguing with Desk Sergeant Cooper who was telling me to calm down whilst two officers restrained me and I remember kind of coming round. I am very upset at the way I was behaving and when they told me I had stolen the artefact from the library I was completely shocked. It is not as if I have any interest in museum pieces like this. The Standing man was found in my bag and the police had taken some video evidence in which I appeared to be acting very angrily and abusively. I am very sorry that I behaved like this and genuinely do not how the piece came to be in my possession. That is all I have to say. Signed: John Tomlinson.

“It's not that the CPS weren't willing to prosecute, but the sheer quantity of anti-psychotic drugs that were prescribed to him while he was on bail left little doubt that Mr Tomlinson was not in control of his actions and there was very little hope of proving that he would have been at any time in the not so far off past either. Sentencing will probably be suspended on grounds of mental infirmity. If he recovers, he may well have to face trial all over again – and that's obviously not a great incentive to well being. If you know what I mean?”

Chivers winked at Doctor Spencer, who invariably knew very well what he was meaning:

“It's not an uncommon scenario – and no there is nothing I can do. I'm sorry Mr Chivers.”

Chivers zipped up his coat as there was now snow falling outside. He was coming off shift, 14 hours back to back. He didn't feel relaxed but he knew he was tired. To make his way to the Dog and Partridge for an early evening session, would he knew, be an all too habitual response to his over work and desire for sleep. Instead, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with the choice, he proceeded across the road towards the glass library. Chivers was tired and hadn't been in a library recreationally for maybe 20 years. As he entered through the modernistic round glass entrance, his attention was caught by what appeared to be a hologram of dislocated red flashing lights. The reflection of these lights in and through several walls of glass disoriented Chivers, exaggerating his already dizzying tiredness. He stood, like a small boy in the centre of the vast open space trying to locate the actual source of the lights. His eyes worked the way eyes do when they are in expectation of a particular set of phenomena, which are not, in perception, there at all.

Chivers began to study patterns. The Security Guard noted the peculiar behaviour of the standing man in the centre of the transient glass arena, staring about him in a wide 180 degree arc. He had made his way to the top of a stairwell to better observe Chivers' behaviour. Chivers did not disappoint. He was now almost entirely unaware of his own presence and was transfixed by the pattern of lights which were flashing around him. He made his way towards the most discernible pattern which was reflected in a gigantic wall of architectural glass in front of the Romantic Fiction section of the library. When he reached the glass wall he turned to see if a repeat of the pattern could be seen from there. Over the heads of people sitting in the open plan cafeteria, he found a repeat of the same pattern in the farthest corner of the library. Chivers traced a path through the glass and then set off towards a glass lift and then up a flight of stairs towards this second apparition.

Standing in the Business section, amongst the racks of trade magazines in a now more studious silence interrupted only by the sound of computer keys being depressed by the other library users, Chivers could see, at last, the actual source of the lights. The pattern had now become simplified and he noted the absence of a light in the centre of the arrangement, which only served to intensify his interest.

He re-traced his steps to the ground floor and across to a place just beside where he had entered. Here was a door to an enclosed spiral staircase which also descended to a subterranean car park. A door at the top of the stairs had a small metallic plate on it inscribed with the words 'Atrium Gallery'. He opened the door. The artists' statement made very little sense to him. Words like 'embodiment'; 'polarization' and 'post-modern' were set in very long sentences which also mentioned names like 'Gormley' and 'Moore'. But the meaning was beyond his grasp. The installation made even less sense, at first. 24 plinths held a seated figure, which looked something like The Buddha. The figures had their backs to him. As he made his way through them, he found the source of the flashing lights were, in fact, two eyes in each figure, slowly fading from red to blue. Some unknown optical peculiarity must have given an impression of their flashing on and off. At the front of the group and closest to the glass wall of the Atrium, looking out over the public space below was a lone standing figure. It's arms were held straight out in a Christ like gesture, with palms held upwards. The lights in it's eyes were broken and Chivers fainted with exhaustion.













Standing male. Europe, Central and Western Mediterranean, Italy: probably Etruscan (?). c. 700 BC. Bronze. h 11.4 cm. Acquired 1957. Robert and Lisa Sainsbury Collection. UEA 368









Standing male. Europe, Central and Western Mediterranean, Italy: probably Etruscan (?). c. 700 BC. Bronze. h 11.4 cm. Acquired 1957. Robert and Lisa Sainsbury Collection. UEA 368

Tree, Dice, Lust, Bust

a spider mated with a cuckoo,son spins egg webs in trees, to catch a falling yolk, and break the bees knees.

A dog and a ladybird and a romantic liaison, created armour plated bark. Spot stays on late. (He's a pub dog) Eats crisps, drinks pale ale, they patent his shell (his smell?) Walkers: Prawn Cocktail.

Speaking evolutionarily, God might think twice, about building the next Arc (with his arbitrary angel dice?) no matter how nice

it might be to preserve, The beasts of all nations, the origins of species and the book of revelations.

I JUST FARTED

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Workshop Notes

Notes to self re: narrative devices:

to write something in which the perspective of one protagonist (or the narrator) changes gradually and to an extreme degree, which creates a big turnaround in the meaning of the utterances of other protagonist. the words of the 2nd are constant and do not budge - perhaps giving the initial impression of sturdiness or trustworthiness - which, only as the story unfolds, begins to shouw up as, at first slightly flawed and later, with growing importance - entirely ridiculous credulity...

possible eg's

mmm, a regular mmeting of two men at a bus stop - one says that he is going to work in a certain place, doing certain things, changing over time... place ceases to exist - stories continue (the immediate fraudster discovery)

an equally regular meeting where by the credulity of one char's claims has some second context for being checked, 3rd , fourth etc... building two sets of falsely competing claims - a good mdel for crime fiction or classic: "Whodunnits?"

or - two friends have alegiances tested as one moves from being one thing (in common) to another by definition of social construction.

eg - two men sympathise in cafes over mutual frustrations with the CSA. Then one man gets his kids full time and loses his job. As the other man continues to complain about having to contribute financially, the first man sees his understanding or partience diminish as his empathy for 'the other side' grows....

NOTE: WHERE ARGUMENTS COME FROM - this is a great way into looking at narrative construction - in terms of what builds dramatic tension - later workshops might cobver 'ways of telling' - Re- create an argument or heated exchange you may have had. Build a very close profile of each protagonist and the character traits/experiences etc that have led them to their belief/ position/ anger etc. - examine in dialogue....