Thursday, October 25, 2018
X44 – NOR – AYL – CRO – SHE
Thursday, June 07, 2018
recent work, pamphlets, portraits
To date, the pamphlets and ass. ephemera produced within the above stricture are as follows:
1. we's the real (a motley confluence of sin)
relating to the myriad transgressive doings within student body and faculty of the University of East Anglia.
2. the house by the sea
a focused revivification of my apocalypse yarn. each copy (total 10) is accompanied by a handpainted watercolour of Happisburgh, where much of the story takes place.
3. cirrus mercurio sends greetings from the HISM
self-help guide - LEARN how to harness the power of the cosmos to effect productive assertive action! UNDERSTAND the HISM (human intellicore synaptic mainframe) through the practise of IDCRotSI (Internally Driven Cosmorphic Realignment of the Synaptic Interchange)! REBUILD your linguistic foundations to engorge the cosmos within!
4. postalcards
a set of 16 A5 postcards, illustrated on one side, short fiction on the other. originally I had intended to publish the month of stories I had written a couple of years back as a set of 31 postcards in a presentation envelope but the printing costs were very expensive, and many of the stories far too long to fit within the limited word count necessary for such a small vessel.
5. herman henschel koprowsky's encyclopaedia of imagined objects: fuckpillow (with an introduction by nicholas flower)
a slick edition of this seminal work with an introduction exploring the absolute futility of my own writing practise. the encyclopaedia and koprowsky are both key elements in the novel I am currently writing, an enormous and erotic work of myth and literature and the fragility of truth, and a book about writing books. it is the culmination of my extensive norwich work which I may finish within the year (though I doubt it).
6. herman henschel koprowsky's encyclopaedia of imagined objects: barry chuckle's experience projector (with an introduction by nicholas flower)
see point 5 (though the introduction to this object explores in brief the place of the encyclopaedia within the canon).
7. I would like secretly to fuck you
delirious and scornful poems of seduction and collapse (with an intense yellow cover).
8. the evolutionary necessity of the avoidance of I
death of pleasure/no more feeling/maniac reminiscences/of a nobody.
9. narratives from the fenland township
obliquely charting parson grunther's steady rise, this collects four narratives from the fenland township - the crows what came, the great british carnival, the idiot child and the hungry earth - in one minimal volume.
10. animal police
work of the famed norvic-neo-noir subgenre (of which I am the only practitioner), this gathers both extant animal police stories in an act of complete posterity.
11. X44 – NOR – AYL – CRO – SHE
a dissection of regional bus travel in the almost rush hour of norwich city and environs: driver, passenger, reflection.
if you'd like to buy a copy of any of these, contact me.
It's also been a way to get back into drawing my stock-in-trade "so weird they're shit" portraits.
Here are a bunch of them.
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
the evolutionary necessity of the avoidance of I
Thursday, March 15, 2018
I would like secretly to fuck you
guy’s a real hoot –
saying when he used to visit his girl back
when she was a student
and when he used to visit his girl
in the village he’d
back in the village he’d
always take something “for kitchen” –
seeing as how he was working and that
moneybags in admin
or in mags, the displaying of
smiths, junior retailer, just smiths
uniform, dim grin, name badge
great white silence
though regrettably not
steering cagefuls of spent
publications, scores of kgs of them!,
glossy slabs for pulping
and steering nil more –
and he’d take bread and butter!
thought he was going to say beer or wine
bread and butter
party king
II
what a contentsless penis
saviour of the office
I don’t think
and won’t too
“prepare yourself, the wife: initiating phase 2”
he embraced the counsellor
in a slithering manner
a fattish guy playing his own
thickness for touch
beige as a washed potato.
Of all the sex lives of the all
the colleagues his is the one
I would least like to visualise
a peeled Maris piper soused in talcum
and yet there he was
arms at side, legs just apart
hips thrust forward
a gesture of –
we hope –
subconscious lewdness
a step away from demonstrating
his mediocre techniques
III
shudder then vomit at the thought of the micro-appendage secreted beneath white folds
IV
likes to parade his wife
like a farmer at market
this is the wife
this is the nameless appendage
long-nurtured specks of hair urged
to surface
to take an edge off his
large pale face but
in fact drawing ever more attention
to its forgettability
he’s Mrs-Brown’s-Boys-and-a-can-of-Heinz
or some such similar monstrosity
Lemon-and-a-Lucozade
McIntyre-and-a-supermarket-pie
Flanagan-and-a-couple-of-cheese-rolls
Manford-and-a-Rustlers-rib-sandwich
the little tongue
the little lips
the little tin of balm
the Carmax
in the watch pocket of his jeans
for quick access
the tongue itself a nub of sorts
a taut pointed thing
tough as a bicep
lips as greasy as a pair of eels
the ungrateful prick
I imagine underpants
milk white flesh
soft jazzy tunes
the stench of flatulence
French kissing like it’s 1975
V
last night I dreamt I was being driven by a
homosexual to a dairy farm on the edge
of Norwich, near Whitlingham, up a
small lane called Dairy Farm Lane
a steep winding hill that looked
down upon the dead industry
and railway sidings that flank the Wensum
an old Norfolk bloke was gathering small dogs there
Yorkshire terriers perhaps
and slitting their throats and
tossing their unskinned corpses into an enormous pizza pie
saying “come on baby, before someone puts you in a pizza”
even though he was putting them in a pizza
VI
I could imagine him in a threesome
with two blokes only
only blokes
a pair of them
a pair of blokes
plus one makes a gaggle
of hard ons twitching
like dowsing rods
scratching each other’s monkey nuts
playing MOR rock classics
wanking onto dart boards or whatever
no wrong in blokes
ask the other
“s’anyone interested in
unusual cloud formations?”
he’d say
and we in silence just “no”
I was talking to him and
he suddenly turned away
and thrust his window open
and was darting his head around
like a sparrow
trying to see the clouds
saying “it’s coming this way it’s coming this way!”
as though nuclear war were in action
conversation a distant second to
unusual weather conditions in this office
explaining to any’ll hear
how wind is the one type of weather
he doesn’t like
“immense potential for damage”
horror, disgust
“plus noisy”
got a good seeing to at the weekend gone
from a 40 year old man
the 60 plus old boy coming this weekend
putting the ‘anal’ in Canal Street
without a single criteria in place
look like him and he’ll hit it
fixated on the nice guy Hugh Jackman maybe is
kind of guy you could have a beer with
and a laugh with
how’s he know these things?
Mrs “Mother-of-Hugh” Jackman
Norwich truly has it all
they should cup each other’s balls
the pair of them
cheer themselves up further
VII
he and I rode a train
this is a dream
he and I rode a train
to a station in the SE of London
something like Lewisham
or New Cross but different to both
where we then attended –
do recall
this is still a dream –
a Sainsbury’s car park
air heady with the orange of the signage
to be briefed by some rep
on some vacancy that we neither of
us wanted but would apply for still
and learnt very little
the vacancy reference code perhaps
and so hurried to the station
for the last train home
and as we did a bearded male emerged
from a hedge
carrying a car wing mirror
breathing heavily in great stereotypes
and I ran on ahead towards the platform
and the man was trying to convince him
this real fucking hoot
bread and fucking but-the-fuck-ter
convince him I’d abandoned him
in the night
he appeared frightened
though by then I had checked the timetable
and returned and he was visibly relieved
his wan skin aglow with sweat
and I was struck by a feeling of
imminent violence waiting
and to my surprise
he pulled an empty pint glass –
ostensibly to glass this bearded stranger –
but was so pitifully weak that the glass
remained in tact
until I took it from him and smashed
the bearded man in his
bearded face and we descended
to the platform
(earlier in the dream
I’d been running
through unfamiliar
Norwich streets
allusion to reality
without trousers
and also without
knickers but
with the rest
of my clothes
and I’d draped
a hand towel
around the area
as I ran
and it was dark
and two yobs
on bmx bicycles
tried to swat
the towel away
to unearth my little cock
and I bought
some boxer shorts
in Sainsbury’s
tearfully
but had to pay
for them before
I could wear them
served by a tattooed lady)
VIII
revolution fuelled by nothing but sugar and uncontrollable rage
IX
you and your Basque separatists!
great to get off with
could never resist a Basque separatist!
draw the faces of crushes
upon their white hoods
I must imagine your presence
behind my wall of monitors
by your mouse clicks alone
you know you’re irreplaceable
I might have said
not funtime cannonball donuts are all good
which I did for sure
in a moment of wild indulgence
I bought two custard slices
and a pack of raspberries
on my way to work
I’m powerless against myself you know
these messages are not morally dubious
the lips of the boy
and the flute of the boy are haunting
fucking brain rotting on its stalk
what’s her name – Barbara – is unbearable
bucking around with squeaked laughter
at shitty innuendos
when I see
what’ her name – Janet – I imagine her praying
sobbing too
holy yep
tall one loitering like the shadow
of a monolith
smirking at his own trivialities
making the same joke every time
he gets an unbranded biscuit
X
this could be my future
mapped out in the intricate vein
and blood vessel networks
of the human penis!
f’it’s any consolation she
makes no sense whatsoever
like listening to a malfunctioning turntable
every time she opens her lips
a barrage of misinformation
while she stuffs a sandwich into her gob
and nods like a dashboard ornament
hiding it behind her hand as though
she’s going to finish
her mouthful before speaking
but then stuffing another one in
my face hurts from grinning
by the time she’s done with me
throat hoarse with artificial mirth
I like the idea of you being
designed for potatoes
the western working week is so
arbitrary and outdated
and crushes the joy out
I only don’t want to drift until one day I realise
that I’m old and will die
XI
it’s a terrible paradox of life –
terrified of change but yearning for it constantly
is this an existential crisis caused by
creating like gods new life
I feel somehow bereft
and this job unsustainable
can barely sit through it
and it
– life or whatever –
must amount to greater than this
XII
this is true
XIII
Manchester
& song have become a drychiineb - and it's angau
Lock Concert, you must answer
With song to one of foes
Sound not hate advanced noise
XIV
I remember it was a Valentine’s day
or around there
when I must have been, like,
10, a girl called
so what, it was 1991
1992, something then
those weren’t the days
called Rachel Dorrington
a girl
red hair and face
had her father bring her to my house
bright blue Bedford and
matching Levi’s
the other half to our other half
brought her round so
she could give me a card
a lame teddy bear
of course I found the whole thing
awkward and of course I longed
to cry during the exchange on the doorstep
(I didn’t even invite her in!
so thick!
we were 10!)
and in unspoken revenge
a year or so later she and
a friend were grilling me
on risqué topics of the flesh
in the classroom
trying to humiliate me or
have me demonstrate my inexperience
or whatever
and she asked me
“you know what horny means?”
(this at a time when youths used the term to mean ‘attractive’)
and instead of saying that I blurted
“desperate to fuck”
and they laughed at me for ages
even though I was right
XV
I was with Maya at dusk
in half-empty shopping streets
something like Woolwich
we were kicking tin cans around
and waiting for a cohort of acquaintances
it felt like a Sunday
and was grey and slightly sad
in the way that British
shopping streets are in the dusky hours
we went into a pub for a drink and crisps
and sat to wait on high stools
along a bar by the window
after a time passed I saw a huge lion –
near elephant sized –
in the street outside
staring at the window
furiously
as though it may charge at any moment
at first we and the other punters
were captivated, awestruck, thrilled
or whatever,
then I started to panic
and tried to lift Maya away
to run or hide
but nothing seemed to work and we could
only slump to the floor
and cower under the bar
as the lion began to run at the window
and shattered glass fell
and I answered my phone
and it was my friend Conrad asking
“where are you where are you”
and I could only say lion repeatedly
its teeth sank in
and I don’t know what happened to Maya
(After some indeterminable period I was
with a former nemesis
[a Portuguese called Simao
from whom I had seduced a Russian girl
in 2003
{she would become my girlfriend for a time}
and who then seduced her back from me
a year later
in 2004
{she would become his girlfriend for a
in the same pub for inexplicable reasons
when I was fired for gross incompetence
of an unspecified nature
then beaten up badly by the director
who punched my face and kicked my ribs
and stomach and smashed me up real bad
I managed to punch him once or twice
to call him repugnant and little
but I was left pleading for money because
I had bought a new house and
he was a cruel weasel
I walked with my Portuguese nemesis
out for retribution
but found none
then attended the office –
then a vast commercial enterprise
housed in something like The Shard –
to demand reinstatement
but was instead told to fuck off
by a slick suited marketing type)
does he really believe in pixies and gnomes?
he is slightly gnome-like himself
but always seems to want to present himself
as some bastion of rationality
not simply a tiny prick in a giant suit
who murders cats and eats their ball.
I imagine he can dislocate it
like a snake or something
so he can ingest large items of absolute perversion
items greater than his own meagre mass
and just keep adding more and more items into it.
\white buttocks flecked grimly with hair coarse like flies legs
\angry gestures
\cruel kissing
\debit card payments
\UKIP propaganda
\lynchings
\skipping ropes
\off-kilter penises
\grey socks still on
\cold carpet
\bacon grease
\breadcrumbs scattered over loose pectorals
\trafficked Romanians forced to gnaw his scrotum
\stench of flatus
\UHT milk cartons
\great big suit
\little chair
\withered body
\turkey sandwiches
\orange in his gob
\£5 wine bottle up his arsehole
\writhing about on A3 excel print outs of financial data/budgets
\stabbing convincing fruit effigies of colleagues with old biros
\drinking lambs blood
\slaying virgins
all of it
as a kid I used to cut
pictures of eyes out of
the glossies and collect
them in a little book
it was only when I
found them years later
that I realised what a
psychopathic thing that was to do
like something you’d see in
a hard-hitting drama
mumbled piss-taking is the very foundation of this office’s limited unity
and
/breathy
come here
and I would like secretly to fuck you
XVI
guy like that has a pliable jaw
It’d all be:
all the above
the detritus of the senior figure
XVII
XVIII
XIX