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Two Excerpts from ‘Shrapnel’ (c.1998 – 2007)

17 Nov

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(xxxii)

“The genius of the free market idea is to have us blame ourselves for the inequalities built into the system. Imagine a hundred-meter sprint where some had to do a marathon or 10,000 meters before anyone started the stopwatch, some started six inches from the finish, and all the medals were already, anyway, sent to the same guys who won them every year without even needing to turn up at the track. It wouldn’t be credible as athletics, but it’s pretty much exactly how the economy works…”

William Sterling Everett: Signs of the Times (1997)

Careless Talk Costs Lives, the old wartime propaganda posters used to insist, a cartoon Nazi spy gleefully eavesdropping on Mavis and Hilda – or at least, on two ladies in hair-rollers and spotted headscarves who might as well have been named Mavis and Hilda – as they blithely gossip about their husbands’ postings and other matters of use to any passing Nazi spies who may have been lurking on the street-corners where they passed the time in their utility coats. They hold baskets amply but modestly furnished with rationed eggs, cheese and milk and, according to the poster, anyway, threaten to lose the war as surely as any active enemy saboteur.

Perhaps this was some early premonition of Chaos Theory, intimating the vast potential consequences of minute actions as their barely perceptible resonances multiplied in the world: the low hum of insect wings building in the air, slowly unfastening the stitches that hold some wind-current to its known course and changing the entire weather system. Or maybe it’s the appearance of a dropped penny on a pavement that magnetises itself to a hundred other orphan pennies and builds slowly towards a one pound coin, a ten pound note, perhaps the full multi-million pound jackpot of a lottery win on a £1 ticket.

Isn’t this how markets are assumed to function, as the unfathomable result of millions of barely perceptible individual purchase decisions as they generate vast sprawling factories and refineries in the desert sands, plant crops inside glistening perspex Savannah greenhouses, lay down entire networks of roads and red-brick housing estates with pocket gardens and tarmac cul-de-sacs and parking spaces to meet all the millions of freely-chosen individual desires that spawned them? As we desire it, so things shall be.

Except, desire as we may, nothing much seems to change. We throw out one government and acquire another that will at best pursue much the same policies with minor tweaks to the packaging and presentation, at worst do something it hardly bears thinking about that wasn’t even in the manifesto. We’d prefer to live our lives without being defined and shaped by money; we’d like to disentangle ourselves from the nine-to-five and the long-distance commute but find we need to spend ever more of our lives chasing money to achieve this goal in any meaningful way, to stack up enough to get out of the rat race, or at least, we do if we haven’t got the money to start with. We seek equilibrium while the prospect of achieving it recedes ever further into the realms of fantasy: even a moderately secure paid job and a place to live becomes the stuff of daydreams and fairy tales.

If this is the case, it must be because we lacked the necessary talent and drive. The thickets of mystique that grow around social connections and blind chance, like thorns around Sleeping Beauty’s castle, or the endless inflation that lifts entry-level doors beyond the reach of those who used to do the jobs, like the windows in Rapunzel’s tower. Besides, give someone the place and the role itself, the confidence inspired by acceptance, will tend to produce an approxiation of competence, enough to confirm the initial choice as right and justified, at least. Once the investment is made, and you’re on the inside, it might take years to expose your shortcomings even when this doesn’t apply.

Turn someone down, and maybe they’ll find themselves in debt, confidence shattered, slide from that crucial lost chance into apathy or worse. This is confirmation bias as a social and economic system, a lottery with delusions of meaningful decision-making. Every interview with someone successful you’ve ever read mentions the moment when something clicked: the job that led to everything that followed, the support that made the rest easy, the random draw that raised this one individual from the aspirant horde and planted those particular feet firmly on the sprung rubber surface of the fast track, where white lines curved on their clear path to the finish line. The rest remain outside, groping in the darkness for even the semblance of an entrance to the stadium.

Those who make it are the ones worthy of the rewards; the rest have fallen short. Anyone can see the natural justice at work in this.

Time passes. Small change turns up in the street from time to time. There is another story to be told, where we might glimpse details otherwise deemed insignificant: moments of clarity, peculiar unravellings of the fabrics we live by as the mind turns in on itself between one distraction and the next, each small paid job only tenuously connected to the last. Here’s one of those stories now, the beginnings of a prose elegy sketched out among the slogans and images that pierce the rain-soaked urban fabric with the fantastic promises of a dozen billboards along the route I’m walking:

It’s been eighty years since the armistice of the Great War, more or less. Vast posters appear in the streets showing the dark centres of scarlet poppies, as though Georgia O’Keefe has become confused with More O’Ferrall, the content stolen for the pasted image seamlessly merged with the interests profiting from the billboard itself. Lime green posters, possibly florescent, are slapped on top, unofficial fly posters showing a large disembodied phallus in black marker-pen. A train is beating over the iron railway-bridge, its wheels and carriages throbbing through the brickwork and girders above us with a close approximation of the rhythm in a migraine headache, right behind the eyes. A car takes a tight corner on a mountain road while the sun rises, or sets, it isn’t clear. Love and acceptance is promised to all by the mascaras and lipsticks worn by women so exceptional in appearance they are paid in multiples of your annual salary for a handful of photographs, a few seconds of film footage. There are four landscapes, sited at angles to one another above a junction, each one dramatic, beautiful and entirely free of advertising, all trying to entice us to travel into them by luxury car, cruise-liner or air…

This might be important. It’s just unedited notes, a few scraps of evidence, but you’ll probably have guessed already where it’s going, what the point will be. This isn’t subtle. There are some kinds of knowledge that we all share but somehow never quite rise into full consciousness for long enough to come into focus, mirages we aren’t sure are really there at all: am I seeing my mind work from a long way off or am I going mad? We know, instinctively, that the only place we’ll ever see a landscape entirely free of advertising is in the landscape depicted in an advertisement. It’s one of these things we know and witness continually but that no longer seems unnatural. Of course there are adverts everywhere, except in adverts. How else could things be?

Perhaps one day our shared observations will magnetize to one-another, gather weight and form, their collective gravity suddenly become sufficient to jolt entire fixed weather systems from their default courses. Would what ensued be chaos or liberation? Until then, I can indulge the dream of travelling among landscapes free of advertising while walking through a half-mile long canyon of shops and offices flanked by billboards, all the way from the Holloway Road to the gates of Finsbury Park. Perhaps if I can prove I’m worthy, start earning and save some money now, it might even happen. If I can just put my head down against all this rain and keep going…

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(lxiii)

“We work to maintain our chains of our own free will. We keep them safe with the clocks and the coins inside our own homes and fret ourselves ceaselessly about losing even a single link.”

Henry Sutton (1886)

The sun strains through the clouds like weak tea through muslin. Neon signs flicker high on the walls as I pass the Ethiopian crafts and clothes shop with its white door and window-frames, the grocer and halal  butcher, the steel shutters unrolled for an afternoon trade that seems to barely exist. On the pavement gangs of youths in leather jackets with gelled hair and strong after-shave hang around, maybe Greek, Cypriot or Turkish, maybe Albanian or Italian, but wherever they’re from I think I don’t recognise the language until I do, suddenly, finally catching a slangy, heavily accented English spoken at three times normal speed. A group of Somali women thread between them, while two elderly Jamaican men with grey hair and beards stand aside to let them pass, one doffing his tweed hat with a smile then moving on.

At the bus-stop a line of people moves forward to board a red Routemaster whose conductor hangs from the back step, one arm outstretched to signal that only the first four can get on, the rest must wait. There are murmurs and shufflings, but the line quickly falls back and returns to its paperbacks, newspapers and magazines. I am behind them, pausing by a litter-bin to pick up the shiny bronze penny that leans at a forty-five degree angle in the space between two paving-stones. As I stand, I notice the sky darkening, a large cloud moving through the light like a shadow over water. I can hear the distant rumbling of thunder, feel a vague electric charge hanging on the air like a veil.

The shadow throws the neon lights and office windows into sharper relief, and a blue and red sign shaped like a telephone flashes over a painted board that reads: Cheap Rate International Phone Calls and Travel Specialists. A man sits behind a wooden desk inside, a computer in front of him as he turns a ball-point pen over and over between his fingers, tapping it on the desk and staring into space. On the walls around him are posters in full colour showing scenes from Guyana, Jamaica, Cyprus, places where lurid pink and orange sunsets spread themselves behind silhouetted palm trees, where improbably blue skies luxuriate above sapphire oceans and white sand beaches, while natives in colourful clothes hold out baskets of fruit that seem to ripen in the warmth of exaggeratedly contented smiles, wide as the clean horizons that surround them.

He continues to stare into space, his gaze following a fly as it batters itself against a flickering florescent tube spotted with dust. He has the flight details and dialling codes of every point on the globe at his fingertips, but he is going nowhere and talking to no-one.

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Shell-Ears and Tin-Ears (from ‘An Imaginary History of Musical Polynesia’, 2015)

19 Dec

 

Shell-Ears and Tin-Ears

(after ‘War Between Short-Eared and Long-Eared Tribes’, Easter Island)

The tin-eared people were the rulers and they inhabited the big skyscrapers, gated estates and apartment blocks in the most expensive suburbs and cities.

The shell-eared people lived on the poorest land in the small overlooked places, or in the cold shadows cast by the big buildings that belonged to the tin-eared people.

One day, the tin-eared people wanted to build another big skyscraper for themselves on shell-eared people’s land, so they put out a call:

“Come and help us clear these poor lands and make them better,” the tin-eared people said. “If you do this, the land will be improved and the shell-eared people can live there more comfortably.”

But the shell-eared people knew the tin-eared people’s tricks. They knew that the moment their lands were no longer poor they would be taken from them and they refused to do the work.

Then the tin-eared people cleared the land themselves and, angry at having to labour even for a day like shell-eared people do for all their lives, the tin-eared people now said they were building a big complex of luxury apartments for themselves on that land which belonged to the shell-eared people.

And the tin-eared people took the land from the shell-eared people, and built their big complex of luxury apartments there, and then they left them all empty, for the tin-eared people already had apartments and houses and could not live in them all.

While the tin-eared people were building the luxury apartments that no-one needed, they heard the shell-eared people singing and playing on musical instruments in their cramped huts while sitting around their fires, and before throwing them from the land, the tin-eared people said to each-other:

“These sounds will make lots of money for us if we can take them from the shell-ears and sell them to our own kind to play in their cars and offices.”

So before they drove the shell-eared people from their land and away from even the cold shadows of that empty luxury apartment block, they sneaked inside all the shell-eared people’s huts and took away their drums and guitars, their marimbas and flutes.

Only when the tin-eared people had done all this did they drive the bulldozers over the huts and pour the concrete over the places where those shell-eared people’s huts had once stood to erase all trace of them and make it appear they were never there, as they always did.

There was one woman who was very unusual in this story, for though she was born shell-eared she had married one of the tin-eared people in her youth. Now she was full of regrets, for she had found her husband could not respect her because she lacked a tin-ear.

But this same woman had also once been known among the shell-eared people as a great musician, so some of the business associates of her tin-eared husband came to her with all those stolen musical instruments and asked her to play them, as no tin-ear can ever be a true musician.

This woman now knew what the tin-eared people had done to the shell-eared people’s huts, but she played a short song on each of the instruments her husband and his associates handed to her anyway, hoping that the tin-ears she lived among would one day listen and hear something other than the sound of money rattling in every part of the world.

For the truth, as this woman knew to her heart’s cost, was that where shell-ears can hear music, tin-ears can hear nothing but the sound of money rattling in every part of the world, alive or inanimate.

When birds sing, shell-eared people hear the conflicts and courtships of wild nature or a promise of dawn, but tin-eared people hear only the money rattling in their feathers and meat or locked away inside all the timber of the trees those birds make their nests in.

When there is conversation, shell-eared people listen and hear the voices speaking and the words being said, but tin-eared people listen for nothing but the money rattling in a person’s business connections and appearance or locked away in their personal possessions and bank accounts.

When there is music playing, shell-eared people hear its sounds and textures, its harmonies and rhythms, its meanings and shifting atmospherics, but tin-eared people hear only the money rattling about in the infinite numbers of ways it can be wedged into slots on radio and TV or make terrible adverts for things not even other tin-eared people want 4% more effective with some demographics.

This was what this woman’s husband now proved, for hearing his wife play one beautiful song, he only heard money rattling in its slow and languid movements, thinking that it might be made simpler and more cheaply then sold to help other tin-eared people relax after they had spent their days listening for more things to get money rattling out of, which was indeed exhausting.

And hearing his wife play a song full of all the suggestive and snaking rhythms that no shell-eared person could possibly hear without remembering fleshy pleasures and dancing to it until they sweated and became delirious, the tin-eared husband could only hear the money rattling in the possibility of making a cheaper version and putting it on a keep-fit CD to sell at garages.

It is the way of this world that for tin-eared people, who can only ever hear money rattling in everything in this world, alive or inanimate, there is only one distinction that counts among all the sounds, the only subtlety a tin-ear can distinguish that a shell-ear will rarely notice.

For a tin-eared person, money rattles in different directions, so if a tin-ear hears money rattling into his tin, he is pleased and delighted, and he will congratulate himself endlessly. But if he hears money rattling out of his tin, he grows quickly resentful and his mood becomes dark and vicious.

Even so, after all this, or perhaps because of all this, the tin-eared people are still the rulers, and they still live in the biggest skyscrapers and office blocks of the most expensive cities, and the shell-eared people still live on the poorest land in the small and overlooked places, among all the cold shadows cast by the big buildings made for tin-eared people by other tin-eared people.

It is true that the shell-eared people still have drums and guitars, marimbas and flutes, and they are sometimes played, but even when silenced these sounds are suggested by all the noises of the world that made them and are still heard in that world by the shell-eared people, though their hearts might break at what the recognition of these noises conjures and stirs within their bodies.

Perhaps this war between the tin-eared people and the shell-eared people will continue indefinitely.

Or perhaps the shell-eared people will notice that they greatly outnumber the tin-eared people and turn on them, and after great bloodshed leave only one alive, as a reminder to themselves of the cost of inaction should the tin-eared ever again win the upper hand over the shell-eared.

Or perhaps, as that shell-eared woman married to a tin-eared husband hopes, the tin-eared people will learn to listen and hear again, for it is said that their ancestors once heard as the shell-eared people do, before this strange affliction that made them hear only money rattling in every part of this world, alive or inanimate, took them so far away from their own selves and senses that they came to consider any state other than their own an illness to be punished and cured.

Whatever comes next between the tin-eared people and the shell-eared people is not yet known, for the tale is now ended and my page falls silent as this world never will.

Buy Exotica Suite & Other Fictions (Shoestring Press, 2015)

 

Ten Poems About Nottingham (Candlestick Press, 2015)

20 Nov

Ten Poems about Nottingham (Candlestick Press)

‘The Second Time As Farce’, first published in March 2015 among the uncollected poems gathered in Black Glass: New & Selected Poems, has now taken its (arguably unlikely) place among pieces by Henry Kirke White, D.H. Lawrence, Joan Downar and others as one of the Ten Poems About Nottingham featured in the latest Candlestick Press ‘instead of a card’ anthology.

More details on the publication and its availability can be found on the Candlestick Press website.

 

Exotica Suite & Other Fictions (Launch at New Art Exchange, July 10, 2015)

20 Jun

Exotica Suite & Other Fictions will be out on July 10th, via Shoestring Press for the print publication, and as a full length album, also titled Exotica Suite, on CD from July and as a vinyl LP in 2016. The recordings feature some of the written texts sampled, remixed, re-edited and performed with music by Paul Isherwood, best known for four acclaimed albums made with The Soundcarriers, most recently Entropicalia (Ghost Box, 2014). The launch will also premiere a cycle of related short films to which the recordings act as soundtracks. It’s all scheduled to take place at at New Art Exchange on July 10, between 6 – 9pm, free but booking via Eventbrite is strongly recommended.

Exotica Suite & Other Fictions

BOOK PUBLICATION CONTENTS & BLURB:

Exotica Suite begins with an Easter Island creation chant in the style of William Blake’s Proverbs of Hell and an imaginary Polynesian colony in England in the 1780s then takes in a series of tall tales featuring Hawaiian musicians. Other Fictions fabricates occult histories in Nottingham caves and embarks on a labyrinthine sea voyage with the body of a late Hawaiian King. Now gathered in one place for the first time, the various forgeries, stories, false lectures, misleading anecdotes and other writings in Exotica Suite & Other Fictions are the flip-side to Black Glass: New & Selected Poems, also published by Shoestring.

Exotica Suite simultaneously exists as a vinyl LP and audio CD made in collaboration with the musician Paul Isherwood, best known for his work with The Soundcarriers.

“…spins a web that oscillates between the fictional and non fictional and encourages us to reflect on how we navigate the past and how this could affect all our futures.”

Katherine Wood on Marine (2013)

Book Contents:

Part One: Exotica Suite:
A Creation Fragment from Easter Island
An Account of the Hawaiian Colony in England (1790)
The Kumulipo Variations
Four Hula Songs for the Goddess Laka
The Sorceress
An Imaginary History of Musical Polynesia
(i) The First Musician
(ii) Joseph Kekuku Between Two Worlds
(iii) Sol Hoopii Finds A Sack Of Souls
(iv) Arthur Lyman’s Marimba Calms Pele’s Rage
(v) Shell-Ears And Tin-Ears
Invocation to Sun Ra (1914 – 1993)

Part Two: Other Fictions
Marine: A Story in Eight Objects
A Marriage of Styles
The Disappearances
The Peel Street Codex
The Nottingham Medlars
An Edible Alphabet
Fabricated Archives
Spirit Wrappings: Some Notes on the Rashleigh Jackson Family Collection
A Mandinka Song: Theme & Variations
Disturbances
The Enigma of Robert Holcombe
Convulsive Beauty: A Fabricated Lecture
Twelve Non-Specific Sites

The Sorceress (1955) Latino Graphics E

Exotica Suite LP/CD Tracklist:

Side 1:
The Hawaiian Colony Ballad I
Creation Fragment
Altar Prayer For Laka
A Hula for Laka (For Link Wray)
The Hawaiian Colony Ballad II
The Sorceress

Side 2:
Ankle Bracelet
Flute Interlude
Kumulipo Variation
The Hawaiian Colony Ballad III
Subliminal (Invocation to Sun Ra)

Black Glass: New & Selected Poems (Shoestring, 2015)

3 Apr

Black_Glass

Black Glass: New & Selected Poems (Shoestring Press, 2015)

ISBN: 978-1-910323-25-0

120 pages, paperback, 148x210mm

Wayne Burrows is a poet whose imaginative flair is matched by his readiness to experiment with a variety of forms and themes. Since the appearance of his first full collection, Marginalia, he has published sequences of free-standing poems, often in pamphlet form, and has worked with visual artists as well as on film projects. Black Glass brings together a substantial selection of previously published work and more recent, uncollected material.

Wayne Burrows was born in Derbyshire, grew up in Mid-Wales, then lived in Sheffield and East London, where he worked mainly as an editor and freelance journalist. Recent publications include Spirit Wrappings: Some Notes on the Rashleigh Jackson Family Collection (2012), Marine: A Story in Eight Objects (2013), The Holcombe Tarot (2014) and Exotica Suite (2015). He has also made several short collage films, including Disturbances (2010), The Serendipity Loops (2012) and Subliminal (2015), and created fictional retrospective exhibitions under the entirely fabricated identity of the British artist Robert Holcombe (b.1923 – d.2003).

Marginalia is a book about being in love in our increasingly weird world, transformed by the scientific view and the bombardments of the media. It’s exploring a new feeling of being human, registering the survival of love in spite of everything.” – Ambit

“The power of the genuinely surreal comes together here with a different kind of haunting (Dutch) painterly perspective.” – TLS

Marginalia is a considerable achievement.” – Poetry Wales

“Baroque manipulations of natural imagery set his work well apart from writing in the green affirmative mode.” –Poetry Review

Contents: Black Glass: New & Selected Poems (2015)

from Marginalia (2001)

Llanddwyn
After Englynion
Binary
A Recipe For Insanity
Stanzas for the Harp
Transference
Marginalia
The Bubble

from The Protein Songs (2005)

The Protein Songs
That Afternoon
Siesta Hour

from Emblems (2009)

A Trick of the Light
Slapstick (Coda)
The Archway Altarpiece
Side-Effects
Underground

from The Apple Sequence (2011)

The Apple Prologue
The Apple Migrations
The Roots Of The Apple
(i) East Malling, 1912
(ii) Herefordshire, 2011
Egremont Russet
James Grieve
Hidden Rose
Newton’s Wonder
The Apple’s Song In Autumn
Things That Are Not Apples
A Grubbed Orchard (Does Spring Come…?)
The Order of Seasons

Uncollected Poems (2006 – 2014)

Lines After Abbas Ibn Al-Ahnaf
The Blue Wolves and The Wheelbarrow
Black Glass
Zeropolis, or Shelley in Las Vegas
Instructions for Baking the Nottingham Golem
A Simultaneous Translation
The Second Time As Farce
Luigi Russolo
The Shadow
By Way Of Digression…
Mnemonic
Sonnets in the Aftermath and Anticipation of a Financial Meltdown
(i) Genesis
(ii) The Commandments
(iii) A Prayer
(iv) Revelation
On A Very Small Planet, Not Too Far Away

A Cycle of Songs from the Body’s Interior (2013)

Prologue: Panis et Circensis (Bread and Circuses)
(i) The Leukocytes
(ii) The History of the Red Cells
(iii) The Origin of the Heart Beat
(iv) Electrical Changes in the Heart
(v)Perfusion of the Excised Heart
(vi) The Circulation
(vii) Skin Sensations
(viii) The Lachrymal Apparatus
(ix) The Properties of Nerve
(x) Nerve Regeneration
(xi) The Peripheral Nerves
(xii) The Endocrine System
(xiii) The Semicircular Canals
(xiv) The Primary Organs of Sex
(xv) The Physiology of Reproduction
(xvi) Pregnancy and Parturition
(xvii) The Quadrants of the Breast
(xviii) The Deep Layers
(xix) The Arterial Pulse
(xx) The Cortical Structures
(xxi) Examination of the Tongue
(xxii) Supplementary Physical Signs
(xxiii) The Degeneration of Tissue
(xxiv) Disorders of the Heart
(xxv) The Coats of the Eye Ball