I sat on the sofa, a blistering headful of ideas burning a hole in my skull, I am filling up and overflowing. I raise my arms up towards the east and I call out the name of my only patron saint,
my role model, my cultural mother, my meme mum.
In My Ethereal Stevie Smith Shoes
Bella Basura 2017
“Stevie Smith” I slowly begin to sound.
“Stevie Smith” Louder.
“Stevie Smith, I do call on you in my time of need”
And Stevie descended and we pushed our opened hands out to each other, pushed hard palms against each other and she poured her deep intrinsic poet-energy in through the pads of my fingers. A warmth growing through me.
A voice, my own voice, calls me
and whispers close to my ear “Wake up!”
Beginning to think about a new chapbook of flash fiction to self-publish.
I am aiming for a february release,
and here is a preview…
When you done your tantric kundalini kali-spell on me I was lost enveloped in psychic love-haze, I was drawn, rising, filling, swelling emotions that confused me and had in the past lead to casually fucking someone.
Warning bells went off somewhere in the distance and I felt us reflex, in unison, pull back, but stayed long hours, hung in giddy uneasy equilibrium, in circular psychedelic emanations, trident penetrates the sky.
Still. Still. Still.
Waiting, while unseen proto-cosmic arousals reverberate the air,
threatening to immanently unfold sudden into cataclysmic karmic collisions climaxing.
Still. Still. Still.
So we lay down on the bed, fully-clothed in the dull downpour afternoon. Clasped in yogic breathing intensely staring deep into soul-eyes we sank down dipped below the surface entwined long time waiting will you call.
Do something boring
Discard an axiom
Make a short circuit
Use unqualified people
Take away the elements in order of non-importance
Don’t be afraid of things because they are easy to do
Imagine the piece as a set of disconnected events
Always first steps
Always give yourself credit for having more than personality
Always give yourself credit for having more than personality
Retrace your steps
Name the sections
Mechanise something idiosyncratic
Remove ambiguities – convert to specifics
Tape your mouth
Lost in useless territory
Is it finished?
[blank white page]
What mistakes did you make last time
Salome by Pierre et Gilles Augmented photograph. 1991
Darling, when I think of you…
My skin tingles, hairs rise.
In my dry gummy mouth
I taste a metallic
Taint of terror.
In my mind
I see a red-flare distress beacon
In the empty dark sea night sky.
I hear klaxons ringing out
Harmonics of horror.
I smell the sweat of my own fear.
Darling, in truth,
I try not to think of you…
From behind the huge ice-cream-laden pink-plastic sundae glass a child’s voice wailed out
“Strawberries! Strawberries! I don’t like strawberries”. Pandemonium rising up from an irritating bratty pre-schooler in the budget cafeteria on the ferry back to England.
I hadn’t heard an English voice for months, and now, due to uncertain weather conditions passengers having been banned from the decks, I was hearing my native tongue ring out around me, obscenely.
The sullen wet-dog stinking day-trip masses circumnavigated the duty-free and bars, aimlessly damp and the boy banged his heels endlessly, in infuriating non-syncopation. “I hate strawberries. I don’t want it. It’s smelly!”. The infantile squall was still passing over.
I ambled my memory back to Spain, still not believing I was actually leaving. I stared back deep into shimmering days of purposeful inactivity, punctuated through with isolated monochrome stop-frame images of intense moonlit things.
“I hate it. I hate it. I hate you!” strawberry-boy shouts, and I think it into Spanish, out of habit “Le odio Le odio Te odio Le odio Le odio Te odio” ringing in my mind, like a joyful Hispanic pat a cake game.
This Sunday I am performing at two typically Cambridge events…
The first event is the annual Strawberry Sundae – a bank holiday benefit for Strawberry Fair free festival. All day fundraising in the Portland Arms, looks like a sparkling line-up of music, poetry and spoken word. I’m looking forward to taking the stage at around 4pm.
The second event starting at 6.30pm at the CUC building in town, is the closing event for the Nasty Women – Cambridge Sisters Exhibition that has been running all week. The feminist art collective are raising money for CWRC and Rape Crisis, defending women’s rights in the city.
These two events in that seem to me to embody all that is quintessentially “Cambridge”, what I mean is that these events reflect Cambridge “memes” that I knew about before I even moved here.
After squatting in London for several years I arrived randomly in the mid-nineties at Drummer Street bus station with little more than a rucksack, and a couple of vague notions concerning Syd Barratt and an imaginary job in a bookshop. Aside from that I knew two other things about Cambridge – one of them came from Atilla The Stockbroker – “I’m going down to Cambridge to Strawberry Fair with a doggy on a string…” But as I rode in on the bus a traffic sign read “Cambridge Welcomes you… to go somewhere else please”.
The second thing I knew was an appealing rumour about the women here. Before I left Hackney I was twice taken aside by friends, in hushed voices, and told of the terrifying strident feminists of old Cambridge Town.
“Beware” They said “It was the Cambridge Women Anarchists who went on the rampage in Soho’s red light district after the CJA protests in Trafalgar Square. Fired up feminists vandalising sex shops and frightening the pimps”.
That seems to me to be at the heart of what Cambridge is about – Strawberry Fair and Nasty Women. Both of them on this Sunday too.
Copies of “The Short Answer” flash fiction chapbook will be on sale at both events.
A new ocassional Flash Fiction Series from Bella Basura
Dream Theme One
Weird Winter Wishes Photo: Phil MFU Cambridge 2012
In my dream about Thurston Moore it was night, I was up by the Co-op convenience store roundabout and all around there was this strange snow piled everywhere, like great banks of crunchy white snow – it was like some scene from a movie.
So I took my coat off, laid it down and began sledding through tunnels in the snow on my coat. Suddenly Thurston Moore was beside me and we were streaming through these glistening snow tunnels on my coat, laughing, O we were laughing, really laughing.
Eventually as we’re approaching the telephone box at the end of my street we began to slow. And there are smears of brown on the pristine snow. I look down and it is dog shit and my coat sleeve is dragging in dog shit and Thurston Moore disappears.
And I have to walk home alone in a blizzard in my torn and dog shitted coat.
In my dream we sit down on the bed in the hot thunderstorm afternoon, and we talk. We tumble headlong into conversations around tantric psycho-sexual experimentation, and intimacy, trust, adventure, and systematic exploration of kundalini energy and control of its transits through the etheric body. I liked that bit best. All that stuff about psychic electrification of each of my chakras in slow-motion pulsations of pure energy.
I wake into empty house twilight, sick taste in my mouth, my socks twisted and damp, hair sprawling unkempt.
In the kitchen I make a pot of tea and wait. Slipping in and out of the memory of the dream, story-telling it into existence, into a finely polished narrative, into a gleaming moral with a twist in the tail and happy ever-ending.
I try to hug you when you appear home, in the kitchen doorway. But you step back saying “Put me down, I’ve just come in from work”.
I step back, snubbed.
You storm upstairs.
I think fleetingly that your hair, tonight in particular,
smelled of stale sperm and too many rushed rancid coffees,
the taste of reality I dare not admit.
For weeks I have experienced this kind of activation, awakening of my Kundalini Serpent. It’s like I’m fully alive, in every cell fully aware all the time and I’m constantly aroused and endlessly scattered amongst the whole of humanity, every sentient being, and all vibrating with an efflorescence of love and ecstasy.
But I’m totally useless, can’t get anything practical done, I eat by happenstance, sleep not at all, all I can do is waft trailing my aura around my flat, sprinkling the glitter of my ecstasy across the known and unknown planes of the multi-verse.