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@blueofnoonpoetry
An Accidental Performance Artist - Tom’s new project :)
Tom has set up a new Tumblr focusing on performance art -
www.accidentalperformance.tumblr.com
The End of Blue of Noon
Blue of Noon Poetry is at an end: I have absolutely adored working on it and publishing many brilliant poets -
Melissa Lee-Houghton * Bryan Baker * Amy Acre * Michael Wyndham * Adham Smart * Tamar Yoseloff * Alison Gill * Matthew Caley * Peter Stickland * Anna Kahn * Tara Fleur * Thomas Smith Gillies * Anthony Howell * Amy Neilson Smith * Fran Lock * Carlyle Reedy * David Turner * Lara Popovic * Joanna Swan * Timothy Patrick Kiely * Helen Sheppard * Nicki Heinen * Richard Perkins * Annie Katchinska * Robert Yates * Ernesto Sarezale * Lydia Hounat * Cletis L Stump * Will Roychowdhury * Aaron Dinsdale * Dharmavadana Penn * Abi Palmer * Diana Pooley * Rachael Black * Roddy Lumsden * Isabel del Rio * Alex Bell * Niall O'Sullivan * Cheryl Moskowitz * Anca Rotar * Angela Kirby * Lizzy Palmer * Clare Saponia * Tim Wells * Gemma Brandy Boyd * Amy Elizabeth Kingsmill * Anouche Sherman * Anne Macaulay * Mark Waldron * Kostas Chondros * Sarah Fletcher * Pauline Seawards * Irina Jauhiainen * Anthony Costello * Bobby Parker * Sean Wai Keung
THANK YOU ALL FOR CONTRIBUTING AND READING AND SHARING - the site will remain - it will not perish even if the third world war is coming!
TOM BLAND - editor of Blue of Noon
Melissa and Tom in Hackney preparing for The Room tomorrow
Whitechapel after rain & then the long plateau
still I can’t imagine him asleep or you smoking a pipe or peeling an orange but oh how my imagination persists with your violent suffering over me. An empty picture. Me not in it. Let’s do something. It’s exciting me. Eyes scratched out with lack of dope. I wanted to be held & if it involves rope, red pain and a collar I’ll not only be there I’ll take pictures of it. Just between you & me is something I never heard before. But we laugh at murder, and the missing schoolgirl from around the corner won’t come back unharmed. I woke up craving nicotine but like you I see eroticism in the desolate & unsated & I don’t smoke. It was a Lynch weekend but it moved quickly into Bergman. Then Dick & I walked through Whitechapel where we gesticulated in half-hearted drizzle and he said it was the kind of weather only a mother could love. We could visit Henry he said & I inhaled hard and didn’t hesitate to decline & I came & on reflection, I told him, I think it was the cocaine. Packets of pills all over my room and I’ve scrubbed you out of it for the sake of the sanctity of Myself. Hot bruising & facial bites & I have died heavily, almost sleeplessly, ten hours out of one hundred & a thousand climaxes detonated submissively. It hurts more, yes now & I could tie you up. Right now yes & cut into it if it doesn’t hurt. Nothing can be undone that leaves marks like these. Your belt around my neck and your hand pushed into my mouth. Tighter. We all condensed into that in shame and pleasure. & you, too, have watched me bleed inside. −Would you object to it. I’d die for it. You’d die. I’d kill you. Yes & I’ll kill you back. Will you. I want you to. Really. Please. Yes. I’ve not come inside you because I don’t want children. I ate your children just now. Yes & I’m totally fucked. You did all those things yes but you also wrote about it. So it’s ok then. You write it down you’re absolved from it. Did you not know? That’s why I’m so good – I create my own absolution and win prizes for it. And someone on twitter says I’m writing about body objectification whilst you bite my breasts and I cry voicelessly. Cokeheads wake up numb and I am bitten all apart. I go down to the off license and the shopkeeper tries to sell me eggs several times when all I came for was obliteration. I delay so many things to feel them fully. & yes Dick I’ll show up in all my excruciating splendour for the leaching voyeurs because I’ve got nothing. Even a masochist knows when they can’t lose. I accumulate bad decisions, my sugar coating helps & that is all. You think you’ll win this one? Well, I think I’m the only true fuckup there, so wouldn’t it be more of a show to give the money to the one with the most bruises. You know. & yes in red I will hold my guts in & bow, and get on my knees for you. If I could sleep right now I would but instead I might neck liquid Prozac and swallow tramadol and try not to get too fucked at 5am. I’m not proud of myself, if you were wondering. You can’t take pride in dying better than anyone. & yeah, when it comes it comes hard for me. And my death will be a very wet orifice. And everyone will push into it and enjoy me.
MELISSA LEE-HOUGHTON
The Hate Church Welcomes New Parishioners
First let me say people have a talent for it. Hate is natural, you could say it's organic. Love has to be learned, nurtured. A flimsy plant that grows slowly, easy to kill. Hate is born in a flash, adult and strong enough to pass down to children, viable for centuries, the only thing that really lasts.
Members new to our church have nothing to learn. It's principal is innate to everyone; Parishioners need only to conform. Services held on Sunday, Come or we shall hate you; until then God bless.
BRYAN BAKER
Falling
You with your smell of yeast, of self-raising flour, of new baby scalp, of four-day pyjamas, of fingernail gunge, of spermy exhales, of my guileless cunt, of red wire chin forest, of splinters, of gum disease, of nothing strange now, of mountain lion kisses, of papa bear, of shitty finger, of crack hair, of clean sweat, of whiskey and raisins, of old coppers, of wet holy soles, of Scottish sunrise, of rough tumble love, of sleep thrashabout, of alcohol sweetening, of umami kale, of durum, of ink, of puzzle paper, of sheet rivers, of dirty sunshine, of plaid of colours of marvel, of soggy elastic, of morning tongue, of forgetful teeth, of adenoid, of spit and slam, of city eviction, of field grassy lullabies, of berries and smoke, of six men in a kitchen, of a hundred and ten covers, of wall moss, of lost pavement, of gyratory flyover, of white concrete, of brown blood, of womb lining, of splatter, of congealed, of warm, of oil, of puddles, of tree trunks, of fuck, of suck, of potato dust, of promise me, of strap, of snap, of pomelo wax, of ironic daisies, of colourless jelly, of garlic pussy, of rhubarb cock, of spread-eagle larynx, of not yet, of one more, of undrunk tea, of slanted toast, of curly child, of sly cheek, of tickle hands, of spider scratch, of cheese stretch, of sweet, of die for, of wood, of would, of lark’s head, of jute, of wrap, of span, of spoon, of oceany iris wet storm of my hunger, of this, of rock and paper, of one more, for you, for you, I would
AMY ACRE
Are You Alive Now?
Rescued from drowning herself in the Thames by Watermen adeptly drilled in resuscitation by the Royal Humane Society; Mary Wollstonecraft protested she’d been: ‘Inhumanly brought back to life and misery’. Suicide is not worth the trouble, advised Emil Cioran, as we would kill ourselves too late. His mother said if she’d have known he was to be so melancholy she would’ve aborted him. As a boy I scorned the Sun and settled in a cell of shadows. Doctors, offended by my choice of incarceration, removed me to a dungeon of their own production until I would understand the duty of the living. A prisoner of the Roman Empire burst from the grubby ranks paraded on Via Latina and stood before Caesar begging permission to die. Caesar replied: ‘Are you alive now?’
MICHAEL WYNDHAM
Oh God they’re beautiful
but the first thing that comes to your mind after this is how ugly you feel to think that they’re beautiful. And then the waves of times you were ugly bear down like big dogs, and your mind is a beach and they are beautiful tourists who come here all the time but don’t bother to learn how to say thank you in the language or bother to Google why the fishermen throw back all the little ones. They’re so beautiful they’ve left none for you, it’s not your fault you’re ugly! But then you go to the archives and find that actually beauty’s never been more abundant, it’s twelve cents a barrel, China have so much they’re storing it in silos, and yet even though the world’s up to the teeth with it you are uglier than the bubbling remains of a howler monkey torn apart by our closest biological relatives. Children in bed in every time zone wake up with Guernica faces to the sound of their voices peeling the paint because you are known to be so ugly.
ADHAM SMART
For LP
My HEAD never came out of the birth canal. I wasn’t born but THROWN.
As a child, I played alone drawing circles conjoined with stick figures.
THROWN under a skeletal bridge – cans, crates, decomposing Tesco bags, syringes, cables, doormats.
*
I somehow stood opposite, seeing through, seeing myself sitting on the bed and I really was on the bed. I was the other and the other was … I.
*
She ran into a church with, GOD IS A WOMAN, written across her breasts and she stole the plastic doll out of the manger.
But god was a he, even if he was a hermaphrodite, creating his own flesh, each organ reproducing itself, each an angel or a version of myself,
like I used to draw in school, burning the sketches in my back garden whilst my neighbour took pictures.
*
I found truth in the god, Atum, who masturbated multiplicity out of his hand -
organs grew out of the goddess, Nu, she, the seething caldron of excitation.
*
I don’t need to tell you horror words, you hear them every day.
TOM BLAND
Girl
comes from nowhere, no great shakes – a slip, a trick, a single polka dot dancing on her own. In the swoosh
of the train she is gone, to trip the switch of her heart, to fill the gap – mind you, she’s been there before
and it sucks. She’s stuck on night shift, flashing her dugs, doing her bit and for what? No one
gets it – she holds her tongue but slippy lizard can’t be tamed, sliding over cusses, tequila, semen.
She’s good for nothing because nothing’s good: sirens drown out violins and crows swoop to carnage in the street.
TAMAR YOSELOFF
ZOMBIE GIRL DRAWING BY ALISON GILL
The Lambeth Prophecy
In ancient rain, tender gardens stripped, I’m caught in the drag of giant girders, soon another luxury city view. Unkind asphalt trips my toes as I spring verticals, rise higher and higher through dissected sky
to find there is a God, at least a guy who’d buy a round for the lads outside The Pineapple, his labours halted, at rest.
Progress. Razing, sweeping clean. I must take stock: the oak, the echoing green, before I gutter, stumble drunk. The quick buck backs the trend. This season it’s Dismal Grey as in battleship, storm cloud, steel.
My days are numbered: little boxes multiply over the city’s face while I labour at the boundary fence.
TAMAR YOSELOFF
Half
beside the thoroughfare the sale of half-hose has long since superseded the cultivation of Pierian Roses.
EZRA POUND : High Selwyn Mauberley
despite this thoroughbred thistles alfalfa say nonsense seeded, pursued coltish action love pre-Aryan crisis De-Sade who thousands freed at Salem have hissed say lungs deader pus the cuntish Vatican foreplay Stone Roses beasts Ides Thoreau’s hair he leased love Alf’s shoes’ shame Google’d quince said superior Ed the cultivated foam Pierce Brosnan rises backside so roughly fair the lass offers lashes of no logic Super-States The Occult a tine their foes peer in Riso’d said The Bee through rough-heard-fire Thesaurus hosed the flay Goneril’s sister rapeseed un-cultivated O Robespierre crisis B-sides to Scarborough Fair
bestride the rough mare the soul of rose-craft flares linger, sons two pairs, needed or poor Ian resigns
this poem is a quasi-anagrammic ‘trans-literal mishearing’ of one quatrain from Ezra Pound’s Hugh Selywyn Mauberly
MATTHEW CALEY
Satisfaction Garden
How do I presume that the actions I want will satisfy me? How does a grain of sand leave its boulder, introduce itself to a waiting oyster and become a pearl? Why do I bewitch myself with icons nurtured in my inner eye, ignoring their foul malignancy? Do not declare peace until you resolve and know completely how a lack of intention is the real intention. Does desire always arrive with a clear picture attached? Very little grows on jagged rock. Does satisfaction occur internally before we’re satisfied? Don’t pretend to know what you haven’t experienced. Can we wish for a thing without a picture of its pleasure? Words will not help; there’s no getting ready other than Grace. I took it for granted that I would be amazed by the result. Be ground, be crumbled, let wild flowers come up where you are. I acted with conviction. My fantasy came with an assured guarantee of what satisfaction would be like. You’ve been stony too many years. Try something different, surrender. I cannot fail. No-one has desire without first imagining its likely contentment. The man who worked this land was subtle; like a dancer. I don’t doubt I’ll get all the dazzling satisfaction I desire. He was mysterious, like a magician; profound, like a poet; responsive like a mother. Why would I question my yearning? I never found words to articulate my joyous gratification. The man who worked this land was watchful, like a man crossing a winter stream. Where could I look for a language to give sweet expression to the experience? The man who worked this land was aware of danger; he was courteous, like a visiting guest; yielding, like ice about to melt. The lexicon for ecstasy is impoverished. The man who worked this land was simple, like a block of un-carved wood. Anticipation creates a disappointed event and expectation ends in frustration, but, impatient for results, I ignore real endings. This man was hollow, like a cave; opaque like a muddy pool. Why restrict fantasies? Everything that follows the beginning is slow. I’ll show total disregard for reality-testing and equate my thought reality with external reality. The end is very slow. I will make my desires synonymous with their fulfilment. The beginning is dangerous. It is extremely easy. I want sheer pleasure. Get tough, trust chaos, have problems as your allies. I want my instinctive fantasy life to be real. Start with what’s provocative, fishy and risky. I’ll become omnipotent, a self-satisfied pleasure seeker. Practice discovery. Become good at marvellous accidents. Satisfaction’s domain is born of fantasy. Use chance to banish old connections. I must be confident and believe in assumed satisfactions. What you know causes drowsiness. I don’t want the kind of surprises that accompany reality. Attract new thresholds and recognitions. Goodbye vulnerability. I am on the crest of a wave. Be generous; avoid preconceptions. I leapfrog over the obstacles and forget there is only me in this duet. Evict understanding; trust your spirit. Forget any desire for recognition. With upbeat positivity, I ignore all reality arguments and construct scenarios that gratify me. Dreams arise in discrete places; narratives unfold in detached places. Everything happens very quickly in the fantasy world. Make decisions with your eyes closed. The instant outcome I imagine is mine. Confirm it only if it strikes the eye. I arrive at the delightful crescendo well before time. Expect nothing, accept hazards, anticipate mysteries. What will my fictional satisfaction replace? Listen to the lines; it’s the pen that does the dreaming. Will it replace vulnerable uncertainty with a fake dependable certainty? If there is an enormous canyon between your dreams and where you want to be, try nursing fantasy. I had no idea that fantasy pictures could devastate the reality of wanting. In this little garden the ordered chaos is your life; the sequences are your life; the arrangement is your life; the accidents are your life. How you invite it in to you each day, how you chose your place to stay, how you dream which scale to play, how you read it and which way today, these are all your life – every day. I am out of focus. Drink dawn like a cup of spring water and take in sunset like supper.
PETER STICKLAND
Unhappy Women #1
She seems like the kind of woman who would have tidy sex, all neat and soft, everyone's limbs kept on the ride. Afterwards she would say thank you and mean it. Her partner would pet her hair, but not nearly for long enough.
In the morning as she sponged foundation onto her unbruised neck she would find herself so, so angry and she would would not know how to ever start articulating her rage and she would not dream of taking it out on a partner.
ANNA KAHN