niall o'sullivan

works in progress. works abandoned.

[poetniall]

Moloch? He's the internet, stupid.

[poetniall]

During the entire coach journey, the reverent snow on the passing hills was counterbalanced by some loud, rich teenagers repeatedly using the word “peng”.

[accidentalperformance]

how Niall's failure looks from the inside

I used to rehearse a lot back in the day, back when I still considered myself a performance poet. Thoughts of how to perform the piece occurred at the very earliest stages of composition. Not that the piece was ready when I first took it to an audience. In many ways, the editing process happened across performances of the piece. Some parts would be ironed out in between shows, sometimes I edited on the fly, other times the edits were unconscious and I would only become aware of them when chancing upon the original written version of the composition. Things have changed since then. I still enjoy performing but the acts of writing and performance have a different relationship. I am much more into improvisation or letting the act of composition become a part of the performance. This is partially due to me discovering the works of David Antin and Spalding Grey over the last five or so years.

This has resulted in the pre-written poem being presented as more of an impetus than a centrepiece. I will often interrupt the performance of the poem to talk to the audience and I will immediately speak about the parts of the poem that I now think are bullshit after performing it. I often have a voice in my head while I’m reading a poem telling me that I’m full of shit and that the words I’m serving up to the crowd no longer ring true. It’s not so much that I want to bring that particular voice into the performance, more that I don’t want to gloss over the sense of conflict that accompanies the act. I think that the days of me performing pre-written poems are on their last legs.

I’m not sure where the end point of all this is but it’s certainly played a part in getting me booked less. I’m hoping this doesn’t eventually lead me to try stand up comedy. Similarly, I hope I don’t end up on speaker’s corner. There aren’t many places and opportunities to do this kind of thing. I’m lucky that I can speak while hosting poetry events and giving lectures but there are obvious limits due to the primary functions of these acts. I just want to open my mouth and see what happens. I just want to talk.

NIALL O'SULLIVAN

http://niallosullivan.co.uk

[poetniall]

Tom wanted to know something about my performance practice. I gave him these words in this order.

[poetniall]

cladding

[poetniall]

Timecard #26

Most of us won’t die in the midst of a sudden domestic incident Nor will we perish as part of the impact and aftershock of an Event Most of us have already been forgotten by a great many Treading a narrowing path Our footsteps barely registering on lush springy grass Stop for a moment to realise we have forgotten why and how we got here Look around at the birds in the sky and the bugs in the bushes and the wind in the trees No one is calling us home

#london

[poetniall]

Timecard #7

[poetniall]

Timecard #6

[poetniall]

Timecard #5 

Written yesterday and read out at Unplugged. The weirdos seemed to like it.

[poetniall]

Timecard #4

I really do want one of those clocking in machines on my writing desk

[poetniall]

Timecard #3

Oh dear, it’s.all gone a bit Charles Bukowski, in a bad posthumous collection kind of way…

[poetniall]

Timecard #2

Poems currently written on the subject of happiness = 742

Current tally of happy poems written = 

[poetniall]

Timecard #1

I bought a few hundred clocking in cards from ebay a few months ago for a one man show I was devising about the years I spent as a gardener. It is a show I’ve devised many times and abandoned every time. This last incarnation didn’t need to be written, there was simply a cue on each card for a story or mini monologue. I tried it out a few times, shorter ten-fifteen minute versions, but it never really ignited. I could always make a stab at it some other time I guess. Anyway, I still have hundreds of the buggers so I thought it would be good to write something on one of them every day. Here’s the first.

[poetniall]

Ambulance parked up outside the retirement home. Step into the light. #instahaiku

[poetniall]

LINES WRITTEN ABOUT IGGY POPS SKIN AND THE LIGHTWEIGHTS WHO THINK HE SHOULD PUT A SHIRT ON

the skin hangs loose from the body as does the spirit that wants to escape like a sudden jet of spit or blood or spunk———human spirits remain children for the duration———they are not whales or trees———veins that collapse from the pressure within or the needle without———so many needles and not a drop of ink———the eminence of the blank canvas———gnarled oak outstays the lovers names scratched onto it———the sex machine is a breath machine and a waste machine and a death machine———

is there no greater blasphemy than a smooth skinned christ pinned to a golden ratio cross———hes not the messiah hes a very naughty boy———rolling bare chested in broken glass———the centurions look away in disgust———waving his cock at the tiny sweaty faces———trashing the stage———smashing his cross into the amps———supporting the cure and leaving their elaborately built set in a pile of splinters shards and bodily expulsions———armpit sweat drenching the moping goths of golgotha———the idiot———the sacred act of idiocy

ready to die———rooty tooty tutankhamen———a shaved monkey rattling the labs cages———causing a commotion among the lobotomised rats———cops in lab coats extract the musk from his glands and use it to wash down their viagra———a few people write *put a shirt on iggy* into a comment box and wait to see if they get a like and then get bored after ten minutes and surf for porn and masturbate over a video of an undressing public official before ejaculating neatly into a tissue mopping up the overspill and flushing it down the toilet then go back to seeing if they got any likes———three likes———

the only real punks are the old punks———the skin flaps loose from the body———the sinews slacken———the guitar string breaks———the soul has been trying to escape for so long now but all it can do is balloon to the size of a music hall and then shrink back into its seedling shell somewhere within the heart———some say age is the slow accumulation of copying errors within the genetic code———i say that its distortion———raw power———no quiet life———no quiet off camera david bowie death———the body as a shell———the foundations of the bombed church still standing———chapel———latrine———squat———ghost train———funhouse———

[poetniall]

Something I wrote about Iggy and ageing last year. Still seems relevant today as he turns 70.

[poetniall]

Blossom on concrete - like stars on a clear spring night. Watch out for dog shit. #instahaiku

[poetniall]

Last week I gifted my estwhile friend with a postcard of the Chauvet cave paintings. I told him that nothing had changed about human nature in 30,000 years. He nodded silently in appreciation.

Today I told him that nothing had changed about human nature since the 1950s. He quickly made his excuses, rushed home and unfriended me.

[poetniall]

Here, with this deceiving image and false universe of pure imagery, Ginsberg is speaking from a quaint familiarity with television and cinema. He surely couldn’t be aware of a universe of pure imagery that incorporates Virtual Reality, Clash of Clans and Snapchat. He surely couldn’t be cognisant of a deceiving image that can call out, or buzz in your pocket, when it demands your attention.

The latest post in my Spoken Word criticism series looks at how Allen Ginsberg warns us of the dangers of a “false universe of pure imagery”