Monday, 21 March 2011

modern dance

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Poem by James Quinton

Our New House

Cold and sniffly, she writes down the street names
left, right here, left at boulevard B
by the time I looked up she had disappeared.
Lights with metals shade hang from wire
green ivy, like beer bellies burped out of buildings
she’s gone to collect the keys to our new house and will be an hour.
Propped up against an old cart, I am in charge
of our belongings: the Rothko postcards, clothes
and drawing tools, a bicycle, some books.
She would not allow it, and I wouldn’t tell
but for some reason I feel like leaving everything here
nicking off to a cafe for half an hour to test out our new neighbours.
Of course I’d return and everything would have vanished
I’d run around knowing they’d not gone far; racing by men
hocking and spitting in furnace grates, a dude
following a model car over cobbles, a glimpse
of a young goalie trapped mid air like a statue,
metal light shades, a waft from a bakery.
To turn around a corner and find two fine bums
struggling with my bike bag, dragging our stuff
into a vacant lot, full of leafless trees and shrubs.

And, after diplomacy fails, I’d have to kick their arse
and drag all our belongings back to the cart
after dragging their bodies into the bush
and return just in time to catch my breath
take a sip of juice and flip open a book.

So excited she unlocks the front door
and I have to drag our shit up six flights of stairs.

Sunday, 13 March 2011

does the dalai lama follow you on twitter?



i will at times
     seize the feline chairman meow tse tung
   by the throat
     when once again
he has mounted an inappropriate surface
    exploring with dangling
   to see which objects
he can cause to fall,
         to no avail…

i could take a scalpel
  and sever
his head
           race to vet
                      sew back on
recuperate the beast 
with endless croquettes
                    cold meats
                   & tepid milks &
the moment he has regained full strength
   he would return to said surface
      where lies the stereo
      & the strange guitar
hand-crafted unplayable
   by nathalie’s godfather
      & it would fall
         the beast mao would tap it
    then rise in the back a little
the furhairs
 the wide yellow eyes
     a remote part of his alien brain
   knowing it was wrong
                                                                 but too remote
to stop the action     tap


  stitches fresh
i seize him by the throat
      & fling him to the floor
   he rolls a little but is up on his feet
        as cats not sleeping
    will always land on their feet
      and now I have to write this awkwardly
   cos he purrs in my lap
     and wants to bite this pen
        and is biting this fine moleskine
     nathalie bought me
                                                   and yes
          the corner bears his mark now
    as nathalie stirs in the bedroom
                  and paris hosts a soft rainbhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh (mao addition)
        it’s ‘the fall’ on the stereo
   and I remember now mark e smith
     sitting in our lounge NE Manchester
       saying he had often communicated
telepathically with cats
    as we dabbed at a bag of speed
      ripped open on the table

i had a relative there
      & recently here too NE paris
  & I hope he don’t need stitches
     for some of the choices he’s midst of.
 I hope there is not a confusion about what it means to contain multitudes 


ah chairman,
i’m gettin’ a little sick
of your fucked up attitude

by the throat
where the voice is
it is flung
landing of course on its feet
licking lips
emitting passable R2D2 impression
ready for more