1. Art and Diseño

Writed.
Issue 13
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Feet.
By B. King
Opaque.
By Kurt Moss
Four P.M.
By B. King
Feet.
A WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS lives and lives and lives and
writes right through a right war of words. Pompous poets,
cruel critics and preposterous professors battled for mastery
of iamb, trochee, Anna Pest and dactyl marshalling the foot
soldiers of a jack booted infantry into lines and lines and
lines and lines on and on forever patriotically droning on
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and on like a drum. Oh ducky ducky though, all the wee
duckies around, all the George Lord Saintsburies, John C.
Nimmos, Thomas Superfuous Omonds and poet laureate
Robert bloody Bridges, all were men mighty and captains of
po-industry, weren’t they little duckies. Just quack quack
quacking little duckies fapping their paddled feet around.
Sticking their ducky beaks in the water and their ducky little
feet as well and making it into a white tower of ivory and
hard diamonds impenetrable. Ol’ Willy Boy Yeats—not quite
in another pond as the wee ducky generals though—lets his
beak and even his feet fall and disappear beneath the
surface of the murky water and lightly he cups a splash of it
and pulls it out in his hands into the sidelong glance of late
afternoon sunlight where it is beautiful and green and bright
as his old blue eye. Later on, then, duckies, I want to tell
you how he does it—it’s magic!—but all this muddy feld
wants a rake over, here.
It’s that old afternoon sunlight fsherman’s variability,
says old Muldoon, which Dave Ben and Mary look at
closely, disturbing a little bit the serious talk of serious forms
in serious poems that has been chattered around lately in
this feld by various jabbering birds, chirping harmlessly—
making into a singing the old scourging of past potato
picking rakers. These old boys are all dead now, thankfully,
though they all seemed unendable and unscaleable in the
years after our Billy Boy’s death, when they thundered their
big manly good-at-remembering-things academicities with
the logic of a strict formality in the plash assumed. Very
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penetrating. But nowadays as I say there’s much more of
singing in the feld and really the whole internal suffciency
of the poem has been questioned. This is something of an
illy determined reading here, it’s all a bit sloppy, wet and
ploshy. Watery green and amorphous really.
This ill determination oozes through the mud of old
Yeats’s frst thinkings when he wants to know what popular
poetry is. He stretches and strives and tries to fnd a style
for all the reading, all the writing, the whole of it that he is
trying to make and he thinks for two days of setting things
right, though you might be forgiven for thinking perhaps by
now at least he’d have fgured something out. Not as I
should now by making my rhythms faint and nervous. Ah
that’s good then. Because now really isn’t the time and
remember we want a big manly man of a line still, it being
nineteen 0 two. But by eating little and sleeping upon a
board. And what in heaven or hell is the good that’ll do
you? Well, what indeed. It is a simpler way of life, that
much we’ll give you Willy, and it certainly does seem
peaceful. Though it’s also a bit uncomfortable sounding to
me. Yes, but I thought that one must write with a gusty spirit
that would put all straight if it came out of a right heart.
Right said, there Freddy it’s quite good. So ye tak’ away all
your fat and cushions and ye’r left only with the stones of
your bare bones and the dirt of the matter, so to speak, trim
away all the fabby lace and shite and ye’ll be left with just
the pure illy determined wind blowing through you.
But it blows on through without stamping down into the
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feet and where’s it come from anyway? What right heart?
It’s a good start if you can fnd it but fewer have found than
have sought. And if the heart ain’t right then what is it. It’s
like voice of an Aran fsher-girl who sings somebody else’s
poetry out there by the waves:
You have taken the east from me; you have taken the
west from me,
You have taken what is before and what is behind
me;
You have taken the moon, you have taken the sun
from me,
And my fear is great you have taken God from me!
Right there in the waves, it was, right there where she said
it. But old Billy-at-the-Pond puts it all in prose and takes the
Lady writer away from the words and gives them to the girl
from Aran fshing by the sea. Why? Well, she’s not a
warring learned wanker of a poet and critic and a scholar
anyway so she’s not.
So old Willy Butler Yeats was looking for a whole of
Words & shit. among the many and the indeterminate,
answering his own question: How can the arts overcome
the slow dying of men’s hearts that we call the progress of
the world, and lay their hands upon men’s heartstrings
again? Well surely that’s certain and simple old Bill, you
just slap ‘em up in tart’s gowns and burn a job’s lot of
incense to get the men’s stringy hearts playing fne tunes
again! Without—and he emphasised the word, really a little
too much—without becoming the garment of religion as in
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old times. Ah now, Billy, boy! now we see. But this old
Paterine wasn’t going to degenerate like others into the
ways of the Babylonian, buying buying buying up some
surrogate soul.
How to lay our hands upon men’s heartstrings again,
how to grab them by the balls, as it were, of their feet and
walk them wholly out of their slow dying progress of
swipescreen evenings and the fecking X-Factor, how to
wake ‘em up again if you catch my drift, how to arrest their
eyes for just a second and hold their fecking twittering
tongues for fve bloody minutes is the question, how to save
them, that’s the question. Well, it may be rhythm: The
purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to
prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when
we are both asleep and awake, which is the moment of
creation, by hushing us with an alluring monotony, while it
holds us waking by variety, to keep us in that state of
perhaps real trance, in which the mind liberated from the
pressure of the will is unfolded in symbols. Ah to be
liberated, then. To be free. What was it, unmistakeably
free? Piss-takingly really I would say now but still, free.
Alright then. In that state of perhaps real trance. Yes yes, a
trance, rather like yoga wouldn’t you say. Rather like seaswimming, if you’ll permit me. A meditation. And then, and
there, in the trance, in that ever elusive and ever present
moment, in the moment of contemplation, in the moment
then we are lured, so he says, to the threshold of sleep,
and it may be far beyond it, without knowing that we have
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ever set our feet upon the steps of horn or ivory. Jesus H.
William Yeats. There it is, isn’t it just? Tread softly, here, and
here where his steps have fallen, tread softly, leave a light
foot in this place, upon these steps of horn or ivory. Tread
softly, because you tread on my dreams. And who’re you
talking to now at the pond old Bill? That’s right, you have
taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me, an Aran
fsher-girl sings.
All a wee bit nice there at the end, that little story wasn’t
it, about the trance and the dreams and all that. The other
old Bill, the old old Bill later on in his old life he talks about
this again, and do ye ken he fnds his right heart at last. We
make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but out of the
quarrel with ourselves, poetry. Or the wrong one anyway.
It’s having the right heart and the wrong heart within that
makes the poetry. Both. It’s the simultaneous hushing us with
an alluring monotony and holding us waking by variety,
hushing and waking, which frees us from all that comes of
councils and committees, from the world as it is seen from
universities and populous towns. Frees us again, and that’s
all Yeats that is, all that talk of liberating minds and freeing
our hearts and all that, that’s him. So at the other end of
your universities and populous towns, councils and
committees, slow dying of your hearts that you call
progress, at the other end of your manly marching feet, at
the other end of all this is a wee Aran fsher-girl, she can’t
read, can’t write, but the whole of literature is supposed to
come from her, and in her is combined the past and
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present, almost subconsciously, in the style or the rhythm or
the not so serious form of the pondwater, which she scoops
up and holds up green like magic. And good old fshing
William Butler Yeats gets up off his arse and he’s gone. I
will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree. And off I go.
By B. King
Opaque.
“BRUSHES IN THE BUSH, in the night time. Wriggles of
mice noses, whiskers skip along a sleepy thigh and a twitchhey-hitch, the owl has her eyes shut. Problems at sea, in the
night time. Finger tips trickle, the fckle spoon's bent under a
leg over then pulls tightly, unshaken as the tabby shrouds
gaze from shed roof plateaus—watching bushy tailed
scavengers scrummage through their waste bins. And they
scream. You wake up from the sea, from the Braeburning,
returned from the primal squeeze wriggles and twitches,
turned about and kisses tips of a snoring sows snout,
snorting, snoozing. A drop of rain falls upon the pond and
submerges, is drowned, is consumed into sleep again, in
the night time. Pondskeets in the tumble, tracing straight
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lines through shock-water-waves, ways to cut through vague
rounded memories; lines consumed then, swallowed up the
sleepers glug, toads and lilies pads. Some strange image in
the night time, some amphibian drooling and webbed
fngers gluing against one another, infated throats muffe
drones, whistling two hunched backs recovering, in the
night time.”
What is inside in the night time? 2 never studies
metonymy, takes instead a spying glass out to the allotted
garden in dreams of fnding some things big R-omantic:
Lucid Lucy wound in the grass roots and seeds awaiting.
Barren nothing and barrelled news. A romantic for bed time
a n d 2 should know so. 1 said 2 never learns. Ne'er
progressed did 2? Spoiled. Arvo', Pataca princely. Let 1
take reign for the next parts, presumably something linear
along the line of waking, maybe walking through something
straight or better winding. That always helps 2 keep those
hefty word counts ticking over. Winding, meandering, some
pun about wandering and wondering—the wright writing
process.
Hold, If 2 could acquiesce.
Learned a new word, is this evening?
1 learnt, 2 is not learned.
What if 1 only a different notion to 2? What if 2 only
struggles with aspect.
Perspectives vanish but 2 can not.
1 has Asbestos soars.
Does 2?
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1 and 1:
“Fine, necks contort down in the night time. Fuck. Duck
beams throttled with mottled dank indicatives. Shimmy
through a corridors Lidl'd with whisky smithereens and cut
feet. The septic sceptic, pick it out later. Find the king asleep
on his throne, two lame mongrels huddled at feet, licking
bunions and salty onion crust. Pay the mongrels for tending
to the car accident. More smithereens. Fuck this rubble. Kick
Roaul in the fucking throat for snoozing over the banister
and head to the shower room. Bath is absent without
reason. Toiletry burnt holes in the panels, fammable tiles
are drooping like the lids of a four day old
methamphetaminite. Spit on the foor, shower in cold water,
shave my pussy. Pull the light chord out by accident. Blame
Roaul. Walk downstairs looking for a shag to dry off, wave
Good Morning to the Milkman's son, who is wearing a
blaze orange girdle, supine on my bed. We have sex,
thumb-strum-coming, but do not take much else from it. I put
Eponymy by the Provenance spinning and his voice rubs up
against me. We chase our pleasure, I swing arms side to
side, day to day, weak too weak: funk akhbar there is
nothing malt or sacred left. It is almost time to take my
brothers to the institutions.”
Out of in the night time and into superfcial heaps and
tarry piles. 1 has a style. 1 drags feet and mind-sights
through Styx-cement-mix, droopy death. 2 says yet crueller
s t i l l 1 cannot the most common release—death never
features. Too much complexity, too much in the realm, in
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the night time. You cannot mediate the tone, even 1 with all
the clever brush strokes; enmitnous, acriment, cantankery,
sturgidity, collusioules, insidity. Fine blemishes, 2 o n 1's
chiaroscuro. Oh, no that is 2 in the night time, 1 prefers to
prime a copper sheet and let zippy oxidation loose. 2 is
suffocated in all this ammonia. No thing again. By-the-bile 2
thinks 2 can fx the mishap 1 took this unto.
Lend 1 similar ears then, will 2?
Steal them. 1 pinched 2's thunder.
2 broke 1's radio transmitter.
Hardtacks.
Please. Laden those longer waves then, tusk me.
1 middling, 2 is a closer.
1 is insensate.
2 has a shoal.
“I have my shawl, the responsibility waits, the room
clears—silent harmony, eventually. They are gone off to
their business now. As of now and I cleared them out with a
klaxon. It was more of a bugle actually and its faint history,
the frst note sent them spraying with regards to death. And
bursting through the plasterboard, resisting with concertina
ease. Quiet now as their skipping is left skipping, a peddled
miss-blip on that rotation and the warble of uneven vinyl,
the tapered edge in here is dirty, misshapen. I want to pull
at the edges and lay down on the foorboards, listen to the
woodworm—rustles of life in the plinths, I'd take them for a
treat to the pedestals. Lest those crumble like myself. I wish
this wall was my-gentle, the magnolia has freeze enough to
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refect myself back with the twitching simmered attempt.
Arms repose together-turned palms to the blotched ceiling
mixture, sunned, as if to catch the trickles that stream down
with witherers and excuses. I catch two eyes darting
beyond, in the magno-mirror from her palms to just under
her brow. The two failing steels, waning horizontals, baffed
by all these verticals of existence. They draw now, the
repose hinges until both fgures drown into the dark uprights
that stretch taught sockets, for one another, we cease in the
night time.”
2 sees, this is the problem. Does 2 have to fall in love
with every proxy? 2 would not even be if it were not for 1.
Always this dredge den angel, weeping, 2 is just as in love
with rubble as 1. In that at least they are the same. Decay
and collapse or distance and darkness, a rather limited
menú para dos, always a pair or a better one. Less voices
for 2 to navigate. 1 proposes a shift in position, 2 strangle it
back into stasis, 1 desires something visceral, 2 blends it
into sado-soup, splinter writter, the character crusher. Let's
have something a little more robust a few more for being,
not 2 beating putty pity people. 1 believes in vigour, prime
digits and gritted ground gums. 2 has never been able to
catch those sacred micro-moments any who which where,
and they leave 2 with no crux, or crutch in fact. But 1 still
sympathises with the sanctity, this is all a sacred history and
like marrow it is vital agony to extract, tissue as easy to
bruise as something straight from the heart. Image or not, it
can make 2 spit:
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Mimicry! 2 has no marbles left to loosen.
Draw something,
Mimesis then—another note hook.
Can 1 imagine 1 was raw,
Or when 2
was told there was another's strung
Alphabet:
Lily, B, Ghe, Bleed, Aye, He.
Can 2 create?
That single unifying trait,
The sum of their words:
“You can get lost in shutters, or pagodas and the Noh—
commission the fresh carpet and Junk, (drops the jay-to-why
by the seaside) then sail off into your own mind or night.
But there's a busy scene at the smithereens, we are loading
up for a voyage to fnd some kind of hollow boat—or was it
hallowed? It's not particularly relevant anyway. The crew is
motley, red, yellow and magenta caricatures and the three
of us that are able bodied. The Boatswain is the bloodlust,
prognosis an axe wound gush-gong-he, hiding and spitting
furore at the modern burgling games. Quartermaster's
always under-weight and we'll slit her fucking throat pointone day for it, itchy hep, but she'll never miss a step to con
a light one on rigging or fastening deals. And then there is
he, the Cap'n acclaimed for ought but missing teeth,
knuckles on his fsts that read SPIT and SUCK or SUCK and
SPIT—depending on the show he's offering. One of those
infated faces blown out from nitrogen cocktails, two
swollen pantomime Pinheads grinning on either turn of his
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neck. Or microephaly today. He was bartering in the dock
when Alluvium was one hundred for a farthing so we blued
up and hit up Sailed Oceans, wrapped ourselves around a
beacon bollard: It's hard to live in the city, what a pity, that
sirens interrupt the Sea's song. Wreckage and restraints left
the able bodied spitting, gasping that some nobody
dynamo could convert us, induce amnesia, angelheaded
cunts.”
Hold. Hold again, there is no need to become so
enraged, 1 cannot change the fact we have no paper to
writ on. If the middle is just a riddle how can it be the sum
of their words? They were simpler—they were straight
forward references: In Utero, The Going, Daddy or When
She Bathed Herself in a Bath of Bleach. 2 remembers the
best, but come out the least clear—1 lumped grapeshot in
cannon sights and made all this web about 2. But 2 will
hold, hold a wager once again for 1 always needed hands
in closing or going, still stuck in the night time. Nonetheless.
1 has for all the stories been bashing at the braces and
tugging, clamouring. 2 has been the restraints and that
mimicry but it did not make 1 under 2, only more consistent
and those choices made when:
2 only twitches when 1,
Struggle with minutes.
2 is timeless;
1 does not exist.
2 not alone longer
Than 1 alone a loner.
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Shifted perspectives are pretty
The aspects can combine,
And end.
“He rubbed the temple rouged and rubbled by
truncheon riders and saloon saddled siren-machines. It
made a screech at the cheek but slid at the wound and
clotted on white—a magno-mirror replaced, made manmetal. The riot confrmed they had been close in fight but
fell shorter, stayed by mixed feelings. Written off in shackles
sailors met the makers enemy also, whose stock-man
authority and Marshall's stars overrode their gallantry, he
swashbuckled a last rye from the backhand of a friend, a
miniature one. It famed inside over vacant enamel, oozed
right inside the fesh. The rabble reclined, most of them
behind cavities of control, pockets of authority. The one with
the battered eyes went frst under, then the one with the
shattered nose, the grazed knees the luckiest, later split
sunder at a soiree, for having the greatest grinning mouth.
Able bodies had their roles relinquished and the others Bee
and Blee had scurried back under the woodwork to their
plinths and protections. He however caught his face in the
metal mirror in the night time, just before the dawn so sirens
spun a red or a blue impression. He saw his brothers
pinned over his neck, the dry matter stuck to one another
other's face. He grinned as amber broke the whitewash
metal and knew that he was free now, the other and his
brothers that were staring at himself. Their eyes did not
waver, there was no repose, the hinges of the bonnet were
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fxed shut and his arms bound, but the noble shimmer-he
was free. As dawn split the avenue, a runic bell rang in
libertine antithesis—calling the Marshalled to prayer. They
leaving, forgot his body, forgot his essence, which
evaporated into the cold strangely, as if he were mercurial
or rather insubstantial. He was whipped into a gale and
swept away into the setting, among the Ashes in the forest,
among the extras in a flm.”
—You, two found and freed one me fnally,
—While that softer voice is mine, one that winds out
with modest imitations,
—Yes, mine is instead pounding at its binds, bursting
out of its breeches.
—My eye's sight wound down from half-dreams half
the days,
—And my the other's eye, squinted shot rusty red and
thirsty from too many verbal hallucinations.
—The machinations that have beaten verticals of sight
into a bamboo puzzle,
—Left this parchment milky, impossible to navigate
now, without recourse with Herself,
—Or Himself, the tug is a throttling act, an embrace is
a vent and breath.
—Breathe, silence is the sentence for separation—the
crooked fngered shush of Death,
—The woodworm that gnaw the structures that you
build, these hesitations.
—Sloth, stiller than the temper or tempest that erupts
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and obliterates, still shook or overlooked.
—Cracked glass and pinholes.
—The same solitary struggles.
—Sanctity is the unity then, harmony and melody
found nesting in a Hemlock,
—Evergreen, an everlasting host of voices in a room,
asymmetry interrupts like the whistling kettle.
—A pile of histories wound into lifeline tapestries, hung
to soak or dry in the violence and piss.
—Of peaceful idylls, ideals retreating and combining in
a trance endued with fresh and buoyant life.
—Summoned from the nether never, shouting alone
with no one to spot those rage shaped veins and
shackles;
—Whispers fall unlooked, mossed heaps unchecked for
being trite and unremarkable,
—As Spite's limits rumble through with blind, indignant
and with dull punctuality.
—But the peep-cheep-screech is only guttural enough
at its end, when all the rivets are lost,
—Our aspects are sabotaged by instabilities, the
misapprehensions, the fall of blinkered
perspectives,
—Half skittering and uttering half reaved and further
enraging
—When brought together are readied, rallied, frayed
fngers fused:
—To plunge into the sea, to perish or renew
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—In the night time.
By Kurt Moss
Four P.M.
JOHN C. NIMMO AWOKE from an unusually restful sleep
one morning rather early and sprang full and lissome out of
bed. He immediately hit his head on the skirting board, an
eventuality that was only made possible by Nimmo’s
recently acquired habit of standing his bed on end with the
headboard touching the wall. Rubbing the knot of skin that
forms at the point of one’s nose and eyebrows when
frowning to think or to try to placate a sore head, Nimmo
looked about him to remind him why he had sprung so
hopefully out of bed just now. The predictable lie of the
room in magnolia gave no notion of abnormal to Nimmo,
and when he glanced out of the window he was greeted by
the same as always grey sky threatening patches of rain. It
wasn’t a very large view from the window, the square of
grey being cut down by walls and rooftops and even
another window so that it was only a small irregular shape
of grey. Through opposition Nimmo understood what had
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burst him out of bed earlier, it was his dream. There he had
imagined a combination of red ochre, of green saddened
with grey, of black lines that defned outlines which had
given rise in his sleeping subconscious to a feeling of
familiar though intensifed anxiety from which all his
companions in misfortune must often suffer. This was the
view from the other side of the house in which Nimmo kept
his lodgings, a view he had never seen outside of his
dreams which was impossible to him. Nimmo of course
never thought of the ochre and sad green away on the
other side of the house there, never once in his waking day
except for just upon waking, of course.
Now that he had recovered from hitting his head, Nimmo
brushed himself off, dressed, and went to work. On
workdays, Nimmo always skipped breakfast. To get to work
he had frst to walk downstairs to the tube, exiting his room
frst down through a trapdoor next to his bed, then across
an incredibly low and narrow passageway, then down two
steps, then through a large stone archway which nobody
ever noticed the masonry beauty of, which was always
caving in on him, and fnally into an elevator which took
him to the top of the stairs leading down to the platform,
where he boarded a train and waited three stops. At the
fourth stop, Nimmo got off the train, alone, and walked to
the farthest end of the platform, back towards the tunnel he
had just emerged from when on board the train. At this end
of the platform was a dirty steel door, unlit and bearing no
sign, which Nimmo instinctively pushed and kicked sharply
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at the bottom, so that it opened with a muted boom and
creak, and Nimmo slipped through it. He emerged as usual
beneath the bypass, out of a door in one of the concrete
supports, and immediately turned around so as to go
through another door adjacent to this one. Through this
other door, his working day begins.
Following his commute Nimmo sits at his desk and opens
his company issued Dell laptop. Double-clicking on the
Internet Explorer icon springs the screen to life and
Nimmo’s shoulders slope down the side of his back, to their
usual position. At the beginning of each day Nimmo
devotes at least an hour to his email account. He checks all
folders, ensures all incoming mail has been fagged
appropriately. Then, certain of this, he deletes all of the
messages in the spam folder after scanning through the list
of subject and sender for any errors in the algorithm. Next,
he selects any irrelevant mass mail shots, press releases,
newsletters, or corporate messages and moves them to
trash. Then, he empties the trash bin by clicking the link,
Empty trash bin, after scanning its list of subject and sender
for any errors in his own operation.
Then for the rest of the day he browses the internet,
battling through fash animation and ducking and weaving
around music playing ads, avoiding ads that disguise
themselves as content. He has to navigate tricky cross
buttons that don’t actually close the thing, but fing a pop-up
window before him. He also has to scan through multiple
lists of jobsites, mentally correcting each spelling mistake,
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missing punctuation, unnecessarily capitalised word. This is
very tiring. Before lunch, Nimmo’s eyes are almost always
twitching slightly and unable to rest on anything. Worse
than that, after lunch, which is always a damp brown
sandwich from Tesco’s and a can of energy drink, Nimmo
begins to notice the disgusting stench of worry in his
stomach. This feeling of worry may be attributed to the fact
that every day at around four in the afternoon there is a
chance for Nimmo, brief though it is, to break the trap of his
laptop and burst its potential with his own creative impetus.
Every day at four Nimmo half scribbles some vaguely
connected words together before sloping his head into the
keyboard under the almighty weight of his failed ambitions.
Then at four ffteen, the executive accounts vice president of
the business enters Nimmo’s offce, plugs her iPhone into the
Dell laptop on Nimmo’s desk, using her own USB cable,
and uploads his daily data into an app. That is all Nimmo
knows about it. Then twenty minutes later, she returns to
Nimmo’s offce and orders him to stand and lean over his
chair. Once he has done this, she savagely thrashes him
with an old fashioned riding crop, the sort used by
dominatrices, and then cracks him hard on the head with
the steel toe cap hidden in her patent leather stiletto.
John C. Nimmo usually leaves work after this, it being
late enough in the day for him to give up on the day’s
work, early enough to fll his evening with regret for the
day’s missed opportunity. He left through another door
which he reached by standing on a step ladder in the
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farthest end of his offce, climbing through a door in the
ceiling, and sliding down a tunnel which opened up above
his upturned bed. He wrapped himself in his sheets,
masturbated in the warmth of them, and fell asleep. When
he slept he dreamt of green-gold, yellow-gold, pink-gold, all
the way to a dull, dark yellow colour like a heap of
threshed corn, combined with blue from the deepest royal
blue of the water to the blue of the forget-me-nots, cobalt.
By B. King
31st January 2015
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