Saturday, 14 September 2013


Pulp Addiction

Is god’s masterstroke
Moisture injection
Of viscous milk
Into a pig’s cheek
(Another name
For a hangover cure)
With the shock value
Of a finger
In a socket
Of any kind

No stimulants
Of any kind
Spurious fat content
Slowly growing
Tongue tracing
Inside your jawline
Building steam pressure
Engendered testimonials
Of the perception of sex)
Drunk masturbation
Kind of

Then wake up
(I have to believe in a world
Outside of my own mind
(And so do you)
On an atheist’s morning
Just to function)
In an August field
Everything is soaking
Even the sky
And the silence
Would make a deaf man come

Only a month to go now
It never ends
It never ends
The horror, the horror,
Blah blah blah
Et cetera
More as we hear it

by Campbell Calverley 

So Early In The Morning

Radiohead are a bunch of fucking liars
Stuck in my head
Stray hair on placebo meat
Broken vinyl memory cache
Indulgence is for the weak and the ill
And happiness through anger
Maybe Albert was right
Emotion overtakes nihilism
Reason takes over emotion
Cold and tired
Joints ache
Nothing done

I know a girl
Woke up yesterday
Sleep still hanging on
For lack of it
Spent the day dissociated
Pupils wide
In pills confide
I’ve got nothing on her
Books a common solace
Life isn’t scary
But scares anyway

A cash-in job festival
From under the table
No instructions
I was taught nothing worth knowing growing up
So don’t expect jack from me
I owe you an upbringing
And recapitulated love
And a roof to sleep under
And a set of white manners
And then nothing
From to forgot with on lose

School kids in slightly wider clothing
Hate what becomes them
No respect for the tricksy
You remind me of everything I hate about myself
They say
The bravest man I ever knew died en route to a drug deal
Did nothing to earn it
Their god is a cruel missionary
I still read To Kill A Mockingbird
From time to time
To remind myself
That life is still worth living
Because it’s not self-evident
From any point of view
Not at night
On the verge of an angry sleep
That moment of the day
When the unnameable it
All seems pointless
Mark must have been right too
Though I’ve read none of his work

The best jokes are lesbian sex jokes
Cause feminines get to make them
And masculines don’t find them funny
I still sleep naked
I’ve got a blue bible next to my bed
I don’t even read it
Except the incestuous parts
Children aren’t innocent either
Maybe everyone is just fucking crazy

Oh, Otis Redding,
Where have you gone
Sometimes it feels like
The whole world misses you

by Campbell Calverley


Make up (falsify)
Make up (reconcile)
Make up (covering embellishments)
Putting on appearances
Culture of judgement overcoming compassion (imperfections)
Make up
How to make up the self
Remember when we were but irradiated dust spewed from stars?
Or was it mutations churned and chundered from the ocean?
(Either or, or was it both?)
That doesn't make sense.
Were we even anything before? Prior to the baby food and coffee spoons? Before the saturation?
(If friends are important, how can one make them?)
It's just, so god-damn lucid out here.
In the glaring light of day.
And the guilty conscience is pulled by the shirt collar into obligations.
I can't...
This life
N-nono, it's not like it's really representative of me
so please don't tell anyone.
(Shh - nobody knows I'm here,
(labels, labels, print or peel?))
B-but anyhow!
These stars!
Their soft ephemerality strikes my frame
and I am freed.
How I wish...
If only platitudes ever helped anything,
poetry would actually be meaningful.
Rather than leave one
feeling guilty for their own powerlessness.

But it's hard to speak of virtue;
Sure, we are all but dust,
But which?
The dust clinging to a butterfly's wings?
Or that which dances in a sunbeam?

by Oliver Dearnley

Breath of Life

Lurking behind the forest of the drawn day stood man in silence.
He wanted to preach into the obscurity of the phantasm,
But instead his dreams were crushed by the throb of his womb of repugnance.
Legend told him to stretch his mind further.

Malevolence of the commonplace man thrived under nugatory earth.
Man needed to be whipped into placement of tolerant empathy,
Yet still the thoughts of alienated greed pressed to the surface of Papatūānuku.
Legend tried to push man back down.

Man had breathed out until exasperation filled each alveoli with feculence.
Each breath man took left him gasping at mercy but Papatūānuku left him,
Cemented in life once ruled by barbaric men in perfectly immaculate tailored ensemble.
That perfection was fabricated.

Forbearing at a once rapturous life the once holy dust began to settle.
The ground which once defined life crumbled at squandering audacity,
That left poor men famished in the wrath of Whiro.
Tūmatauenga claimed them as his own.

Man breathed in agonizing perfume that teared at his once pure soul.
His soul was no longer virgin and his body no longer transparent,
And he breathed out his nostrils the breath of death
and man became the undead.

by Keely Shaw

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