Feed on


my new poem is up in cordite 36: electronica, edited by jill jones.

i’m gonna spend the morning doing some electronic reading.


wearing a cape

the otter-like teacher liked to bitch about other staff & the way they parked their vehicles. nevertheless, we were eventually told about writing. we were told never to seal the story with ‘it was all a dream’. i distrusted the advice. i distrusted the advice to the extent that now present-day-people tire of me talking of this distrust. not the distrust, they might say to me, not again. you speak of it so much the word has no meaning. we can’t even comprehend not trusting anything & everything ever. they might say. but i dreamt about the advice again & here must speak about it. the teacher gave that advice earnestly and in good faith i suppose. her opinions about the parking habits of others were clearly earnest. but here things diverged & in the same 90s classroom context i was called upon to speak. i was up next to give my advice to the class. perhaps i was aware this would happen? if so i would have been sitting there somewhat nervously, listening & observing of course, but never able to take a small part of my mind off the fact that i would have to speak next. i felt prepared & such preparedness only comes with that aforementioned slight anguish so i can assume my previous ‘perhaps’ is correct. so i gave a presentation & it was as if i was seeing myself do something for the first time, something totally unexpected, but also something i knew i had prepared well for: i mounted three pieces of folded paper atop each other. they didn’t balance well, it was precipitous, but eventually i got them into a sort of pyramidal shape. this, i told the class, is the perfect demonstration of how human relationships function. there is not one not two but three pieces of paper (there is no duality in the romantic or social union), & as you can see all are compromised as singular entities to begin with, folded. the balancing act i have here shown can take a while to perfect, & the structure that results can then look beautiful, but it is, ultimately, always delicate, poised ready to collapse in any unexpected gust. the class seemed attentive. the boy who was always forced to sit near the teacher’s desk because of his swearing still had a contemptuous sneer on his face but he wasn’t saying anything, & that meant i was winning. i am a winner. i would punch the swearing boy in the face & begin to undress the girl i liked the most, but for the fact that i had tried this before, & i knew such actions were almost sure to rupture the dreamscape. instead i walked slightly away from the balancing paper & began to talk about myself giving this same presentation to a different group, and the story of what happened on that day. (it is a useful public speaking trick (you know: this other group i presented to, they didn’t understand & said the most stupid things! ha ha, you are nothing like that group…) but it was also meant to be the real point of the presentation – the humorous  anecdote would provide a contrasting view on human interaction. the class wouldn’t see it coming.) but after mentally congratulating myself on how well i was going, how this would really destroy the ‘don’t end with it was all a dream’ advice once and for all, i forgot where i was going with it all. i lost my place, couldn’t remember what i had planned to say. i hurriedly opened up my laptop & searched for ‘recently opened documents’ in MS Word, conscious that i surely had recently opened my notes for this presentation, but perhaps it wasn’t recently enough. the murmurs from the crowd were becoming louder. i heard the boy near the teacher’s desk lean back & say ‘this is bullshit’ to someone behind him. & then i realised the murmurs were in fact some other noise in the bedroom & it was this noise that woke me from the dream & i hadn’t even punched the boy. i thought the dream profound, but i still didn’t know where the presentation was going to end. what was my contrasting (& more illuminating) view on human relationships? i thought that if i started writing the dream down it might be revealed. many writers say that you should keep a notepad and pen by your bed in order to write your dreams down as soon as you wake up. but to what end? if i don’t come to some useful conclusion about the dream am i not only stirring up the troubling aspects of life that a dream might function to put to rest? the idea that certain things should be ‘acknowledged’ is often bandied about. that troubles me & i don’t think it is correct. it also troubles me that the ‘recently opened documents’ function in MS Word can’t do what i want it to do all the time. i want it to present to me an array of documents that i might be thinking about, ‘recently thought about documents’. this would go some way to alleviating the potential anxiety of a situation where i am attempting to prove myself in front of a group of classmates from the past. & if such a function could be developed, then we could perhaps expect the technology to get better. we could surely expect this. the equations for future developments would be in place & i would never be lost for words. it’s all a process of probability & everything must happen in due course. on this particular day i will write down everything last night’s dream suggested to me. i will write with vigour & i will write down too much. eventually there must be little chance that the dreams of this coming evening can contain anything except distortions & insights into the very act of recording & interpreting dreams. what is the best way to go about it? is my particular method – & you will no doubt have already been cataloguing the various peculiarities of my style – is it workable & valid? does it produce results? the dreaming process encountered tonight will give some insight. it will not be all a dream. i am not an otter.


cryptic chill

‘Brennan’s defence of obscurity reminds me that the verb, to obscure, suggests one thing covering or hiding or displacing another thing. The one who runs will trip over and roll their ankle; the one who walks will find a way through the unanticipated arrangement.’

read more of Astrid Lorange on Christopher Brennan in Jacket2


begin awkward-phrasing data crunch (your poetry feels too… equine).

inject a Strathmore liberality. travel by rail, fake ‘looking’,

then blame the ticketing system. flounder in the bus-

wet air, locate salvation in a mate’s boyish shouting,

a blossoming arc across Pitt Street. cross Pitt Street.

eat a sandwich. digest naught. order a schooner,

two, feel heady in speaking. smell the bouquet of

disorder in the spirits, fix this via imagination.

take a newspaper quiz, turn quizzical after an

insult. be cool, as if it was all planned.

dismiss a gallery viewing, bear a smoke on the 38 route

& tack on a grin.  get nostalgic for your 2006 visit,

start associating the number 6 with fun. oh,

devolve a quayside unit & potted plants.

why not. initiate some circumstances, elegant wine

& soft cheeses open on the bench say. list this. say

you are listing this. itemise  responses alongside

furniture. itemise pocketed lists. feign being in love

for the guests, we all know what pleases mums.

then command respect – extol invective

to the guy shouting ‘what?’ anyway.

let great films influence the way

you think. think of answers to problems.

disseminate bravado. light the grill with an

inefficient roll of the wrist, standing amidst

political observations. disgorge a photo

of the times. poke your plate with a knife,

remembering specific arses pressed to a window,

forgetting your drink. address the gathering

ill-preparedly & accept how well you’ve done.

take issue with the moon. apologise via sleep.



i like you she says. i do.


hydroptic red in early spring, night blossoms a swale

of invisible men. perverts, scrim in the visible, blowsy

on breath as if nosey landscape loggia:

as finches we crozzled fine necks at supine

sky, a slanted fuck-gyrus, bruised after-that.


double towns & subtextual glances sort of meant hi! but

like explorers the rest is hoverish, sun-drunk, oz ellipses.

best hope is some unicorn gone gimbaled, feint, & bolus.

abstract beer. pained expressions. a muted orgasm.

then occupy-economics.


i don’t like you she says. too.


testing, xyz

ok. do your thing tumblrize…

& also, a big shout out to all the recent spam commenters. your effusive & non-specific praise gets me through the day.


the article ‘Archive Fever in a Typingspace: Physicality, Digital Storage, and the Online Presence of Derek Motion’ by Sally Evans is up in the latest issue of Jasal.

she writes well & articulates well some things i have previously thought about, but been unable to, um, well, articulate as well as she does. no doubt that is why Jasal rejected my own article on blogging a few years back… yeah it all makes sense now.

of course there is that old problem of critical distance. i would suggest that writing an academic article focussing mainly on yourself is not a wise move. if you want it published in a reputable journal that will give you ‘points’ that is. a PhD-length thesis, perhaps also not a wise move. but anyway. failure is my friend & it looks like i may be graduating in december. & you can always publish the whole thing on the internet.

audio dynamite

Contest by derek motion

the two of us

scroll on our merry way, passing by the more average

i have sent just one email today far better that way now

for a stunning new film (ehem!) the seven-eleven is settling &

you say can you teach this logic? (the PM allows force to be used /

i’m opting in on a creative co-working space) our prose inspires

squatting sitting last in a school carnival fantasy one final image

the total raised trumpeted cloudward a mighty big welcome parents

i wanna be the world’s end then, & then, the september edition

zombie-covergirl over dinner we’ll sit couchside assessing claims

of the newly arrived: paratactic flood reports release blanket

recommendations regarding this week’s ad campaign (you don’t

understand) but i need a t-shirt & if we all tick yes

no one misses out! does it feel like 1998? there’s always musos,

djs, live acts & when  the boss finally saw my hair

you could grip a palpable stare librarians everyone

reviewed it feck it i just stabbed plans for a good

breakfast in the eye like the literary magazine’s secret

whiskey stash (yay) feeling a little distracted



klingon hamlet meets justin bieber

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »