Mark Scroggins, Zion Offramp, 21, Coniston Water

Water Woman, image by Nathan Spoon 

Zion Offramp, 21, Coniston Water

Stone flows like wood, the wood

like slow water. Days and seasons

and the big circling of the sky

wear away the littlest noises, ornaments

and outcroppings. The sharp

become blunt. The blunted blurred.

            Driving the motorway for the first time

            in five years, he noticed how the trees

            have grown! The hills reshaped

            themselves, smudged their clean edges

with sfumato of bush and grasses. I can barely

see the reservoir today: tomorrow

it washes against my ankles.

Underneath the sift of papers lurks

some misplaced piece of electronica,

            switched off so it can’t be easily

            found. Literacy, command of the lines

                        and squiggles, bound us to that time-

                        span, roped like climbers

            to our grandparents’ grandparents, sepia

            shapes crowding the walls of dim rooms.

The Old Man across the water bears no resemblance

to a recumbent old man, the launch pilot jokes,

unless you’re stretched out on the street

before a Coniston pub, laid low by too many pints.

            The hill itself is bare, rocky, formerly

            a slate quarry. There is a lot of slate

            in these hills, their flesh in fact—bundled

in blankets and his own senile carpet of beard,

Ruskin was rolled—in his invalid’s chair—among rocks

and over ice, when the Water froze. Here

            you could pretend the vast smoky

            cradles of ash—Manchester, Leeds,

            Liverpool, London—simply didn’t exist.

Zipporah—Moses’s exercise in exogamy—is there:

“Surely a bloody husband art thou to me.” She shows,

in the Professor’s copy, the face of Venus, impossibly

            graceful Botticellian fingers. Imagine them

            fisting a sharp flint, incarnadined

            from her toddler’s truncated penis. “A bloody

husband thou art.” Or a sharp bit of slate.

The water vies with the stones at every turn.

From the tiny turret room—abandoned after the night

he wrestled naked with the angel Satan—

the Water opens out like glass, the Old Man

stretches over it like a leering demiurge. His mouth,

red wet cavity, drainpipe for sherry and pink

flesh, font of eloquence and invective (laus

et vituperatio)—the lip crookt from that long-ago

dogbite—is hidden deep beneath the lichens

and mosses of the beard, maybe spangled

with ice-beads, stony neo-Gothic Green

Man, tendrils and leaves of carven rock.

            “What’s the next station, son?” mutters

            the old man on the train, tray-table

            crowded with empties of export

            heavy. “And where’s this train goin’,

            anyway?”

—Mark Scroggins

Ephesus Glom: An Interview with Heller Levinson, Part 1 by Jonathan Mulcahy-King

LinguaQuake, Heller Levinson

Black Widow Press (2018, forthcoming)

Book Cover Image, “Quarry, VIII” (Detail)

Pastel pigment on cotton paper

60 x 44 inches, 2015

Linda Lynch

Ephesus Glom: 

An Interview with Heller Levinson, Part 1

by Jonathan Mulcahy-King

Proscenium

Ephesus was the birthplace of Heraclitus, the pre-Socratic Ionian thinker who abdicated Apollonian rigidity for flux, the essence of his universe. As a first scientist, in the Western sense, this marked an important turning-away from ontology to a more expressive, linguistically challenging mode of inquiry. Glom, as in to clutch, to grasp, to secure. Enter self-proclaimed hinge scientist, Heller Levinson, author of six books of practice-led research exploring “Hinge Theory:” Smelling Mary (Howling Dog Press, 2008), From Stone This Running (Black Widow Press, 2011), HingeTrio with Linda Lynch and Felino A. Soriano (La Alameda Press, 2012), Wrack Lariat (Black Widow Press, 2015), Melancholia:  Hinge As Innominate Limina with Will Alexander, Mary Newell, and Linda Lynch (McNally Jackson Books, 2016) and Tenebraed (Black Widow Press, 2017). As the above would suggest, Levinson has adopted the modus operandi of capturing flux, holding the flow, embracing the liminality of language. X-Peri interviews Heller in anticipation of his new book LinguaQuake (forthcoming in February from Black Widow Press), the latest installment of hinge theory in practice, an important and exciting offering in an otherwise emptyful deluge of form. Contributor to hinge theory, Mary Newell, has defined Hinge as a ‘… material of connectivity that introduces an intentional and generative biasing’. Michael Annis’, author of the Hinge Manual, has reinforced Hinge Theory by citing the 18th century German philologist Jacob Grimm, noting that hinge merely follows the various sound variables, morphemes etc. already inherent in the make-up of language. Elsewhere, Grace Dane Mazur in her anthropological studies of Lascaux, Renaissance and Byzantine images (See Hinges:  Meditations on the Portals of the Imagination, AK Peters/CRC Press) relays the idea that hinges work to highlight the entrancing lure of various real and metaphysical thresholds. Catherine Barnett describes “hinge words” as allowing the poet both ‘… continuity and gap; unity and difference’ and that “hinges” ‘… keep the parts of the poem in some working relationship to one another and at the same time allow the poem to retain some of what Aristotle calls the unities of time and place (Taken from ‘A Brief Poetics of the Hinge’ The University of Arizona Poetry Center).  Enter Heller Levinson, hinge functions more as a type of counter-language than a vehicle for ideas, it is the freshly laid highway, the sound of a hidden river, bringing hope and ideas of infrastructure to tired settlers——it is the wormhole.

Jonathan: Welcome, Heller! Thanks again for taking the time to riff with X-Peri, as always we are very excited to have you! Off the bat, could you describe for readers (or ‘un-describe’) the key tenets of this ambitious project/ way of saying, referred to as “Hinge Theory”? 

Heller: Even to “un-describe” would suggest that there is a structure to describe, which would be misleading.  Instead of a list of tenets, I can suggest a foundational ‘creed’, which is that Language is alive (whether referring to organic or inorganic life would be another discussion), respirative & reproductive.

Hinge both molds & melts, is diffusive, emanative, disseminative, & collectivizing.  It is the bird of prey & the swallow on the wrist.  It is Revolutionary Liquidity immune to the Trump wall or the Clintonian fence.

Jonathan: As a creed then, hinge must be identifiable within a greater tradition, how would you situate hinge (its context, emergence, trajectory etc.) within the history of innovative poetry and poetics/linguistics? For me, it seems to be both a continuation and a criticism of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, insofar as it concedes the ephemerality between beginnings and endings, while also challenging the principle that ‘series is not essence’, or is series too reductive here, as this might, in a sense, impinge on the flow of language hinge is attempting to amplify?

Heller: These are interesting questions as they highlight the difficulty of discussing Hinge in historical terms.  As I have said before:  “Hinge departs from all other poetic fashionings in declaring itself an ongoing ever-fulfilling linguistic enterprise.”  Hinge overlaps with any poetry that respects the integrity of Language as event, where the words of, say Gertrude Stein or Jackson Mac Low, create their own sculptural resonance.  But, Hinge is definitively Not ‘word salad,’ a mix-mash of unlikely juxtapositions tossed together -- mere gimmicky gamesmanship.  Nor is it “I”―based personal narrative, which is as dead as the Image.  Doctor Newell put it this way:  “Hinge is material of connectivity and introduces an intentional and generative biasing.  Like a pool table with all the balls commotioning and someone lifting the pool table slightly so all that activity is directed.  (With the additional image that new balls are being added all the time as the pool table itself enlarges).”

At this point I would be fine with disengaging Hinge from any poetic context as it has so little resemblance to what is, in general, being practiced.  It is my belief that Hinge is an under-recognized Universal Function that has ‘emerged,’ for those of us who are discussing it, in the format of language.  There is no reason to believe that the same behaviorisms don’t underlie botany, physics, mathematics, basketball, military science, etc.  When discussing Hinge with a friend in the Special Forces he responded with:  “Sounds like a multiplicitous simultaneous ambush.”

Jonathan:  So hinge is very much staked out in terms of forward-motion, it is both reactionary and incendiary, an interconnectedness inviting continuous work that can have more poems or ‘modules’ added to any one idea. Are there any new hinge developments you are aware of?

Heller: Yes.  I have currently identified a new Hinge contribution:  The Investigation of the Linguistically Undocumented.  By this I mean words or ideas, which I am calling “terms” (When a term is chambered in a Hinge Module it has been called the ‘particle.’  At this point particle/term/subject matter can be viewed as interchangeable.  See “Hinge Diagnostic”, Smelling Mary, p.71) that have been Under-Examined.  I stumbled upon this insight while writing “tenebraed to trespass.”  Seeking to enrich my understanding of “trespass,” I found the only resource I had to consult was my former work (See “with trespass,” Smelling Mary, p.113; “trespass in obdurate credulity,” “trespass like rolling liquidity,” “trespass in cumulative bruise, among others, From Stone This Running pp. 191, 193, 194).  Exploring trespass led to an outcrop of terms such as swarm, stroll, meander, aperture, ambulate, wander, drift, drip, seep, . . . terms I had hinged previously.  These shade-offs of the term being scrutinized, which in turn become scrutinized, form a Bundle of Constellative Refractive Impregnations.  This behavior leads to a thickening of the Word, a greater musculature, & affords one a deeper intimacy than the current tendency toward pan-abbreviation.  We employ Language to Deploy insight.  A new universe materializes.  The formerly abstract & remote is now Resplendently close-at-hand, -- shoulder rubbing.  Going back to your mention of the “language school” where cleverness reigns, this is a stark departure. The applications (The ‘application or ‘postulate’ replace the term ‘poem’) are very clearly mission oriented, methodically conducted, an archaeology intent upon di(g)scovery.  Comments about there is ‘nothing left to be done’ in the arts is laughable when one perceives the sheer overload of opportunity just ‘begging for it.’  In the upcoming volume, LinguaQuake, terms such as aptness, askew, knot, vacancy are being addressed/investigated & disseminate other terms which in turn will be applicated & cycle back to densify/magnify the original term.  I hope this discussion stimulates some activity in this area of the remote approachable.

Jonathan: Reinterpretation plays a large role in what you are saying, there is an almost beat-like philology at play here (previously in interviews you have replaced the word “collaboration” with the word “intercourse” as a way of better expressing the intentions present (or missing) from everyday language, and in the case of the latter… the sheer ‘fucky’-ness of it). This gives a wider sense of what we could otherwise think of as “momentum language”, made up of the gerundial, appropriate sound making and association. How much of hinge would you say is hermeneutics? 

Heller: I would be more comfortable with saying multiple submissions or offerings rather than ‘reinterpretation,’ as that might suggest a devaluing of the original application.  A comparison might be to Cézanne’s 82 paintings of Monte Sainte-Victoire, a mountain he studied at differing times of day from varying perspectives, a ‘motif’ undergoing ongoing scrutiny. 

One must resist the temptation to enclose (circumscribe) the newly emerging within the already existing, i.e., hermeneutics.  Such tendencies sacrifice 'novelty' to the safety nets of the familiar.  I appreciate the Philosophical Hermeneutics of both Heidegger & Hans-Gadamer (In ToxiCity, pp. 102, 103, 104, three applications are devoted to “Contouring Philosophical Hermeneutics:  “The Expressed Expresses The Inability To State What Is Said In The Unsaid,” “The Expressed Inability Expresses The State To What In The Unsaid Said Is,” “In The What Is Said The Unsaid Expresses To The Expressed State Inability.”). I very much like the way they attempt to dethrone the subject, to fore-play/cleanse the foreground, the eidetic reduction permitting ‘otherness’ to appear.  Similarly, Hinge is opposed to the Western white man’s rectilinear hubristic notion of ego/subject as supreme leader, -- the idea that whether conscious or unconscious the self is always choosing. Hinge suggests ego dissolution through Linguistic-Fusion as one approach. The Hinger becomes an element among elements, an instrument among instruments.  At this level of creation, each word insists on its word associates. The practice is to detect the reproductive impulses inherent in the word being witnessed.  The ‘you’ is no longer choosing the word or the syntax, it is the ‘life’ of the word fulfilling its own path.  ‘You’ as no longer a domineering filtration system, but an absorptive, contiguous, cohabitation.  As we are developing an aptitude for animal intelligence & the sensate of trees, let us also sensitize to the ecology of language.  The calling is to ‘uncover,’ (The Greek word for truth is “Alethea” which translates as – unhiddeness) to approximate the mysteriously elusive. 

I trust ignorance, i.e., I don't have a clue how this experience or that experience led to the experience or expression in question, unless I am approaching a piece on the Mongolian Eagle, or the Native American Indian, as in “from Buffalo this Indian” (Wrack Lariat, p. 163), -- these applications are direct results of study & examination, stimulus & response. 

Hinge was not manufactured, it was discovered,

& continues in that vein of wonder & enterprise.

Jonathan: I took two classes on Heidegger’s Being And Time as an undergrad, part 1 & 2, the professor was a philologist writing a new translation, you could tell it consumed him as he dove into every reassigned word, every piece of jargon, it became so abstract I feel like I know Heidegger as I know Joyce or Thomas, or Heller Levinson for that matter. Also, that’s a great point about premature labelling; new ideas need time to breathe. You’re right also in that a lot of emphasis gets put on the cultural-intuitive links we make when writing, again, this is all about personal responsibility and author/ownership. Are there any limitations or so-called limitations you have encountered working with Hinge?

Heller:  No.

Jonathan: How self-regulated is the work in practice, could we for example, hinge together other people's work? Also, there is a strong influence of musicality in the work and in your reading practice, though presumably hinge need not rely on externalities or given 'lyrical' clichés? How important is the beat?

Heller: Absolutely.  One work can Hinge to another work.  It can also mix-mash-cutup & copulate with other work.  Hinge is intended to invite inclusivity so that ‘terms’ can receive the full exuberance benefiting from multiple inquiries. My intercourses with Linda Lynch (the visual artist) exemplify this.  We Hinge to a term such as Pathos stimulating expansion, complementarity, & densification, which enriches the lifeblood of “Pathos.”  In the case of Hinging to a drawing such as Linda’s “Karst drawing,” I fructify a double Magnification, -- thickening the term as well as Linda’s drawing exploring the term.  I have also hinged with musicians such as the guitarist, Joe Giglio, saxophonists Jimmy Halperin, & Sedric Choukroun (See “part beatitude/part beast, YouTube). Now that we’re on the topic I must revisit your question “are there any limitations I have encountered” & reverse my former response with an emphatic Yes.  I lust to work with a dancer or dance company, to explore how they could further flesh-out the terms.  I would love to work with mathematicians, architects, physicists, & other disciplines.  Living a life dedicated to exploring infinitudes, I am limited by my finitude. 

Music/beat are quintessential.  If I assert that ‘language is alive,’ then certainly it is both rhythmic & musical.  Language is Juicy with Sound.  At my last reading I had the audience sing-out a line with me – “pothole ruckus backwater bushwhack” (from “the road to melancholy road,” in Melancholia As Innominate Limina, p. 93).  If one recites the line from the belly, with full breath, recites the line with gusto, puts one’s whole body into it, relishing the fleshiness of the words on the lips, the vibrations of the embouchure, the result is deLiCious.  I call it a word-tasting.

Jonathan: Very interesting, I would love to see you hinge with an architect! Though I suppose it would be easier at technical drawing or model stage, still, the possibilities are endless! I hope like Gaudi or Hundertwasser, you might one day have your very own “hinge village” somewhere in the mountains! This is very ambitious for a poet; it actually reminds me a lot of Joseph Beuys, when he introduces the idea of social sculpture into his philosophy of art. He too of course strove to escape categorization, to open up new possibilities for what constitutes art practice.

Jonathan: Might the difficulty of language to which you are referring hint at a wider problem—that our propensity to extrapolate meaning in matters of experimental/innovative language is symptomatic of Wittgenstein’s “language games”, or a rule-governed character of analysis that feeds our auto-effective desire for meaning? How might this relate to your work, and how might we better discuss “meaninglessness” in innovative poetry practice? 

Heller:  Yes, there is a wider problem, & it is the nullification in the post-Sumerian (See Apocalypse, D. H. Lawrence, Penguin Books) world of a vitalistic, open-ranging, un-bordered, inclusively responsive uncaged virility.  To a large extent, the ‘blinders’ are a result of commercialization.  Commercialism has necessitated indexing, record keeping, filing, labeling, shelving, categorization, packaging, coupled with the necessity to attract consumers.  Consumers want it neat & tidy, shiny & glazed, easily digestible.  This is the transactional world & may be necessary to manage the working day.  But it does not address the interior life of the individual.  Clearly these impulses are contaminating poetry & can readily be seen in the Academies reaping profit from MFA’s, writing programs & the like.  To attract students you need clear-cut course-definitions.  You need to be able to talk about ‘stuff.’  Have you seen any course offerings for Bafflement 101?  I would argue to leave a reader in a state of ‘bafflement’ should be considered an achievement. I urge legitimate poets to flee the schools & seek the uncomfortably undesignated.

Meaning as customarily approached insists on finality, on conclusion, on establishing.  As you know, Hinge insists upon the ongoing & extensive.  “Ongoing” does Not refer to a sequence, or from a start to a finish (A future exploration of the term “glide” beckons), but more in the manner of leaping, associating, . . . Fecundating Rotational Clusters.  I am very much enchanted by burrowing into the undeclared.  It is ironic that in this time of technological tyranny & GPS locatability the modern soul has never been more lost, more anguished.  In America, suicides are up & the number of persons on opioids is steadily rising.

How does our idea of “meaning” fare against our notion of the ‘Glimpsed.”  A glimpse would be difficult to transform into ‘meaning’ because it asserts itself as insufficient.  Yet the ‘glimpse’ beckons us, urges us to take-in more (the augmentative peer) -- “the regard is the look strapped with the interrogative” (Wrack Lariat p. 205). Perhaps we are closer now to your last question:  “How might we better discuss ‘meaninglessness’ in poetry?”  If you look at many of my titles such as the road to lost road, trespass in cumulative bruise, tenebraed to a capsizing algorithm, tenebraed to nothing, you can see that I am searching for insights that dwell where ‘meaning’ abdicates.  Could we not say something like this:  Hinge seeks to explore nutrition where meaning has no meaning.  Or, instead of saying ‘meaningless,’ let’s propose that we seek insights that mean something other than what meaning means, not meaningless, simply Other-li-ness.

Recently I have become fascinated by the notion of facets, aspects of things, those splinters (Splinter is investigated in the upcoming LinguaQuake – “the Splinter in its disengagement flares into the Open”) that assert they are not an entirety, that cannot be checked-out at the register, -- the realm of the non-scannable.

Jonathan: Yes, bafflement! The Nietzschean blow to the temples, the disjointedness we need to see beyond our given pinhole. I also agree with your comments concerning a need for categorisation, as belonging to a particular tradition of inquiry “… just throw it in the [Dada] box and move on”. However, commercialism, consumerism and more generally, capitalism, are enabled by the coveting of copyright (that’s a lot of “c-words”!) Equally, innovation, in striving to be so asymptotic (in an anti-commercial sense), might also rely too heavily on the above processes you mention, suffering the same nullifying fate in the name of over-inventiveness. For example, we might ask why it is many innovators are so averse to playing with cliché, it seems still too hot to pick up and toss around.  Do you think cliché will “cool” anytime soon?

Heller:  I cannot speak for what others are averse to or not & I don’t follow the current stock value of cliché.  Personally, I think cliché can serve as a challenge to revitalize something that has become stale.  A word such as “gossamer” should be resuscitated.  I would welcome a book entitled Cliché where the formerly ghettoized would appear as the newly freed.  “Bring-it-on” so to speak.

For the record, I see Hinge as being not so much about ‘innovating’ as ‘reclaiming,’ – restoring language to the firmament of its original fire & gases.

Jonathan: Finally then, my closing question is in the form of a poem on a key theme in our discussion, what could be considered “the tragicomedy of backward turning.”

Feb. 1916 – Mar. 1915

Avenger na dna Victim A><

tnevloS A Type <blockquote>

bannock bread baking in ice

auger holes, hesperian flight-

ripped aluminium slopes </

–A Test<p align”left”><a

renepO eyE nA Source</a></p>

– saedi desserper rof evlav ytefas

Wisdom and for folly }ר˜ï»Ì

snoitpecnocerP fo noitageN A

<hr color=”#FF0000”> – feileR A

dellud nehw – tnalumits A

Amb(ush)ition of a poet

</blockquote>uterus deiraew nehw – tser A

– noitnevnoC dna msilaicremmoC

iti ishki (cut-off, lost): drawn to the zenithal

lure</gurglingrush</ brown bottles bobbing

despite the pulling dregs of Palaeolithic lake

lethargic ghost-dance <blockquote>

fo saes gnitteseb eht ni ecnednepedni

gnirudne fo telsI ydruts A

– modeerf laer fo sisao nA href=”http://www.pewarts.org/9/

samplemain.html” target=”_blank”>Online

but the reproductive power. Mixer susurrus:

selfhood phenylmethane sellenders not unmucilaged?

Heller :

trespass    falter    linger

                  en

                  dure

how much of

linger

is

fascination

. . . the template exceeds the interim . . . 

Jonathan Mulcahy-King is the author of Euryphion (Ed du Cygne; X-Peri Series, 2017), Editor-in-Chief of The Licentiam and Assistant Editor of X-Peri. He hails from Newport, South Wales.

Charlie Onions, MY LUV

Psychopathia Sexualis, image by Irene Koronas 

MY LUV

The threat of headache before

Relief in extended space,

Approved settee through council,

Kissed out like quick forest fire that don’t go,

Summer-unsure and earning like everyone,

To be lay there in pretence of clueless,

Is ultimate,

It’s got smooth lapels that women want to touch,

Fourteen buttons flawless,

A thousand glory wanks with wings,

Go breathe,

In bass out,

Fourteen buttons flawless,

Gorgeous George ash turned lush lips on New Years,

Beauty.

—Charlie Onions

Meagan Crawford, Non Earthly Participant

Non Earthly Participant, image by Irene Koronas  

  Non Earthly Participant  

                           F A C E S

   In   objective   intimacy           the   tablet   compiles  

     brevities   of    here    I    am        casual       pinks   

     cobalt    blues          those    other    iterations    of    

     testament     wet    and    lacquered    casting    shadows           

     upon    the    lapsing            absorbed   or   deflected        

     now       the       color     separated      from      rust    

     animates      around      an       activating       absence     

     on      the      right       half      what     is     left   

     parts    into   itself   dutifully        

  

                             L I B A T I O N

  

     U n u s u a l    e v e n t s    c a n n o t    f o l d     i n 

     c a n n o t                 b e              j u s t i f i e d                                      

     t h e   p r o b l e m s   t o    b e    s o l v e d    g r o w

     i n    p r o m i n e n c e        f a k e    e l e v a t o r s     

     f a k e        l a u n d r y         f a k e         b o n e s 

     f a k e     l a w n     i n f i n i t e l y      c u t t i n g 

     i t s e l f              h i s t o r y       a s       f o u r    

     o v e r    e x h a u s t e d     m o n o l i t h s     l e f t     

     t o      o r g a n i z e       a n d       s h e l f     t h e   

     r e p r e s e n t a t i o n s      o f      t h e      p a s t        

     f a c i n g                o n e                 a n o t h e r   

     d i s s o l v i n g  

     a x i o m     

                      

                                s p o u t s  

                              

                                o f l e a k

 

D A L E T   Y A D   A N D   D A L E T   S H I N

Staring  at  the  same  plum  clay  scene                   

                                             and       about      us

our    prisms                           ways    of    bending    out 

barely   ever   smiling     

                                     the        viewers        chest    

two    curtains    parted      

                                 participation   wilts   to   become

a    lighter      faster      traveler             b o r r o w i n g      

mobility      or     temporarily              assigned     to     it    

habitats    flash    in    r e s p o n s e     to     our    arrival       

rooms       and       r o o m s     

                                     of     cerulean    on    repeat     

our   apprehension   released    

                                   we      get  to  work      forget        

that       once          there  was        a       sudden       edge 

—Meagan Crawford

Sarah Cave, excerpts from An Arbitrary Line

Photo Sphere, March 2015 

water/ ocean turning 

stomach churned
and in the freeze frame of future history

monks paddle through milk-sea

and plastic waste

desert. Coastline

mist                                 horizon concealed                         mist

against face               solitude                     silence

                                 solitude                     silence

the tower                  mist                           the tower             mist

a bird alights             long legs                    a bird alights

vertical. Coastline

mist mist mist mist                      mist mist mist mist mist mist horizon hidden in mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist plain sight against solitude silence silence solitude mist mist mist mist though which the mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist mist frames the alighting mist mist mist mist long legs of a bird alighting through mist mist mist mist to the tower

Fatherhood in Three Connective Panels

             1

Konstantin’s cradle
flightless wings loom above
Scheherezade’s

matchstick crow feasting
on eggshell

               2

Anton’s black feathers
askew    a dull murmur
of morning

Konstantin brings light
feeds Anton soft entrails
still warm      the rabbit

now cold


                3

Absent fathers              

       Konstantin
becomes Slava
his life is dancing
leaves fallacious
prophesy

The bear returns
litter…        Slava

an egg

cannot recall regurgitation

remembers the ticks

but now          //          no response

he cracks        //           hatched

a gull’s egg 

eating the content

contemplating

the jagged remains

cutting his finger


On shell

—Sarah Cave

Anna Moore, Three Poems

Naked Bridal Jumpsuit, image by Irene Koronas

NaKeD BrIdAl JuMpSuIt

MiDdLe ClAsS
mOdErN DiStInCtIoN
sExUaLiSeD WoMeN
cOnTeMpOrArY gEnDeR

(bIoLoGiCaL oBsEsSiVe
OnLiNe PaTrIaRcHy
HoPeS rEdUcInG)

iNcReAsEd HoLd
VaLuAbLe DaUgHtErS
sOcIaL aCtIvItY
eDuCaTeD mEn
ExPeRiEnCe FoRm
KnOwLeDgE aCqUiSiTiOn
FrAmEd SeX

SoCiAl LiMiT
pRoFfEsSiOnAl CoNtEnT
aRtIsTiC gEnErAtIoN
aUtOnOmOuS eXpLoRaTiOn
ReCuRrInG qUeStIoNs
StRoNgEr AnAlYsIs

oBsErVe OrIgInS
sExUaL aPpReHeNsIoN
iNcReAsE aTtItUdE
gEtTiNg EveN
KiLlInG aNgElS

vIrAl aPpReHeNsIoN
uLtImAtE nAtUrE
lItTlE sIsTeR
pHySiCaL wRiTiNg
MaRgInAlIzEd InTiMaCy

SeXuAl AgReSsIoN
wElCoMe ViOlAtIoN
sTeReOtYpE ChAsErS
fReE iNfOrMaTiOn
FeMaLe DeStRuCtIoN
cOnFiNiNg HeRsElF

aCcEpTaBlE mEtHoDs
PlaNnIng DeSiReS
fOrCeD vUlNeRaBiLiTy
GeNdErEd OpPoSiTiOn
CuLtUrAl ApPrEhEnSiOn
CoMbInAtIoN rEmInDeR

tOtAl AscEnDaNcE
oPpOsItIoN iNtErChAnGe
HuGe PhEnOmEnOn
CoNcEpTuAl StRuGgLe
NeUrOtIc PrEdiLeCtIoN
uSeFuL eXpLoItAtIoN
LiBeRaTiNg GlImPsEs
CoNfInInG PrOcEsS

tEcHnOlOgIcAl VuLvA
rObOtIc SpReAdInG
nIgHtMaRe DoMinaTrIx
ChEmIcAl AcCiDeNt
TrAnSfOrMiNg BeInG
iNvAlId ExCuSeS


#obsessive
An almost insane desire, longing,
or burning lust for someone or something.
Many artists have some sort of obsessive behaviour,

obsessive love
obsessive city
obsessive delight
obsessive meaning

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obsessive disorder
obsessive worry
obsessive behaviour
obsessive dysfunction

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obsessive lyrics
obsessive urges
obsessive fixation
obsessive creation

Much art is born out of the need to make,
a positive manifestation of obsessive collecting and hoarding,
painstaking, repetitive use of materials or processes.

Continue Reading Below

Your house.

The thought puts me off my food. "I'll just have a shower quickly." "Of course." I stare at myself in the huge mirror of his en-suite. My hair is a post-coital mess and I've still got the cameras in the lining of my clutch. What were you thinking? I ask myself. I expected a bit of fooling around, a pool party, then I would make my excuses and make a hasty exit, not this. So why don't I regret it? "Can I give you a lift anywhere?" he asks, the second I'm back in the room. "I'd prefer to walk," I reply, "I need the fresh air." By the time I've got last night's dress and knife-like heels on, he's already ushering me out of the house with a brief kiss goodbye on the cheek. Once his car is out of sight, I go back to the house across the street where our team is monitoring his every move. They stare questioningly but I get the first word in, "Someone had better follow him, he's in quite a hurry." "You've been in there all night? Why didn't you set the cameras up?" asks Dave, incredulous. Sorry Dave, I was busy having the most mind blowing sex of my life. "I didn't get the chance, he didn't leave me alone for a second." Tina sniggers and I glare at her. "Doesn't he sleep?" asks Dave. "Not a wink, he must have taken something," I lie. "Well, do you think you'll get in there again?" "I'm sure of it," I reply, with complete sincerity. "I want to know everything," hisses Tina, but I ignore her. I'm back in Marc's house, sat on his marble kitchen counter with him still inside me, having reached a shuddering climax. He's pushed my knickers aside and his trousers are down below his muscular arse. He'd barely offered me a drink before he lifted me onto the counter. I've been posing as a personal trainer in a nearby park for nine weeks, so when he recognized me on his morning run he realised why my face was so familiar in the club on Saturday, he's seen me commanding a group of three to do squats and press-ups for months. He stopped me in the middle of the session and asked me to come round tonight and I promised myself that I'd keep my wits about me this time. When I disappear from his life forever, he won't be able to find my clients to question them, they're all undercover like me. "I'll tell you my fantasy," I whisper, nibbling on his ear, "I want to do it on camera." "Get ready then," he demands, lifting me down to the floor in his strong brown arms. I'm kneeling in the centre of his bed in carefully chosen lingerie when he comes into the room with a video camera and a tripod. Someone's done this before, I think. "It's your turn," I say, pulling his T-shirt off him and tying his wrists to the bed. I take his trousers and boxers off and feel a shiver of excitement at the sight of him, hard and pulsing again. I take him in my mouth and run my hand up his smooth, sculpted chest as I suck and lick, feeling myself get more aroused with each of his groans. When he's on the brink, I climb on top of him and order him to wait, rocking back and forth as he fills me, reaching every hidden spot. He breaks his hands free of the ribbon with a tear, cupping my breasts and groaning, his urgency making me feel even more turned on. He runs his hands down onto my waist and moves me up and down to his own perfect rhythm. As soon as I begin to climax, he gasps with relief and finishes with me, eyes clenched. Before long he's fallen into a sex-worn sleep with his heavy arm lying across my back. Once I hear his breath reach a slow, steady rhythm, I slide out from underneath him and slip my clothes back on, my body still tingling with passion. I make my way quietly upstairs and finish my assignment, placing cameras in a bookcase in his study, in his black and chrome kitchen and the fireplace of his living room. I bug the phone and find the painting that hides his safe, making a mental note of the type of lock so that I can report back to Dave. After creeping back down into the bedroom, I look over at his sleeping body, the sheets tangled around his waist, exposing his beautiful frame. I take the memory card out of the video camera. I might never be able to have sex with Marc Burgess again but at least I'll be able to relive it now. ask him about it but he's stopped chatting, distracted now. I realize with delight that he's staring intently at me, his eyes lingering on my waist, my legs, my chest. He runs his thumb gently along the side of my dress, tracing the curve of my body before guiding me down the spiral staircase into his bedroom. A minimalistic iron bed stands alone in the middle of a sparse white room. There's a screen across one wall that's the size of a small cinema. So this is where all of your stolen money goes, I think. I let out a sigh that's completely genuine as he pushes me back onto the bed and I notice four wide, black silk ribbons are tied to the bed frame. He kisses me so urgently, gripping my thighs in his hands, pressing into me with his body that, for a second, I forget the plan. Every bit of him is hard and strong. I'd happily rip his clothes off there and then but he stops, reaches up to get one of the ribbons and ties my wrists together. Oh god. Talk about a wake up call. Have I let this go way too far? "What are your fantasies?" he whispers, "I want to know your secrets." "This," I gasp back at him, despite myself. "I like this." He ties my hands to the bedstead and I'm fully aware that he's strong enough to do this without my consent. Then again, I could break out of these ribbons without a second thought, and besides, I'm completely compliant, biting down on my lip and staring intently back at him. He runs his hands down to my breasts to feel hardened nipples pushing up through my dress. He reaches under me to unzip it, staring at me the whole while before pulling it down over my legs. I'm not wearing a bra and my boobs are pert, waiting for his touch, but he just stares as he pulls my lace knickers off after the dress. He starts to tie my feet up and I lie there, naked, exposed, with him fully dressed, loving every second. Advertisement - Continue Reading Below Woman having an orgasm Getty He takes off his shirt and I feel another wave of desire as I stare at his tanned, muscular chest, hard above his bulging jeans. I know this is wrong, but there's no way out. And honestly? I don't want one. He leans down and kisses me, his lightly stubbled cheek brushing against me as he licks my left nipple. He takes the right nipple in his hand and rubs it under his thumb as he bites down gently, teasingly. I'm groaning with desire when he slips more fingers inside of me. I gasp, it's intense, forceful. I feel myself opening up to welcome him in and lose all sense of time as he reaches inside, stroking my clit with his thumb. When I climax with a small cry, he takes his hand away and starts to kiss me, from the inside of my legs, right down to my feet. He runs his hands down to my breasts to feel hardened nipples pushing up through my dress. The sight of him fighting to restrain himself, still dressed from the chest down while I'm naked, ready and waiting, is a massive turn on. He works his way back up my legs with his mouth. His tongue flickers inside me, stroking and kissing and licking while his hands grip my legs and I writhe underneath him, gasping in pleasure. I can't tell how long this goes on for; I never want it to stop. Eventually I'm begging him, pleading with him to put himself inside of me in a voice that I don't recognize as my own. When he finally enters me, I lose all sensation other than the awareness of him filling me, touching me in places that feel as though they'd never been touched before. We climax together and he falls onto me, sweaty and panting. With my hands and feet still tied, I slip into an exhausted sleep. "Breakfast," he announces, waking me with a tray of fruit and a cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel. My hands and feet are free and I'm surprised to find that he's tied one of the ribbons around my hair. "Wow," I groan. I don't normally eat breakfast but I've never felt as hungry as I do at this moment. He picks up a pear and bites into it, lying at the foot of the bed, propped up with one elbow. I notice for the first time that he's wearing a suit. "Listen. I've got to make tracks soon, important meeting, but I had fun last night, I want to do it again." Fine by me, I think, but I'm actually supposed to have planted six hidden cameras.

“That sounds incredible.”

Anna Moore—