Playlist: April 2020

IMG_1681.JPG

April, the quarantined month is sweet. Not cruellest, for that would be February. What is the human capacity for crying exactly? I had cried all 28 days to water the snowdrops, saved the 29th for one great, acidic cry of my life.

April, I dreamt you had leapt from the hole in my head / and the hole in my head from the length of your light.

April, we name our sadnesses arbitrarily. The sadness is a euphemism for what we are tired of saying, and even saying ‘these times’, and even saying the strangeness. To live in the sadness or strangeness, say

April, a shattering epiphany that I still

April, my kindest regards.

April, the dying narcissi.

April, I never signed on to be locked indoors, never signed on for these losses or debts. Never signed on for these sadnesses and yet they are happening, belonging to someone in pain upstairs, lending a movie, tending a wage.

April, the sadness of paragraphs.

April, I watch you teach at a distance, blue-dimming with cans of juice.

April, The Baudelaire Fractal.

April, the pedagogy of longing. I lose dull words. I teach myself not to need you. I learn to need the living itself. Lil Peep screams in my ear, ISN’T LIFE BEAUTIFUL / I THINK THAT LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL. This is a kind of instruction.

April, the sarcasm of flowers.

April, I walk in the underpass reading the red paint, Make the rich pay. The president is everywhere and nowhere, confected aleatory; a bad rhizome, the president has bleached his words. Tap root political, it can’t get out. The water doesn’t flow here. There’s lead, but no leader.

April, I found a Jason Molina lyric buried in a poem by Peter Gizzi. I had been writing about the undersong but this was ‘Oversong’, the verb ‘to be’ eclipsing ‘me’.

April, I wander the lonely rhubarb clouds, an hour or so. The world on edge.

April, there’s lead in the water.

April, I would polish your cutlery.

April, someone on the radio is defending his advice on a bleachy digest.

April, say hi to Angela for me.

April, where are your showers?

April, what would I ask of your showers?

April, the poems. Mary Ruefle filling the 22nd with sunflower hearts, or was it her friend, ‘Please Read’. How I misread wilted for waited, waited for wilted. Seeds of words. How I knew nothing about the orange blossom excepting its smell, which I drunk so hard, not knowing the name but only how passing a top-note I wanted it all perfumed within me. This form of quietness akin to heat or light. Who would design this, and all that beauty.

April, the air is cherried with synonyms. You spit out the coolest noun for this.

April, I eat breakfast at six in the evening.

April, you are teasing me with readings and the old response; I have no ability. My year folds back into last, remembering the burn in my stomach, wanting to get there fast and slow, the scenery seen from a train. Manchester blossoms before Glasgow and the song about the orange room, the pinks in the street, the wondering. I did not know then that I would take you, carry a little seed in me.

April, I have so little to say.

April, sprained ankles.

April, the canal is glistening at dusk.

April, the supercut / us.

April, in these uncertain times, you are the discount. Please let me out for a walk, on all things said, the passing around of a line.

April, James Schuyler remembered you to a French pear and the sulphur-yellow bees. I was nostalgic also, pollinating the document with all my normals. What difference it made. They said a world.

April, the pollen set free.

April, the edge of the world is grey.

April, the sunlight’s adultery.

April, what sex?

April, fuck you, that was yesterday.

April, I’m reading Lee Harwood again for the sea that I miss. Infinite sea that I miss.

April, I want to run down the slope of the universe and think a single intelligent thought.

April, they are absolute units.

April, the rivers are so low I’m starting to think ‘they’ need sertraline. Sweet relief of the rain.

April, fuck it I love you.

April, it’s always somebody’s birthday and now they’re blowing out candles on Zoom.

April, you buy me groceries.

April, I’m starting to think I once met a girl called April. She wore her hair in elaborate braids, and the kirby grips shone in the sun the one day in July when I ate ice lollies by the fountain at the end of all I remember. The roses were over-watered, all colours of the sun. Generous, redundant, you tossed in bank notes to wish this was over.

April, Lee says ‘her beauty undresses       the sea’. You picture that, the flicker where the dress is the same as the blue as she is the sea.

April, I wear blue and roll myself out where the sun would set.

April, I can’t stop quoting Clarice.

April, I want somebody else’s salt.

April, the pink moon, the Lyrid meteors.

April, there’s something I want to delete.

April, I was crying for the violinist on the radio, crying for those in her apartment, dying. Two of them, she said, barely in their forties, choking up.

April, I felt like a meme. A bad guy.

April, make the rich pay.

April, it was so on the nose the writing was giving me zits and I’m sorry. Keep thinking this is it this is it this is it and I’m sorry.

April, step into the fifteenth century.

April, Joanne Kyger in the song called ‘Belief’.

April, this stamina of maintaining the romance of living.

April, naming us yellowest flowers.

April, a lunar-resistant photography sings.

April, give me the negatives.

April, it all started on the eleventh. I went a ritualised cycle in the sweet warm rain, with flies stuck jewel-like to the sweat of my chest. I kept going and going until my heart gave out a charitable breathlessness.

April, you have a shark smile and I wonder what it is you might do to me.

April, I really miss Nice ‘n’ Sleazys, pints of Guinness, gigs & readings.

April, the air is a silver curve.

April, you are thousands of results.

April, the change I can’t have.

April, the little black cat tried to get in the door and for a while we sat there and then scooping her up I held her awhile, her wee beating heart next to mine. The warmest thing in weeks. Her glass eyes looked to the curve-glass moon and we both were momentary slivers. I went inside and washed my hands and the soap bubbles… and I hope she got home eventually.

April, oracular.

April, it felt stupid as a miracle.

April, consider the orchid.

April, it made of us talking heads. I dreamt I went through the screen and it was all a quiet darkness of matter, having read Karen Barad, having watched Twin Peaks. Is it that you go through your own eyes, zooming, watching to see what they’d do in the afterglow, repeating yourself. Here is the other Maria, etc. I watched you on someone else’s story, like a bad cartoon, the bad rehearsal of all of our laughter, a bad white powder.

April, I hate this.

April, my pins and needles.

April, Marianne Morris says ‘Never lay in the dirt elated’.

April, my dad sends me pictures of lambs.

April, it gets so I don’t want to call anymore because it hurts more not being with you in the summer, the summer, the amiable feeling.

April, the president says to try light and heat.

April, you are rice cakes, sadness and crushed velour.

April, the world is not primed or administered.

April, ‘they’ failed ‘us’, etc.

April, blue masks lay on the pavement like plasters afloat in the pools of my youth and I wonder whose wounding was minor, to take that off.

April, I swim in it.

April, a lesson.

April, I felt in the fortress of dreams the falling into after-this. On a spinning top at the park by the beach and we held on forever / and all my old friends were shining.

April, walking outside labyrinthine over…’

April, I can’t listen to Joni anymore.

April, the crisp sea air.

April, the police are everywhere.

April, I miss everyone.

April, if I could transcend already, the froth on a latte, the password required of me.

April, I make a donation.

April, if the story is lifted.

~

IMG_1683.JPG

IMG_1677.JPG

~

Cocteau Twins – Rilkean Heart

Ariel Pink – Feels Like Heaven

Phoebe Bridgers – Kyoto

Dua Lipa – Future Nostalgia

Gena Rose Bruce – The Way You Make Love

Lil Rae, Pelican Tusk – ODYSSEY

Field Medic – POWERFUL LOVE

The 1975 – Jesus Christ 2005 God Bless America

Neutral Milk Hotel – April 8th

Felicia Atkinson – Everything EvaporateSky Ferreira – You’re Not The One

Goth GF – Horse Girl

Lil Peep – Moving On

Paramore – My Heart

Double Discone – Red Light

Grimes – Rosa

Cindy Lee – Plastic Raincoat

Gia Margaret – Groceries

Laura Marling – Held Down

Jess Williamson – Infinite Scroll

Porches – Xanny Bar

Frank Ocean – Dear April

Mitski – I Bet on Losing Dogs

Pinegrove – On Jet Lag

Angelo De Augustine – Santa Barbara

Hand Habits – Flower Glass

Peter Oren – Falling Water

Tim Buckley – Marigold

Julia Jacklin – Don’t Let the Kids Win

Fiona Apple – Under the Table

John Prine – Pretty Good

John K. Samson – 17th Street Treatment Centre

Mount Eerie, Julia Doiron – Belief

Songs, Ohia – An Ace Unable to Change

Bright Eyes – Forced Convalescence

Nic Jones – Master Kilby

The Lowest Pair – Shot Down the Sky

Lana Del Rey – Bel Air

Sun Kil Moon – Ocean Breathes Salty

Outer Limits Recordings – Silhouette

Pelican Tusk – Rhubarb’s House

Roddy Woomble – Context of Midnight

~

IMG_1676.JPG

 

flotsam

Flotsam 1.jpg
flotsam I., A3 watercolour, by Jack O’Flynn
Flotsam 2
flotsam 2, A3 watercolour by Jack O’Flynn

flotsam

 

‘Hear me, hear my silence. What I say is never what I say but instead something else. When I say “abundant waters” I’m speaking of the force of body in the waters of the world. It captures that other thing that I’m really saying because I myself cannot.’
— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin
— Adrienne Rich, ‘Diving into the Wreck’

On becoming a body,
the little abundant shines and its pores are clotted with dust.
I saw what sound it was a wave makes
when startled by gestures towards this torsion
a long beach, the false irrigation of beautiful islands.
The melody was a long intimation of losing faith
in what is meant by a certain colour, not
this blue which runs in the prussian rain.
I want to run up the spine of your back
and settle the amygdala city, tie
my lyrical wrists in mobius fibres
and return the rights to speech.
Do you want to continue?
He was born and beautiful,
he might have seizures. We interfere in definition.
The depression of time is a beautiful curve
in the small of morning, named
after the call you wanted.
Blue dust of feeling.
Blue dust of biblical name.
I worry for his tiny heart.
Glycolic, afloat
in the radical millions
when I say this bird
is a nameless bird, plotting
and pecking the wreck
I go down
in such hunger
I go down
without formula.
Not this.
The world is stuck.
I sing to you
in the echo, in the rich
and greatest loss.
Who hurt us?
I had a dream we were swimming
in the San Pedro Bay, just like the video
it was almost sunny. There will come a time
when my car won’t start
if I ever have a car
in a lightless world
the structure of passion is a ritzy hotel.
Your hour is a fucking astronaut.
Imagine Disney injected
arterial dreams
this crudely.
Imagine a fire in the minibar
at the back of your mind.
As the relation to your wreck
I call it ship, I still want
the elsewhere conduit of thoughts
to sign my brain as treeware
in the black black gold
my oleochemical, fear of soap
and gaussian world is a kitten.
She burns it all up.
On becoming this back-lit
history of pixels, we pour into jars
the last of sea-glass, liquid shingles, I cut the bird
into salad I cut this sort of pristine hope
to feed the kitten.
I thought the picket
was shining in rain, a sound.
Something is drawing us out.
I make a romance from your shoes
and the kissable way of these days
is a no-show, mewing, the marketing
of genital shame, the apocalypse breakfast
tastes of salt. Come back into my life,
I always found you
with a breath laced in pesticide,
a currency of morphine
dreaming me
back like a thrush, I want to wreck
the multitude of this song
with its hyperthermia, its oil-made
hide of feathers.
You want me to be less literal,
littoral I like your wildlife.
Lighter, somewhere
what we see
without reason.
What can soak
up the dark this good.
I like your messages.
I like to react with my abstract halo.
The rediagnosis read depression, to kill
not clean the long and beautiful rain.
Prising the daylight from its packet
I want April, a lot
of lilac song.
I go down to the nervous water,
deep in mammalian blood
I am, I am
not breath, not bird
west coast
my body is a poke of air
in the book. And it lets in
the crudest wind, reminder of gold
in the room where we woke up last October
in my father’s house
in the valley
where frost never leaves the cornicing forests
or sets its voice to speak
for the sodas and junipers.
If we could just avalanche into orange
like the song, Mount Eerie would be a genuine place
to kill or not kill the birds we oiled
in the prussian rain, they gleam
like unemployment
doesn’t in the colourless streets.
We share a little nest
of noctilucent materials.
I was jobless
as the natural light, listening
to your comedown opening chord
which is to say, I think we should stop
seeing, I think we should stop
seeing at all. I roll around
in the oil of this
happiest adderall
to sob uncontrollable
to stop trying to see you
as snow,
if a former love should fall
very cool, like a two-minute Uber
costs less than lunch.
Ducter, he
could break me
the ultimate mosh is us.
I have said that he could and he could
I have said that too much.
To float like capital
back to your panic
I smooth my sleepless residuals.
Ducked it, ducked it
you come back, holding a blink
to know
that time is a gleam, we had a guest speaker
passing out in notional
structures of passion.
I wrote everything down.
It is a wreck to think in the beautiful rain.
It is all that dissolves
to remember
I hope to meet in code someday
again, to set this
in parenthesis, very lightly
choosing to run
the artificial palms
horizontal across your eventide.
This was all ours in the poem.
Prospering, we’d know
each other
so much more than mineral
in the flotsam
way, a lot of coffee
fills our faultlines
and the tar sands sing, and the quicksands
go astray, what of the waters
don’t touch what we were
to sing something
hurting, to rainbow
the quoted weight of your heart
is only debris
I go so long in the rain
to break her
I go so long in the run
as to make a beach
in loops of oil
to empty my purse
of mermaids, to feel like
the only decorated islands
in the United States of America.

 

*

This poem was written following a talk I gave on Energy (W)rites: Telling the Embodied Stories of Energy, as part of The Curatorial Fellowship: With the North Sea series at Peacock Visual Arts, Aberdeen. It responds specifically to Lana Del Rey’s ‘The Greatest’, where the mournful twangs of a classic rock ballad play out over sunset scenes of Long Beach in the San Pedro Bay, whose four decorative ‘Astronaut Islands’ were built in the sixties to camouflage offshore oil derricks and muffle their sound pollution. Classic rock is a genre and industry founded on oil: vinyl is a type of plastic made from ethylene (found in crude oil) combined with chlorine (found in salt). PVC, the resultant material, is a highly toxic form of plastic, for both our health and the environment. Perhaps it’s only ‘natural’ that Lana would style a kind of vinyl-nostalgia to sing of various kinds of tainted existence. If her earlier work was dubbed ‘Hollywood sadcore’, we might note this recent aesthetic shift as something more like ‘anthropocene sadcore’: where the cinematic eulogising of wasted youth, ‘the greatest’ American Dream, is played out against the false beauty of late twentieth-century petroscapes. But alongside oil there is also water, and the brilliance of light, tone and pigment. There is haze and trace and repeat. Lush tints within variant opacity. A khoratic space where the colours soften or harshen into each other and something of form is held between, with varying paleness or intensity. It could be Billie Eilish singing of ‘burning cities / And napalm skies’ in the apocalypse unconscious of her song ‘Ocean Eyes’; it could be a flare of orange burning into Grimes’ ‘permanent blue’, its elegia for opioid bliss and extinction. The weird pleasure vistas of a scene we can’t quite name. An improvised blur or break. What the water speaks as a force of shimmer. The accompanying visual works are by multimedia artist and sculptor Jack O’Flynn. 

Flotsam 3
flotsam 3, A3 watercolour by Jack O’Flynn
Flotsam 4
flotsam 4, A3 watercolour by Jack O’Flynn

 

(NEW BOOK) infra·structure

Pleased to announce this sky-blue baby, a collaboration with the wonderful Katy Lewis Hood, has been in the world a week now, and you can order from Broken Sleep Books, for a cool £6.50.

From the publishers:

infra·structure is a collaborative work shaped over a year of correspondence between Katy Lewis Hood and Maria Sledmere. The pamphlet was written following an Association of Literature and Environment (ASLE) conference on the Orkney islands, a wind battered archipelago north of the Scottish mainland. The poems respond to this distinct setting and share a dichotomous relationship where each ‘complete’ poem is mirrored by an ‘incomplete’ sister poem. Katy Lewis Hood and Maria Sledmere’s innovative dismantling of language echoes the destructive energy of the natural world. infra·structure is a highly original, must read pamphlet.

 

Cyclone

Cloud

Blue heart

 

NEW ZINE: tiny // seismic

spreads.gif

tiny // seismic

an anthology of creative works that came out of a course I taught this winter/spring titled ‘Writing “Nature” and Ecology’.

featuring:

Lily Allspaugh
Andy Barr
Matilda Eker
Signe Eriksen
Rosa Gilder
Angus Gillies
Lily Kuenzler
Hayley McGaw
Freya Stone
Ina Tribukait

~

Now available to read for free as a pdf here

or via issuu, here.

Playlist: covivid+chill

dan 5.jpg

which is to say, the hours were broke a sunlight. so we put on clothes and forgot what we owed to our calendars. this ‘we’ a sort of lipid, held too long. dolphin emoji. the end of all cauterized architecture, you go out at lunch with yesterday’s virals and plans are ceasing. plans are cancelled, crisping. play this list. I miss ‘us’. which is to say, suspension is only the length of a line where you want sleep for the morning. instamatic date nights, we give up a cutlery. lap keys. calories… livestream, light. my useless tickets.

the neighbours whistle in rounds. the isotope of you and I, washing machine, say once I ran glistering to active. mindful of only day, octave, schooling the goldfish. lovely supposition _leaps_ how they memorialise touching aslant. who wishes for rain. whose moon is a size. eeeeeeeeeEEeEeeee minus. st. johns wort. curl tail. once we occupied very sofas, listening for the light to get blue and it wasn’t emergency but something was bleeding. I’d like to walk around through the back of it / skin burns in window, awhile.

¾ time is taxing me back to the snail mail, waiting for the lyrics to ‘Movies’ and put me back on the porch, and put me back on the porch where you found me. adaptive, contagious, stupid egregious. blonde mops up the politics. pretending to speak of the stars, I only mean dolphin. pipsqueak! no infinite fulfilment don’t be / foster a wallace.  soft explosive give me a sentient moment, call it crisis, therein a high rusticity. always said I was a shepherdess; now herd me a meadow of sparkling, v simple flowers.