Bad Press ten year anniversary! Friday 8 February, celebrate via the launch of Bad’s latest badness, Sophie Robinson’s The Institute of our Love in Disrepair.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to welcome into the world such material objects of considerable mass as these you see now gathered together in their lump summed mass above, constituting in their congregation The Institute of Our Love in Disrepair, a book of poems by Sophie Robinson.
This publication is Bad Press’s first perfect bound collection, and also, therebyhenceforcewith, its heaviest, which caused a degree of quantum, ecological and ethical consternation for a moment or two until today’s board meeting, at which it was roundly decided that the congregation is worth its mass by way of being comprised completely and only of AWESOME POEMS. This book is full of blinding one-liners, perfectly formed love lyrics, and kick-ass couplets. HOORAY!
BLURBS TO COMES
By Marianne Morris.
I walk home with this paranoia mounting, the shopping bags
squeezing the blood from the surface of my arm that I carry the yellow split-
peas on, mouth
open to breathe or to think more clearly about letting something in,
make it brief and screw your face up and access the little gate. Show
your teeth riding the floor. Here is a place to say
as much as all is rabid: tenderness. Push him to the floor and hold his face. The
not so good but
putting breath into someone else’s mouth is
one way of spending your Sunday night, 21:17-33, but keep it brief. It has
been nothing more than brief now for many weeks. Aving it large is
going down the pub, we do and then
back on the floor,
beneath the half-empty Asahi bottle and the garbage I compose
a letter to Orange Broadband, refuting their lies and my landlord
runs liver-coloured through my head, grasping individual. Set into me,
diamond-quality latex. I punch the ravenous slap in me that drags on
and on in company against innocent people. The need to shout gets hard
to snap but I’m tired of monitoring my karma. The cynics insist that it does not exist,
mostly because it is such a gay word. Permission: OED. The spine curved
against his thighs. The state of being. The state of
By Marianne Morris.
Everything has always been this way. There is no greater allocation of suffering, no greater allocation of injustice. The lies are not less easy to believe. The facts of this is neither comforting nor consoling; the point is not to comfort or console, but to know how to approach living in the eye of a permanent storm with as much grace and ease as can be summoned, whether in the subtle psychology of belief or in the overt psychology of struggle, when the possibilities for sadness are immense and irrefutable – sadness is irrefutable – what can be refuted is this urge to take myself seriously –
Elsewhere: POEMS OF DAYS IN FEBRUARY.
A5, 36 pages, €5, December 2011
My new chapbook IMAGINARYLOVEPOEMS comes out tomorrow with Corrupt Press. It has a fish hook on the cover & dedications to Marianne Morris & Amy De’Ath within. Blurbs by Ian Patterson & Jonty Tiplady on back. Also features some poems. Buy it from the CP website if you want to I guess.
The queen of the Greenwich world time writes, with the cut of a grace that can be heard all over the hill, to the end to impossibly sexy growth. Nobody, especially ‘here among men’, will get round or past it. Quietness is a vector of real courage they don’t yet think, a male Opheliac obliterates the nunnery. The only realistic thing right now, not scared to suppose supposed green, is this. This weakness stronger than any ithyphallos, a pop-up militia in the dungeon sky, and no simple war left in it. This book. This book by Emily makes me think about the beautiful things we can still do. Care, and what ‘future growth’ would really be. Parisian pariciding. Richness of spirit for ‘half perfectly again’. Not just hard questions. It’s what ‘happens when my standing reserve: you?’ flies too close: ‘There is still time’. It’s that courage is not what you think.
These are poems that love their poetic history and sweep you off your page. They contain wings reigning over sleepy echoes, temporary motion, ornamental self, all but true. Imaginary love in poem gardens toads. Whatever happens after all stays here and jiggles about for your reading pleasure.
Bad Press (so liberated from the imperatives of purposive activity it’s unreal)
IS PLEASED TO ANNOUCE
* * n e w ! * *
CARIBOU, by AMY DE’ATH
A cerebrally serpentine collection of love poems re-working the lyric into a silken girder that will dizzy you with echoes of itself ALL AFTERNOON: in short, YES.
Caribou whizzes its readers from the ‘Fast Eddy’ of East London to the ‘Vertigo Valley’ of West Canada. “Now I am conducive to everything” writes Amy De’Ath and she means it, through her wonderfully sassy lyric ‘I’ that negotiates the rapids and gulps at the cliff edge with never a flicker of introspective self-importance. These poems are fleet-footed and fancy-free. They love to dance but they know the depths they skip across, the brow that beetles, the heart that almost disintegrates. So they are an example to us. — John Wilkinson
Accelerates from fast break scatter into pocketa pocketa: a love careen. “This thing-ting, thinking! … this out-of-sync wonkybeat,” this poetry knows its game too well not to bash the balls off the table. Go on, De’Ath, “boom brighter than the moon.” — Cathy Wagner
£5 / $9: please hit the DONATE button on the website and adjust your donation according to your whereabouts (pounds for UK/Europe, dollahz for everywhere else), or send payment directly to email@example.com