Poet, Writer, Media Maker, Facilitator

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5 0 0 0 H U R T S

This Insane thing is Just the Beginning, I have a Poetry Pamphlet, Published by Burning Eye Books, released in October 2019. that might just be the start of something.

the book is A poetic experiment in the act of making poem from trauma, 5000 HURTS uses Tinnitus, rather than scarring or viscera as its central metaphor in an attempt to get closer to the poetic truth of contemporary suffering and our relationship with ‘hurting’.


But, more than this its an experiment in what I can do on the page, there are poems that are impossible to perform, poems that are announcements, poems that are ritual magic, train announcements, safety briefings, dreams. this is as far as I felt comfortable reaching into the void with a familiar subject to guide me.
and the first time I have seeded any work with elements of myself.

I Fucking hope you feel it. I really do.

5000 HURTS is available from the ThinkwriteFly Shop from the 18th of October 2019

200 Years of the Modern Prometheus
‘Frankenstein Sad Blue’  Lydia Chrysanthou  - pen ink and brush

‘Frankenstein Sad Blue’
Lydia Chrysanthou
- pen ink and brush

Its been 200 years since the 21 year old Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley finished and published a work that would come to define the concept of science fiction.

This Bicentenary is being celebrated around the world with talks, concerts and art creation. In my Home city of Birmingham a Plethora of events under the Frankenstein 200 .I’m Performing one of my first Poems to come out of a recent experiment in Bin-aural performance poetry.

Inspired by the first moments of the monsters new Life, BREACH will be showcased live at the Conservatoire on their fantastic 10.2 surround system on Halloween @7:30 .

Adrian EarleComment
[Appears from bushes] Hey... wanna hear my Podcast?

Yes, I've gone there.

My experiments in audio (and fruitful attempts to keep living) over the past few months have culminated in a Podcast about poetry. and Im rather proud of it.

Site and Logo!

Site and Logo!

I pulled together a staff of 3,
2 editor/producers: Kallen Daynes and Gavin Randhawa  as well as an Associate producer/ Social media Manager: Ella Cockerton.
They are fantastic people, the sort that are unfortunately rare in the student body of most campuses. Creatively talented, genuine grafters with serious work ethic that have so far worked with me to  generate two fantastic episodes despite my flaky health and need for short notice rescheduling because of it. they have persevered to help me make some quality work.

 

So yeah... I have a podcast. Click the Pic above to check it out.

Scrum

CROUCH

the air growls guttural/ sixteen men opposed
our phalanx of eight/ bound tight as ions
tried against/ their covalent lock which
ten times held fast/ against a tonne of man.

our backs: lean Hermes/ & Apollo wait the pass
from Zoran God of speed/ these are the men
you stand against now/ now all of us against
the mud and sleet/ on this eleventh time

plumes of sweat bound skyward/ sinew cracks
on muscle, knurled & bunched against endeavour.
the Referee comprised of time/ inimitable
& just as cruel/ calls

TOUCH

we strive at the heart of the world
knowing each degree/ each inch of continental shift
will sink valleys of turf /raise mountain ranges
capped with bruised black earth

re-draw the borders/ five yards from home
we will/ with respect drive you off the edge
of the world/ we are a company joined
we became a monolith in commemoration of your loss

in twenty eight minutes we will respect your commiseration
salute your rout/ with a handshake and a pint/ in another life,
we will be gracious in defeat/ but for now
we are the unstoppable force/ to your immovable object

now there is only the work
and the moment till the work begins.

ENGAGE

 

Hear me roar

It feels good to be back making work after a little time off. The usual tumultuous Christmas/new year. The winter run around in my faulty meat suit has left me feeling that I need another holiday.

A few days of quiet perhaps.

The closest I'll get to that is page work. Dedicating time to think about words and how I want to use them, so as January Rolls into February I can look forward to plenty of time with paper and pen.

Alongside the new writing, there has been a resurgence of performance hunger.

The desire to get my work off the page and into the ears of an audience has always been something I felt was important, but that my body rarely allowed. Now it seems that I have been given a bit of respite it only seems right to begin to use my voice again.

So I'm beginning an Audio experiment.

The first two poems to go into edit are 'Cloud Swell' and the first part of A growing collection Called the insomnia Suite, featuring 'Sooner still I'm wakeful' and 'Sounds like thunder smells like heat' you can hear them both Here.

I'm also planning to get back on to get back onto the performance circuit in my city. the excellent Verve poetry festival is taking place from the 14th to the 18th of February in Birmingham and should not be missed.

If I take the stage, ill let you know!

I'd love to hear what you think of the recorded versions its been a while since i fired up the DAW so any advice is welcome. As always feel free to comment or hit me up on twitter @Think_write_fly.

 

Epitaph to.

cloud swell ushers in the haze
occluding all but satin stone.
beat smooth by north by northwest winds
holding fast, with greater chance of rain
each lintel every crowding part
that layers slivers
down the brickwork blood and
heather sprouting cobble,
is salt as part of It Is sea.

There’ll never be a better son, than the man who died inside.
There’ll never be more love for rooms that offered shelter,

heat and life
but never love

each lintel
every mortared dart
that shivered to the passing dirge
combustive thunder tarmac triumph
drawing closer

till it breaches
groundswell turns
the latter days to history
as the masons crack
the mystery shivers down
the plaster casting
love and life to spoil

Insomnia Suite #1

Sounds like thunder, smells of heat

Air, thick
heavy with bass, a rumbling baritone.
Skies bearing little, often.
Static apprehension greets the probing hand.
Fingertips parting the density
in Inquisition
bought, part from boredom,
part paid with lack of sleep.
Mauve hangs below the black.
A deep internal oration
Roars
Sonorous from the dark.
Then my night rain begins.
I catch the raindrops for a moment.
Taste the heat and smoke of cities.
Then return to my ceiling,
the mattress at my back,
and the freedom falling
torrentially outside.

 

Sooner still, I’m wakeful

 

Silence in sleep and listless dreaming Lie,
Beyond the soundless screaming of the deep.
 Rage upon the night, in which we writhe and
Feast upon the starlight paper-thin.

 I’m little in the pitch thick black of sleep,
To stop the thoughts, to hold them back means less.
I curl with pressure, underneath the sheets,
And keep the fierce pulsation in my breast.

 My mausoleum creaks, despite its age
this oblong tomb is empty as the cross.
My masters, sires of sleep mourn at the loss
My soul lies in remembrance of the day.

As hours pass, the moonlight breathes its song.
To drown the amber streetlight drone, in vain
I make peace to the silent space beside me,
and vent my heart's frustration at the pain.

The safe in which I lie, impenetrable.
The stone that guards my wake too thick to move.
The Sandman tired of luck must fade away.
In fear of coming dawn,
of coming day.

Prosody Induced Headache

the  Bolshevik poet and critic Vladimir Mayakovsky, notes in regard to the study of Prodosy his 1926 essay 'How are verses made' that :

"I've several times got down to studying this, understood the mechanics of is, and then forgotten it again. Things like this, which take up ninety percent of poetry textbooks, are about three percent of my practical work!"

It would be an understatement to say that I agree with his sentiment. Yet, every time I find myself wondering into the critical rabbit hole that is critical Prosody I find myself simultaneously repulsed and fascinated. Reading criticism is often onerous, arduous and infuriating, but the ideas gleaned from the coalface have also been the supporting pillars of the work I'm proudest of.

There is so much wrong with the traditional approaches to deconstructing the ever-loving shit out of contemporary poetry, that criticism can easily excoriate any vestige of beauty or vitality from good verse. Yet, without a somewhat mechanistic approach to analysing verse, it is impossible as a poet to learn and develop the ideas of your predecessors.

Criticism, in the words of Simon Jarvis, still "looks forward 'to a unified field-theory' and finds it 'painful to live in a pre-newtonian age'". But one thing that becomes clear to someone like me who has immersed himself in poetic criticism in an effort to develop their craft is that no such theory can possibly exist amongst the vast an nebulous subjectivities that comprise human experience.

So whats the point? why do I have a headache from re-reading opaque paragraphs on the nihilism of deconstructionist verse? I just want to write, I want to write and sometimes I want that writing to rhyme.

The point, In my humble opinion, is part of the point of Art itself. Endeavour. Art should be something to be 'mastered', it should be difficult, it should be struggled towards with a mix of additive and ablative processes until the artist comes to understand not only the scope of their abilities but the modes of expression which most eloquently allow them to evoke what they want to evoke in the viewer, listener or reader.

 In that context, the poet removed from criticism seems as likely to succeed as Michelangelo looking up at the bare plaster of the Sistine Chapel and going "fuck it, I'll work it out when I'm up there"

No artist relishes hundreds of hours of preparatory sketches, no poet loves endless revision, no storyteller 'loves' the 20th edit. but you have to know your tools, the exact parameters of your abilities and where you can develop or improve. sometimes you just have to turn to the practice, the obtuse soliloquising of the 'masters' of a form to figure out how to do something with your Art that you haven't managed before, or if you are lucky, that No-one has managed before. 

Without self-reflection and deep focus on the 'physics' of our work, we can't push forward. I get that.

I would still rather gargle salt than re-read Alfred Corn. but, I still bought The Poem's Heartbeat for reference... so it goes.

Aloof

I live upstairs, above

Half a house of air, I cannot

Breathe; seven windows I can’t

See the rain or sun through.

 

In my room

There is ample left to keep me

Well amused; if not so slightly

Left despairing that the little things

Confuse, I live upstairs.

Not from any lack of will or servitude

But because, I believe, that in the silence

That surrounds me, and in these four walls

That have bound me,

For so long now.

I am free.

 

Adrian EarleComment
Hornet Honey

There is a viscous sweetness to good pain,

a tongue tip probing of a barren gum.

The subtle thrumming in your chest again,

the swallowed urge to douse the fucking sun.

 

It lays as embers in the furnace belly,

defies regard, reproach like turning wine.

It sifts as fallout, rusting pleasures gently.

Decaying simple silence, after time

 

it comes to be the quiet.

It takes the place of air.

You come to fear the hollowed place,

if the hurting wasn’t there.

 

It’s strange, the urge for sharing never takes.

The lust to gift the suffering won’t hold.

It flickers idly, sun glint on a lake.

A mere, thick watered, taste of iron, cold.

Adrian EarleComment
Soft

not broken/ soft
malleable in the weft of living
an apathetic/
or
less forgiving
mass within me/ heaves a sigh &
turns in coma/ sleep increasing
thirst beyond thirst
desiccating/ force of will
shrivelling sense of peace
leaving roiling
itching
comfortless
skin
that barely holds/ the beast within

Adrian EarleComment
Making Hay...

Taking the Plunge, and Creating a dedicated Home for my Work online is something I have avoided for an age.

There was something off about the idea of an online portfolio.

Equal Parts monolithic and... entirely temporal. 

thousands of pages but no paper.

A library full of blank books.

It freaked me out.

But Upon calming down and looking at my practice. The frequency with which I create and the volume of work I generate, it became pretty clear that the Part of digital portfolio-ness I could benefit from the most was the almost instant ability to reach out to you.

It is the simplest and most elegant way to let me know what you think, about the scene that has been scratching around inside my head.

or about the verse behind my eyelids.

So I am drawing back My online presence entirely. 

You'll still find me kicking about on Twitter and Instagram.

But the majority of my Focus Is gonna be on Building an army of Dark little stories, Perfect configurations of words and impossible scenes...begging to be staged.

Speaking of which. I have a few new taster scenes for ideas I am working on atm 

Take a Look.

Made my Mind

I thought today
that I had died
& left you
staring at my shell
as I drifted/ shifted out of.

This-

Place-

The place that I was found in/ by you
cold clay & muscle
bound to/ by you
your hope magic/ false god
dying isn’t so easy/ for some

I watched you feel
beside yourself
outside yourself/ I’m free
without you

free to fall forever

but I’m still breathing
still pushing blood around
thinking of escape velocity

thinking/ fuck it
more than one path
out of a dead life

Adrian EarleComment
Love #1

breathe deeply
sleeping God,
slumber low.

near carnal embers
breed new fires,
soft Effusion

of such scent
You can’t imagine.
I breathe deeply

sleeping God
by your body
ever wakeful.

Adrian EarleComment
Cinder
 

Do you remember when
we set fire to truth?

When it burned as Bright as a birch copse aflame?
A stand of burning birch in the autumn.

You remember.

When all we knew lay beneath the branches.

And it burned.

Burned until we didn’t know it any more.
until we knew nothing but flame.

Remember?

 
Adrian EarleComment
S*********r

the Cat is out of/ the bag
the Cat is out of/ Time

the Cat has/ has not eaten the poison &
therefore leaves

the fate of the universe undecided/ contrary
to popular belief/

I am not fine
I never have been/ never

will be/ this
despite the cat

is certain.

Adrian EarleComment
Given Gifts, Gifts Given
 

if you wish of me/ if so your heart desires
Ill gift my hands/ to your caresses

present my heart/ to aid your care
lay out my body/ for the sharing of pleasures

share my verbs for your passion/ lip pursed postulations
tear soaked jubilation/ further drenched commiserations.

I am all of my Love/ so take a little 
break some off in moderation/ share it out

with other loves or those/ who sync their beating blood with yours.
Augment the glow/ of my heart/ the heat

of my body/ the lustre of my words.
With the shimmering opalescence of your own/ & live & Love

long after I am gone.

Adrian EarleComment
The Body and the Blood

I pray for flesh
& sweat & salt slick tangled/ arms and legs.

My Lover who’s art is heaven/ Hallowed be thy name

the head/ needs sense/ tacit tense
flirtation/the gut & cock need part on part relations/ realest fucking

hurt me fucking/ un-stitch and remake me fucking/
any man that does not dream/ of being consumed whole

eaten alive/ melding/ obliterating ones self in the flesh of his lover
is a damn liar/ sure sex is cool but

Thine will be done/ till clit is numb

have you ever been made to cum into coma?
sure sex is cool but/

this night as it will eternal/ bless us each day with ravenous head

have you ever tried being fucked/ by the woman
you make love with?

punish each of my trespasses/ as we punish those who trespass against us

surrendering your will to a vain and capricious goddess?
partaking the sacrament of body and blood?

Let thine be my kingdom/ my power and my glory

sure sex is cool but/ have you tried church?
she is church/ I am slain with the spirit/ I worship on my knees.

forever and ever/ amen

 

 

Adrian EarleComment
Wave upon Wave.

Cold light dances proud,

From open water, cast with sand

Strewn o’er with ripples

Eiderdowns, for salty sleepers

Gliding through the deep.

Eyeless in the brightness,

Of the night

The moon, a pallor beckoning,

Coming tides.

And waves that leave me,

As they always do

A little deeper in the shifting mire

Remembered chill that skips

To kiss my toes

As more unfaithful water rushes in.

Adrian EarleComment