There is no woman here to speak, to say “Mind the nails for the dress,
not to rip, at the hem, off a piece.”  Instead there is one to say “the
dress had been given me along with the makeup it is a woman’s
requirement that she be unwilling.  Put these and this on they
said and you’ll do it because of the passport.” 
                The knave of cups sits at the side of the bed in lemon yellow,
peering down into the face of proscribed love, willing it to open
and to ask him some real questions like not just ones about his parents,
Freud in his death leaps about in the wings wearing a red
chicken-print leotard.  The real battles are staged
now down dotted grey lines of territory that finger the buildings
nefariously, like the lines of el Web, delineating anaesthetised fucking
and personal space. 
                                   On the table-track of streets, cracked lines find
fault with the person that pushes past.  I have love in me.  That’s not how
I fuck.  I heard a lot of the sports guys saying that it was fun sometimes
to take a woman down a peg or two – because she knew she was hot –
by fucking her.  But she liked it that
way, it meant she was right in her thinking.  And what’s more she
has a pile of trophies in her duvet cover. 
She is allergic to duck feathers.
                                                                     Is this who you are?
                                                                     Is this what you do?
                                   In disgust I found a well of love, its little care
marked by contrast.  Looking through the smeared glass I came
upon rows upon rows of autocolours, all of them tangential greys.
“From within this spectrum we are permitted to access God.”

The fishing has been good this week.  In the flat.  There
have been a lot of fish.  The best thing was that I didn’t have to
actually fish for them, it was more a case of
snatch and grab.  There was clean death enacted, I read about it
on the train as it lulled and pumped the track til my district.
The deaths were announced on the front page – fish death
in M.M.’s district.  I heard about it through a friend.  I was innocent
but there was a paper trail from the door of my job to the door
of my home, of receipts and tickets, indicating my penchants.
But seeing as how it was just a few fish, all I needed
do was press conference and subsequent release:
M.M. in shame shock.  Coleen.  Ethical consumption.  Things of real substance
put yourself into a gill ticket.  This can be done by cutting a ticket into strips
stapling the strips with fish skin
fan the strips place them in arrangements
around your body as it bends thoughtlessly
over the broken bed.  Ramos de jacintos. 

In the romp and dust of my hands I find the remains of birds.
I stare down at my hands in disbelief.  Have I done it again, I wonder.

That night, and on the following nights and like the previous nights
I sleep in a strange bed.  The price for a bed
now is a body.  Reproduction is practically
an accident. 
BAD GRAMMAER (pron. ‘bad grammar’)

How do you feel about it, I asked him, knowing
that he had built the mega fifteen-floor lego-tower
specifically with me in mind, populated it
with Poles who knew the difference between ‘it’s’ (with the apostrophe) and
‘its’ (without),
and didn’t publish otherwise.
“Without grammar we have no law’s”.  Without laws we have no
cowboy boots.  Without those
what do you want to get on eBay?  Skulls, baseball cards. 
Adverts from the past.  But Pru, how will you get
your reputation back
at the tennis now that your
PR company has fallen through.  How are your Islamophobic parents?
Hey sorry gotta run I see snacks.

Weeks later in the gallery above the arc of the doorway we saw
antler sculptures.  They had been dissembled
then re-bolted at lesser proximity in order to elongate
the form and thereby create
bionic reindeer.
As if it wasn’t bad enough already that they belonged to Damien Hirst,
(that spewed-venom creature of Hesse)
also, we liked them.

You know despite what we say about America- [BANG!]

We wondered if the young Arab Prince’s
political leanings or lack thereof had contributed to his treatment
of life as a non-stop Cleavage Party. 
                                                                     Arab Prince.
Mujahideen.  The progression is
monetary.  Some of the people in Bahrain are Muslims just like
some of the people in Qatar just
ask Wikipedia.  Note
here, amongst BBC footage of burning buildings and balconies
colonised by topless rebels with their hands in the air
that we have forgetten the rich and the royal.
                                                                     It is not a religious war we have
                                                                     no god. 
Their economic success stories hold stakes in half of
London’s atheist square footage.  Purple disco lights,
and the toys you throw against the wall, and the little white pills
with the hearts on them.  Therein rages
your war.  Religion is one of many possible catalysts,
but the hatred is there
        A new residential scheme whose
beauty, luxury and BAHRAIN will place it
in a class of its OMAN in قلب لندن. 
Tears left Sean’s eyes as he lifted the codpiece.
Click here to experience.
This is a most exceptional living experience
this is my most living experience,
apart from finally snagging that chap from Wapping
Cricket Club at the batty fair.  MOVE YOUR MOUSE AROUND THE SCREEN!
my most living cash- cash experience.  At the time though I really
my most living cash experience. 
                                                                                           It broke my face.

Ode to Love XIX: You Racist, Homophobic Bitch

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
reality is
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
Some fanatics in the state of New York are thinking of banning the “n-word” from popular music, at last seeking where they cannot recuperate to eliminate.  This is society’s answer to dialectics.  Total language ban, then what happens do you get imprisoned?  The freedom to repeat the word within a community context appropriated by those whose ancestors suffered under it is a motion towards renovating its history.  Leroy Comrie says the meaning of the word cannot be changed.  Has he lost his OED?  In Venezuela when they say chévere they do not mean cheg ebere.

      Look, I really don’t know how I feel about this.

                                                 Political correctness is wrong because
how is it political?  But I won’t say so.  Stop being so white.  I feel as though I should.  I feel
as though I should but not today.  I feel as
though I will.  I feel as though I will but not today.
Without permission I am just narratives inside,
each flying into the window-glass, knowing it is the sun.
Without permission I am the bugs
desiccating in the bulb.  Without permission I am accumulating
funds and then spending them how dull
it all is but for love. And then
back on the floor,
I love thee depely.  Break a
line.  To do lines of you
permanently without letting go or it
getting light out or something bad creeping in, so much love
stating the limitations which are just
going to break and you flood past them, very far, Domingo F. Sarmiento.
I love thee helplessly, so much the end of life appears.  Both
thee and me are in thee now, which is why I know
thou wilt go to the defendant, Symine Salimpour,
and lock her mouth up with Hollywood money,
the perfume Shiloh evaporating.  The soule is then taken wyth covetynge. 
I’m ready.  Through careful definition.  Some
minor doors are shut perhaps but all the rest are open.


To swoop with your vision is the limit of the
elision of your dreams at the hands of Mind Corp., a
stupid white male who can’t pick his own dreams,
needs phenylalanine to deal with the paper coated in the arm of
his own arm, his own hedge fund arm, his corporate broking arm.  Screw
      a no-
    thing, love a thing you can make in you come
    up and bounce off of the taped mirror
    refrying itself on playback tip
    tip, £15 with tip, with tip.  Tip.  Okay
    name your price,
    says Khalif and after the biography I cry about the kids back home and
    the dust the fallen truck kicks up,
    ethically wasted and financially rinsed.
    Snatch at the rhyming bits you can’t place only repeat
    and how now do you feel about repetition because
    some of the pops go boom a hundred times in the same arrangement
      and no
one insists on telling them anything because their heads are so moving.
The lab rabbit has been liberated, next up:
therapy.  I just hate how everything
makes sense, even the monkey pop metaphors, there’s no
stretch.  The brain doesn’t want its specificity pre-ordained, that’s
how the Pope does it wearing ermine, loving all god’s creatures,
NO, not LOVING THEM.  It’s okay to degrade
the girls but not the critters, the critters are not the commodity it’s
the girls.  It’s foolish to imagine us as a race.
It’s foolish to imagine that there is a destination
that’s not too equipped with the fire, the elixir, the deathcamp
made of opportunities to be vivacious and good living.
It ashames me violently that I have been sucking waffles
drenched in the news of News Corp that’s wanting and
praising the energetic necessity of love whilst
all this time books have been subjugated underneath
a merely hypothetical relationship of mutuality, AND
why should I pretend that it is love that I do not need, when
love is the thing that I need, not broadly speaking though, 
as it can easily be affixed, broadly speaking, for example in a
taupe ballerina dress worn by the anorexic that
the guys say is hot that
    the girls say is anorexic that
    the designer wants for the runway that
    the South American fucks winningly
    but you really shouldn’t probably go into it
    suffice to say it can be easily affixed.
    Bloody spray in the crest exploding over the
top of a hypothetical ocean
but of your choice, with fear and bark and
possibly bovine mince.
Why did you say it that way why
did you not tell him that it was a fire in your heart, acanthus.

mariannemorris was born in Canada.  In 2002 she started Bad Press where she is now an editor with Jow Lindsay and Jonathan Stevenson. She is currently a graduate at the University of Cambridge, following several years as a wage slave in London.  Her most recent chapbook, 'A New Book From Barque Press Which They Will Probably Not Print' was published by Barque Press in 2006.  She is also a painter and mixed-media artist who generously provided the cover image for this issue.
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