Anyone interested in what's underneath please drop by...
Launch of Bird bird at 7.30 pm on Wednesday 18th March
with launches of pamphlets by Chris McCabe and Simon Smith
Harold Pinter Drama Studio
Queen Mary, University of London
Arts Building, Mile End Road, E1 4NS
All pamphlets are now available to buy @ £3 each (+ 50p postage) or 3 for £8 (+ £1 postage)
Paypal to firstname.lastname@example.org
Cheque to 'Landfill Press', 67 Chamberlin Road, Norwich, NR3 3LN
Other titles at http://www.landfillpress.co.uk/
Jeff Hilson, Bird bird
41 prose poems on the birds of Britain.
Coccothraustes coccothraustes (hawfinch)
That tapping. It's the rain or the rainiest day that nobody looked at the hawfinch and it's like a Dixons in the springtime. It's massive its head in a conifer belt. We have streets and we have a Dixons. We have streams and houses and fields on the borders of woods and we have like a Dixons. That's where your iPod is. Like there was this shy gardener found with sixty iPods. Much more like that because he so rarely mixed with them. I mean the finches. Got to get to take them from the city for the white phase that they utter in. I mean again the finches. It's so dark it passes. The lores as they slide over each other. That's where your mouth is. Finches and iPods interchangeably. And that tapping. It's so thin it must be a display.
Chris McCabe, The Borrowed Notebook
An elegy in 15 sections.
The White Album: you said you listened to it before I was born.A black joke: I said I would be listening to it when you were dead.
Live Forever the shaving soundtrack from the bedroom door -he's always singing about needing more time. I said "don't we all".
I could have played on full volume, upstairs, an audio CDof Plath's poems, while downstairs you turned up yourscratched LP of Ted Hughes' Crow. Could have.
Montage of where we meet on the staircasein mortgaged space, fucked over by the rent of time.
Simon Smith, Browning Variations
8 found sonnets from the Brownings' love letters.
So shall my flower's eye be ruined forever
Tennyson was still in Town
He unaffectedly hates London
I will go out and walk where I can be alone
I will look in the direction of London
And send my heart there
The early "day of small things"
Talk and "stare" at the same time
Not one feeling is lost, and the new/
Take care of this cold wind
She has been in the habit of going to London
"'Pippa Passes' pretty and odd" she does not
Love me after all, nor guess at my heart