by Paul Cowdell
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Friday, September 05, 2008
The Pig in My Soul
I looked inside, and found a pig in my soul,
where previously I thought there was just a hole.
In chains, tightly drawn round her trottery ankles,
so that the wound would fester and rankle,
she squirmed in slow breaths and fought for her life,
and asked me to spare her a thought.
‘A pig in my soul’, thought I, ‘a pig in my soul.
Who knows what capacity this sow could hold?’
In the Biblical sense I foie gras-ed my pig rotten,
waiting and waiting till she was besotten.
A hundred and sixty-six years to the day,
and the bitch had consumed my libidinous play.
Bitch she a sow?? Said I bitch? Meant a cow.
And I was consuming the lot.
A sow in my windpipe, a cow in a crate,
Pomegranate ice cream, I’m pissed, that’s great.
Drinking it up till she comes home to sleep
Pretending I’m comatose so I can peep
At the way that she sits on the end of the bed
Muttering about how she wants me dead.
On the brink of dreaming I hear one last thing,
And it chills my bones, as I hear her sing:
‘A soul in his pig,’ sings she, ‘a soul in his pig.
He’ll be dead by the morning I’m sure.’
where previously I thought there was just a hole.
In chains, tightly drawn round her trottery ankles,
so that the wound would fester and rankle,
she squirmed in slow breaths and fought for her life,
and asked me to spare her a thought.
‘A pig in my soul’, thought I, ‘a pig in my soul.
Who knows what capacity this sow could hold?’
In the Biblical sense I foie gras-ed my pig rotten,
waiting and waiting till she was besotten.
A hundred and sixty-six years to the day,
and the bitch had consumed my libidinous play.
Bitch she a sow?? Said I bitch? Meant a cow.
And I was consuming the lot.
A sow in my windpipe, a cow in a crate,
Pomegranate ice cream, I’m pissed, that’s great.
Drinking it up till she comes home to sleep
Pretending I’m comatose so I can peep
At the way that she sits on the end of the bed
Muttering about how she wants me dead.
On the brink of dreaming I hear one last thing,
And it chills my bones, as I hear her sing:
‘A soul in his pig,’ sings she, ‘a soul in his pig.
He’ll be dead by the morning I’m sure.’
Josie Malinowski
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The Squire of Epping Forest
YOU'VE GOT TO GET HOLD OF THE THREAD OF MARCHING TIME AND PULL THE FUCK THING DOWN AND GET ON IT AND PANG YOURSELF TO THE INFINITUDE OF ABSOLUTE MIND.
Monday, September 01, 2008
LONDON INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL OF SURREALISM, 18th - 31st August
It's not over until we've turned the sea to lemonade...
During the last two weeks our friends and collaborators around the world have joined us in the various games, dérives, enquiries, experiments, dreams and deliria which have comprised the third London International Festival of Surrealism.
As in previous years, SLAG will be compiling an album of material produced during the course of the 2008 Festival. In the spirit of potlatch we will gladly accept for the album all photos, reports, texts, images, audio files, enquiry results, dreams, film shorts, etc. etc. - any material that has resulted from Surrealist activity during this year's Festival and which is sent to us in a genuinely Surrealist spirit. The final deadline for sending all material to us, at the usual email address, is Sunday 12th October. Copies of the album will be presented to the all contributors – and only to the contributors – later this year.
In the meantime, keep your bridles unfastened and your brides unlabelled.
During the last two weeks our friends and collaborators around the world have joined us in the various games, dérives, enquiries, experiments, dreams and deliria which have comprised the third London International Festival of Surrealism.
As in previous years, SLAG will be compiling an album of material produced during the course of the 2008 Festival. In the spirit of potlatch we will gladly accept for the album all photos, reports, texts, images, audio files, enquiry results, dreams, film shorts, etc. etc. - any material that has resulted from Surrealist activity during this year's Festival and which is sent to us in a genuinely Surrealist spirit. The final deadline for sending all material to us, at the usual email address, is Sunday 12th October. Copies of the album will be presented to the all contributors – and only to the contributors – later this year.
In the meantime, keep your bridles unfastened and your brides unlabelled.
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