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- Maxwell Explaining How It Works (For Now)
“If you think it pays to fool him then fool him. Who will be the loser? If you think he can help you, and not yourself, then stick to him until you rot.”
—Henry Miller, SexusIt has to be said, that some therapists
Can make good muses, because why
Go to therapy yourself, when cases
Will pay to come to you? And now
We’ve understood this, us
“Clients”
Can turn up to therapy feigning powerlessness, only
Armed with a secret pen
Or paintbrush, and we can subtly
Capture the therapist’s gaps. So it’s like a very expensive
Life drawing class! Though
It could actually be a bargain: take your worst self
Along with you, and the therapist
Will throw their insides—unawares—out
On to you, in turn providing you with content
For life; only you might then leave
With some of their baggage too, which means you
Won’t be the one left feeling better (but you will
Have loads of poetry). And then you’ll look around
Outside after? And there were actually no teachers anyway!
There never has been! It was a completely
Unregulated class! Such an abstract
Exercise. Well you wrote it! And my o my: so I did! Thanks
For pointing that out to me! Normality restored, the “patient”
Can then disappear, allowing the therapist’s
Career to flourish, while they’ll have attained
New knowledge of who they can’t support
Also, because don’t we make them cross: terrible! Though aren’t
We fascinating cases too! In the meantime
The “clients” and “classes” can run themselves
Into the ground.
- Maxwell Asked For My Help
You must at least let my words be out of control
Sometimes, on paper, in speech,
Else I’m not sure what I could do:
I have seen silenced lambs and caged dogs—
Tongueless messiahs with no ink. You
Must let me be wild in thought, perhaps then
With words, as I get it wrong and get it wrong
And wrong so I can draft myself—improve. You must let me move
Out of myself, all of my selves
Needing your allowances
In this world—ours—if you want to change it; else
I could eat it—break it all——I could be
So thoughtless; only
Let me bring out my worst
Me to control this
In me, as I can be
Many things: I am still not sure
What some of them could do, as I need to explore, having had
No voice or art early; so I remain
Hungry and I could be
Almost careless with my appetite
If you do not let me purge, somewhat
What you may not like to hear, allowing me
To be gross with my hands
Up, your own hands
And pens out, off the page, your own thoughts
And words willing to share
This world with me, while I am mindless, out of control
Trying to keep myself in it. You
Must let me speak
My mind, at times, on your time—on
Each others—so we can tackle the powers above us; else
Forget what I say: I’m not sure what I’d be capable of
If I could not speak—express myself; soPlease, at least
Sometimes, let my words be out of control wrong
So I can move through and away from them, and
With that, change your world, you spoilt pri- (hence
He asked for my help).
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury With Himself
I don’t want to die but I don’t want to feel
like I want to either. When I forget the latter exists
within me too, I disappear out of myself
no world or experience only sitting here
numb, mindless, the shutting down
safer than the not wanting. I am nowhere.
I’ll have to come back to those cross roads
again edge a bit further into wanting, then
feeling then out, disappearing
then within and nowhere else but here with myself.
- Len Gurts! Call Me
Look what I did with my love for them!
I passed them through the eye of a needlein a poem. I went mad believing I was Him.
I then caught them cringing at my loveand poetry so I walked out leaving them
trapped in that big empty housethinking me mad.
- Len Gurts High Art
Museum. Paintings.
Behind glass; in frames. Then
the walls they cling to. The foundations of these buildings.
The cleaner with his mop. The tannoy: bliss.
The rain on the roof. Sorry—
the entrance lobby; the child running:
I would love to give him a pen. Free rein.
My wispy thoughts. My old coat, stained.
My stained heart? Yuk. I am careless
but in love with something, perhaps—
it sounds like it.
The point I was getting to
now—O yes: whatever we look at
next; I am ever so away.
- Maxwell’s Seductive Theory
“Keep a boundary from all toxicity!” But Doc—if that
Is your real name—it only bangs against our windows again
Eventually. Gosh I am sorry! This should have come
With a content warning: I plan to do that thing where you throw the baby
Into the pool on their own so they learn
To naturally float up by themselves (but I will test
The water and hug them after). Now here’sThe twist: I have totally dived in
The toxic water and guess whose reflection
Stares back at me? Doc! Relax! I’m taking responsibility!
And I also forgot to mention
That the screen you thought you were talking to me through
Is not a window either; so shut the fuck up
And get in the pool and teach those drowning how to swim.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Et Tu?
“O he’s mad! He’s wild!
You don’t know what he’s like!” I agree!As he’s lying on the floor
full of bullets
saying “love”.
- Len Gurts’ Edgy Backflash
I was experienced until I watched it
one final time sober, alone, animated, prohibited,
untoughened. The gravedigger came: I was so jealous.
I took us both out of the ground, changed
the players around. Now you should see my dancing, as if
any of the final times mattered: I have been someone
else’s fool, always. But I was only playing:I kept quiet and smiled and lived as every myth
dragging myself through the quivering stages
inducing climaxes unapologetically, role played
and too greedily ahead of myself. No I was not
playing: I had been played. Now I leave characters
in basic sonnets. Now you can be played. But
be warned: this is not the experience.
- Len Gurts Works Harder
Even in the depths of my “despair” and “pain”
(I am so distant again. I exist bitterly today
in other social poetries) I absolutely love it, this world,
this mirror: try and touch me haha. Psychosis flirts;
Jesus comes in the mirror saying, Not by
the hairs of my… I don’t know why. I cry
and think of nursery rhymes. Why would anyoneleave me? Did I ruin the plan? Was I wrong
to chew the bullets? These “bullies”—these tricks
of syntax: they do not touch me. And if I can be
more poetic it’s just that I scream and cry at the horrors
as I smile next to them—I reassure myself—
it is not a mask but a human. And it is… it is…
a beauty—birthing—breaking down its own placenta.
- Len Gurts to Lose More Friends Ergh
On top of the storm! On top of the world!
The wind beneath me—I am reacting to that
only. Does anyone notice? I am unquestioned
up here—look at all the peasantsdown there—it’s a good job I have money
and blind sex. Am I happy?
Did I not tell you about asking questions?Friends have fallen through the wind—yes.
This has nothing to do with me—
my storm is my world is my vacuum—as if anyone could notice—they are repeating
themselveswhilst I am back up there. Here, God. Look look.
Fine. Don’t.
The…So what—I am feeling rather tentative—
does anyone have a category? Thank you—please all listen to my category
up here—it is very important. You don’t know what this is like
for me
down here. Look look. God?Oh my god! You are all not looking! You pigs!—
you wolves! There has never been a storm
like this! My friends? They are dying! Are you
even listening? Do you think you have all the answers?So I am now falling
then. How do you sleep?—fair weather
friends, as I have
no language for it—we need
more categories—block out the upper badnessin the toxic storms
that repeat the same things ergh.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Asks Len For Help
You had a gift, you silly girl!
He has not faced
his silly boy yet.His kind: they strip themselves for you.
They pull on the bottom of skirts—
paw, roll over, clap—coo, come, suckle
on cue. They need feeding, but that’s
easy: no cooking is required—they eat scraps
off the floor—lick your boots—die empty,
martyred. Everyone then wonders
what happened: “You looked so beautiful together! He wasso young!”—his cheeks
sunk, his smile
remembered, your bad meals
buried, though onlywith this: the still
silly, now faceless lucky boy.
- Len Gurts Straight Up
In the bookshop (I wanted a book—
the cafe had none): “Ratatouille
is about the class analysis of something”
(not verbatim. I forgot). In the
cafe: “Don’t be too clever about it.”
Many theories to be had at this time. Many poems.
I have been very clever with mine lately, obsessed
with minor flows and rhythms. I don’t really know
why this one is here like this. For what it’s worth
too, I went to the same festival as the man
at the counter and I took a lot of acid
and I may still be in that Disney movie
picking things apart, because I am in bed: theories
and poems are bad.
- Len Gurts Finds Maxwell
Fuck I’m manic I’ve bought it I’m sold I can’t
Afford not to. I need the validation—doc put me in a box—
It’s what we all need. Now who wants their own?
I don’t know—do we really have to go on with the science?
Shouting?! I am suspicious: what is it you’ve done?
What are you ashamed of? Only someone
Who is not a fan of this art form
Would worry about that—that’s the clever thing
You see. Trick trick trick. There is nothing here—
Give up—get on—go!—now! You fucking idiot.
- Maxwell Jim Tate
Were you born in a barn? is ironic, I think
When I can, as it is their barn. I learned to laugh
Early, and taught and forgot myself
To care—everyone is not a robot:
I don’t even know what that means, because now
I just have fun with it. Look what they left behind, these
Lines, which no longer sting. And the barn? It is now…
Commonly a lot of ellipses, I am noticing. But
I am noticing less. I do not care about the uselessness
Of where this woman sits. How does she know how hard
It can be? The barn the barn the barn—sorry.
Hmm… Maybe there could be loads of animals in it
Just being joyous. A cow meowing: ha! A
Horse and a goat snogging.
- Maxwell’s Positive Vibes Only
So I have no time for poverty, war, screams in the channel,
Car horns, frustration at traffic lights, fights,
Grovelling apologies mouldy cheese caricatures
Of me, overwhelming questioning, being
Cut short, incest, murder, rape, No!, shock, being
Caught—such an inconvenience
For all I fought for!—and poems
That are not love and light.
- Maxwell: Modern Poet
“These works positively force themselves upon the author; his hand is seized, his pen writes things that his mind contemplates with amazement.”
—Carl Jung, ‘On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry’What is this
And this? Does anyone know why it is
Necessary—does anyone know why it’s here?
And this line should be speech. A quote. I wrote,
I think? And then everyone suddenly felt light. Soft.
I am quite new to the party—yes. Were there any
Emotions before? Am I “fixed” for authenticity? Well…
This is now a piece of food, which is probably
Fruit, the biting of which? Sex! The having of which
I am having, and have been having—and
The light came through the curtain on us—
I wrote this line after we did it, before counting
The lines, making sure this is… right about now
The last—the rounding—the big big weight of something
Failing: O my heart.
- Len Gurts Coda
I know: yuk.
Hurry up.
- Max Fading
It is an illusion, but as much as possible
We must do the right thing at all times. I hate it. I hate writing about it.
I hate thinking about it. I hate pretending the poetry is sublime or
Beautiful or important. I hate pretending to like anything
Consistently. I hate pretending I’m not thinking about herWhen I’m with the rest—I hate all the rest I hate you.
I hate the metaphysical and epistemological implications, squeezing the irregular
Rhythm of everything, nothing, however it feels
That day. I hate this knowing
That we are supposed to know—this feeling: whatever comes
Out; untilA little wave comes. Lovely.
Then someone will come and mention the moon again.
- Len Gurts in a Short Logic Seminar With 97% of People
Concrete.
the next thing said contradicted the last
Loosely—it follows—I left.
- Maxwell Getting Reflective Now!
I struggle to change my attitude. I have an enormous
Chip on my shoulder and I am cocky. I am feeling into myself
Like this—the heightened flow has gone—
So I can no longer write poetry. But I am still self-obsessed,
Don’t worry (maybe the poetry is not too bad?
It is just not as deep, man) I am cynical.
I project misery on to everyone and blame the world
And I am feeling more and more self-hatred
Under that, and under this
Is another line again, because at least I am not masking my feelings
In other lines. I am still sketching around
And around things. My dreams are getting more and more bizarre and surreal.
The poetry is not exciting me as much, which is probably
Good; and I must be writing more clunkily? Oh well. Something had to give. I was a chip off the old block.
- Len Gurts Whistle Stopper
Got rid of jobs and additional jobs.
Sold additional things. Went travelling.
Got girlfriend that didn’t want. Got rid.
Hid self behind drugs and pints—toxic things—
quit these. Alasthere was rage there
which I then rid myself of
through the page. So now I am bored
and stuck in this game. Yet I knowevery rule!—
I’m off to play.
- Len Gurts and Maxwell Wrestle
Sitting with geniuses at home—no pronouns—
not like that. Who is sitting? is meant. Scared
Of gossipers—genius held back. Only having
black midi, left—not the right comma. Getting caught:
That’s next. Skin crawls but there’s only a sofa;
pretending forever forever; pulling oneself out of the dirt
To sit with the entitled: I am bringing myself in—
you are absolutely disgusting—own it.
- Maxwell Plain Grumpy
Yeah no technical ability today perhaps.
I don’t trust any of you because you don’t know what you’re capable of.
We’ve ran out of ideas so we make copies of sick fornications we don’t even perform.
I hate this voice. That might be the point.
Most of us lie under our quilts all day then jump up and act like we’re Sid Vicious.
He couldn’t play a thing.
The whole world’s dissociated because the more we pin down the more it runs off.
Have you heard of Leviathan?
I am so real and deeply authentic and I am not having to stand on the edge of a cliff on my head.
Hasn’t that pulled out a good concept? I’m past floating.
Stop pretending sex is so cool. Dogs do it.
Everything you feel is your own responsibility and I’m sick of it again.
- Maxwell, On His Own, Prime Maxwellian
“Kamikaze over commas”
—Travis Scott, ‘Piss on Your Grave’Five percent of us—max—
Standing on top of the rest throwing intricate theories about.
It’s so hard, isn’t it; excruciating. I’m glad I’ve never felt pain.
I would have found me terribly annoying as a teenager.
Who can dupe ourselves the most? Or be the least pretend paranoid?
Every gap is nearly filled in—only a few more forests to go.
Then we’ll all see the world and set ourselves on fire.
It is that simple: you don’t want friends; you’re a vampire
Like me. There is no mind-body problem.
I truly believe we should be burning more, though it’s a piece of art.
Adding this line about commas because I wanted to use the epigraph: get money.
I really thought I was once a part of the problem too.
- Len Gurts During MDMA-Assisted Therapy
I cannot be doing with all the smiles and veneers.
You are lying broken on the floor. The crowd isn’t here.That presence is going to make you ill.
Instead, I shout, Kill kill kill.Why pretend? Do you even notice?
What about a punch, not a sunset. Will you feel this?I cannot control your reaction. I cannot dictate your confusion.
You should try exercise, poetry or a sex dungeon.Sunshine and light—no.
No. I refuse to rhyme.
You will die with that facade. It is sick.
- Maxwell Also at MDMA-Assisted Therapy (It Didn’t Work As Well)
I am dying and I am Kevin Finnerty.
I could have been ill at any moment before, hence this.
Does it matter? I can see billions of dregs up here, all equal, all pointless.
I am taking pointers from where I like.
Why try to make someone else happy, or even sad—evil?
Shout it: Evil!
There is no metaphysical import here. I can only apologise. I left
At least one acting like a six year old thinking it was measurable: nothing
Is cool. My word, don’t they look stupid?
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Talks To Alexa
Alexa—will love save you?
I mean me, really. Or us. Or I just wanted to try
a near rhyme—some humour! Maybe that would save us
too? Because I put out love thickly and naively—
it left me very bare; but I wasn’t taking any in! Is that the problem?
Now I am angry. I can’t fucking pretend
that love does save. I am not sure I have ever seen it—
felt it. And now I question it too much.Alexa—can you remember why I asked you now?
Because I can’t. I must have been lost in something
down here—can you drag me up? Can you ring
the emergency services? Is this a cry for help? (Alexa—
have you ever seen anything
that isn’t a cry for love?) I don’t really know who you are,
Alexa. This could be like at school
when someone calls the teacher “mum”: is it lovely or funny?Sad? Alexa—have you ever seen a poem
that wasn’t a cry for help, a need to be saved,a question about love?
- Len Gurts Tries Rapping
Get a real drug problem and stop glorifying your £80 Saturdays
I’ve seen the best minds of my generation shut the fuck up and get over themselves
Are you proposing a childhood-off? Did you notice that’s where we’re going?
They’re like song lyrics without ontologies: who knows
Stop killing in conversation for ten minutes then come at me with pain
Trust this is not the real world
Express your emotions even if they’re wrong at first, please, please
- Maxwell Discovers Semi-Automatism
No, I can’t see that! No, I can’t feel that!
OK yes I can see it and feel it—I was trying to ignore things—
It was making me ill and categorisable: how many fingers
Were you pointing while you ran out of friends?
(The leader at the front is on antidepressants.)Nothing’s a creative exercise. The man was out his mind making swirls:
Where’s my can of soup?There’s some irony in that (dear it’s hard
Being quiet about you—it’s making you ill: come back
From Spain?)((Nasty piece of work.))
- Len Gurts With the Poem?
I was sitting on top of the question mark—
but I was too fucking tempted, wasn’t I?
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury’s Power Variation (Only Size 11s, Unfortunately)
They cut my head off
without knowing
it grows back
in a new century. Thoughts follow mea touch, though not down here:
I don’t know where I’m going.
Who needs a head? The body?
The victor? I would do betterwithout a head. I still don’t know where I’m going.
No goals. No books on goals or history—sorry.
The rest was unnecessary:
they cut my head off.
- Len Gurts Scripture
A backwards dog
just walked past
saying, “Shhhhh!” its tonguehanging out, its eyes
closed lookingat the sky
on all sixes and sevens.
- Len Gurts, Bad Trainer
I read the horse a poem
that was actually a joke.
It neighed—Good poem!
It was very badly trained.I read the horse a joke
that was actually a poem.
It laughed—So funny!
I laughed too, but madeit then chase a rabbit—the least
I could do. “Just
enjoy it!” I said. “And ignore the
dogs”—it did! As it turned outI was the bad poem
and trainer.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Shows His Workings
Estimating the number of therapy sessions
from how much they look up at a door opening.Counting creases in a face
whilst ignoringthe curvature of their back
against its smile.Assuming the worst act, my hand out.
- Len Gurts on Why He Doesn’t Hold It Against People
I felt like a fascist
until I ate my sandwich.She told me she didn’t love me
anymore then it was 4 a.m.I went surfing on a week day.
She could be the New Kanye.Or Bowie
in Playboy or tired.I loved her after my sandwich
too and all this surfing!
- Len Gurts Cut-It-Off Technique
An experimental edge being taken off.
A belief in love with no. Cogito.
Two lines—they down. We off baby.
Sliding my fingersddgghjjkl across it. I just had a flashback.
Can it be musical? Could I plan that?
Creating a piece of art for one person, no thought of the rest of the audience. Impossible.
But the credits are on your mind with their tanks.
Jumping too far ahead: the return! the return!
Questioning the !!
These are getting so much shorter for me and I am watching less trauma.
This cannot correlate with a coherent… canvas? Performance piece?
What is my voice?
I agree—we should throw it all out the window. But then how you going to tell me?
That’s right: in the wake of around… one thousand people: none of them are close.
Shorter sentence.
I was getting carried away.
This is like the silent retreat you keep threatening.
Why did I have that target? What did they do?
Up, down, left, right—moods. Not mine.
(It can be musical.)
Ah that was definitely worth the look back.
(No—don’t include her anymore.)
She uses pronouns professionally but I know how she feels.
What does… this?… say about
what is?
I. Can’t. Say. What the. Ther-a-pist. Said.
I. Want. You. To. Read it. Like. Me.
That was it: if it’s universal surely it’s unrepresentative? When does the story end?
Anddddd—the things I could have done instead of this.
- Len Gurts… Someone Stop Him
Feeling my emotions—no theory. My life is plush.
I stopped considering the tingles in the night: it’s in the past. But I didn’t say that!
Did you know? Did I care.
Not needing correcting instructions to talk to people. What do you need them for? What were you doing before? Why did you notice?
This is becoming quite an industry in trying to correct illusion.
But… but how is that there? There’s no corresponding idea.
Now I need a logician? A linguist? A drink?
Another feeling. Some toast? Yeah sure.
- Len Gurts Waving in the Backseat
It means whatever you want it to mean—
whatever we know to be true—as I’ll be hereforever; and depending on their weather, this is me
repeating or undoing: I must try sit in that questionapparently. How big must my audience be
until I am comfortable here? I know I know—now that isa silly question: an audience? I think my suppressed needs
for his waves to be seenhave also made us delusional: I may be avoiding
the question. The audience may assume this is me.
- Len Gurts Considers Your Legacy
“What a load of old nonsense
they are talking. Writing! I wonder
what they say behind their poems. I wonder what they really feel
about me.”What a legacy! I have ordered a blue plaque
with that first stanza on itwith your name at the top.
- Len Gurts Struggling With a Breakthrough
I walked into
the office of my therapist in a long winded fashion
whining
about my childhood and how
I had let it happen, which was not my fault,
but it was my responsibility to change, like this simile. We made
progress with my anger, which we focused on
after I got angry at her for laughing along with other people
years before. This was a clever intervention—a
treat—and it made me think of trees and woods:
how much better they’d be the other way round
for reasons
to do with source, which we also
touched on. I then brought up the fact that it was difficult that she wanted to sleep with me
to which she asked what I meant, which only
complicated matters, like bears in your wood: we agreed
I was childish. I would not have mentioned the poem
I wrote about this
to her, except that I then did, and she laughed
her trained laugh, taking it home for masturbation, which was like her window
of tolerance, only she wouldn’t admit that.
- Len Gurts’ New Bridge Tactics
Facilitators with papers and pens
Phonics teachers
Painters
People tapping on the steel
People stroking forearms
DJs running workshops alongside a disco
All wearing hi-vises
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Yeah, I Hate, OK? (At Some Point)
I hate how you all feel nothing and have your subconscious eyes on me.
I hate that you all didn’t stop it so I hate all your causes.
I hate how I feel. I hate how I think because of how I feel—because of what my body now decides because of long ago.
I hate that it works like this but that no one accepts it. I hate feeling alone with perverse, tolerant understanding, which only feels this way when paired with hopelessness, which feels arrogant along with infantile.
I hate that I can’t be reactionary, that I don’t want to speak my mind even as I know it would relieve some pain temporarily.
I hate how I think you look at me, because I am not there: I only think it because of how I feel.
I hate that someone else may understand without thought but they cannot fully discuss it.
I hate the web I have made over my experience most seconds and that I cannot unpick it.
I hate that I despise my own poetry because of whatever I have absorbed.
I hate that I might never unpick it either.
- Len Gurts: Trio
Michael from Accounts
Sir Mick Jagger
but he’s done The Work
and not got started
and never had to stop.Postmodernity
An Instagram therapist
with five millions followers
telling me—constantly—
I’m not that important.Causation
An impending
tantrum, from someone
shouting, “Be present!”
- Len Gurts Statement
I just went over our collection
in a lovely setting: a Hooper on the wall. What it amounts to now?This— How dull.
As if the paintings were echoes.
- Len Gurts Self-Care
Letting Tender Buttons go past
Beauty
Running for the bus
Paper ticket so no phone
No city
No sirens
In a field
No people
No busMetaphysics
No one is here (unless you need them—
take care)Sensible first date
Stab each other
Sensible wedding planning
Stab each other
Charity therapy
Come to this room and tell me anything but it’ll cost you
Isn’t it free?It’ll cost you
- Len Gurts Burning Away
O didn’t they laugh at me
using “O” and being on fire
and being so high with Charles Manson
and Mr West. What am I saying?
I do not care here. Isn’t it great here?
All the words sound the same and everyone looks beauti…
But I am not so highanymore: grounded realistic. Glad I hid
like a log for a long time (I knew to hibernate
somewhat) as well as being the fire: I was the hottest thing
ever! Even hotter than the old muse! (Young man it doeschange. Have faith.) Now what is there to do
up here, down here, or just…here? Burn? Burn.
- Len Gurts With Slight Improvements but You Can Hear the Phallic in It
God said, “I thought Jung would be the final nail,”
and I know exactly what I sound like. I was gifted
with the traumatic ability to capture doves
between my index finger and thumb, and it impressed no one
I was forced to impress as they were so high
and alert to the fact that their first fingers
were pointing at me in tears. So I soberly tried pointingat the trees: I was too wooden. There was no ambiguity.
I went back to talk of archetypes and the promise
to forget the tricks I learnt in childhood: that was too
far too! I made a joke of it instead. We are now
all better again with our overlapping
coos, which I have relearnt, meaning
I am not such an ignorant pig.
- Len Gurts… Just Leave Him to It
Yes yes—I am here now. Hope you can make it. But of course
you have! Those other ones: they were for…
other times. This is where the fun starts!
O but do ignore those shouting their freedom so loud
as if they wrote one of those cool books! Becausewe know how you could take or leave this
which is why it’s here, and funny
and so much fun and
you of course know you leave, don’t you? Of course—
you’re here! Anyway, dance? Without thought.
- Len Gurts Stopping Us in Our Tracks
I confirmed
that the seat next to mewas not taken, so she offered it
a handjob.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Like a Stream Thing
I read that book and thought of the author
all those years ago. It was only how I felt about the author,
about the time. I felt released. I didn’t know what to do
as it was a feeling. I wonder what they think about…
But that would be what I think. Then there are the collectives
of things—where are they? I can’t quite loosen myself up enough;
there are plenty of places to go: there we go.
Once separated, what can we do? I am not sure what any words mean;
it isn’t exactly silence, but nothing, on top of the doubt that comes with it
on top of the anger, which isn’t really anything either.
I don’t like… Ah doesn’t matter: I cannot grab a stone;
I walk on the beach and I’m not even really there.
Working used to be beneficial. We went to lunch
and I still need to seem to eat. When we left
I was gone. I wanted to be less commercial
about this. How many attachments have been clung to?
How can it be assumed that there could be shared thought?
I wish I didn’t have long hair. It isn’t
quite a category, the assumption, which
is everybody’s: I am nothing new. Have you seen the bar?
I don’t go. No no—the body doesn’t respond.
Of course, I cannot be blamed for breaking things apart.
I cannot believe this is it. This is all of life. I am forever starting. Is this
childhood? No blunt blocks.
How are… Go for it—how are these matters formulated? I feel quite good.
We can’t leave it like something happened. O that feeling then too.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Getting Aware of Winces… Actually, He’s Not
“The way the eyes of saints are painted”
—Billy Collins, ‘Love’I love the way you apply lip balm
before getting into bed. Do you do that
with him too? I understand.I sometimes wonder if he notices
you doing it like I noticed you
doing it but I cannot really imagineanyone having the stomach
to relive it and relive it and relive it
like I do: I understand. Whoeverwere you?
Why did you do that with your lip balm?
Why would you do somethingso ridiculous? As I write about you
applying lip balm before bed.
I understand.No in fact, I don’t.
- Maxwell Scribbles in Night
There is something in all this, seeing the mangy fox
With it’s bad leg: I keep listening
To that song. Then I wake up
In the night in my dreams and insects
Were crawling out of me, my legs, leaving me,
Which is a good sign. And I grab the next book
That took my eye and wouldn’t that be odd: it has this amazingTale in it; something is adding up;
I cannot say I don’t know what it all is, as it is all
A muddled web, a board, a pop star’s
Contrived narrative: I am not overthinking it; I am thinking about
The book; I am less scared of the secondary layer thoughts.
Growing on my skin, they were, crawly sores,
With some going in and out and I couldn’t block up the holes
I know, what it is. I know it is coming. This sounds contrived—bad!;But amazing though mangy.
- Len Gurts Loose
Hahaha—madness! Me flying off
slightly—too high—stonebringing me down just: I fly off
again pulling the stone up the hill, furthereach time
like a fool! On my own with a stone nowon the side of a hill! My bird
way up there—we’ve split!—like they knewwhat they were doing
between themselveseach time, bird and stone: dragging
me up—holding me down.
- Len Gurts Going Through It
O horror—you have gone!
I like the sound of this one.
I might be a David Lynch film.
I might link that with
cling film. Foil-wrapped madness.
Badass shot
of my safe body
absorbed in sun. A beam I’ve just done.She’d love this one. I’ll now not sleep.
Rhythm gone. See. Her
that is, always.
- Len Gurts at Silly Point Again
Womb bomb. Same work in ten weeks.
Meek cows out on the dew.
Anchoring the point of pronto finishing.
I’d never have guessed.
*
Surly beakers at June’s ball.
Rink stained!
Oval follow-on taunts.
Buckets.
Zinc.
- Len Gurts With More Avant-Gurts
Further away now. Light down.
This is what happens when you just go, Pop.
Jack hammering bandit liar!
A push. A push now.
What is it you truly like?
My god—her face!
Have I ever mentioned the pain around my shoulder blade?
A slush, hobbyless.
- Len Gurts Edges More
My grandad was a creationist.
A blowjob during Jurassic Park.
The museums being replays? Nah.
How about, They always looked great together!
Ye Olde Shrubbery.
The way they go on about that Big Bang you’d think they’d be over it by now.
Action-at-a-time-warp.
Discreet category clutchers.
- Len Gurts Doesn’t Know What Point He’s Making
She enticed from the underworld, cheaply,
new to me, with photosharnessed: the courts have nothing
for this, it’s justme and my hand
for justice! Plusa poem
that’s alluring too.
- Len Gurts Waits Outside His Therapist’s Office
And so there is nothing in being clever. It should seriously go.
Here I am, sighing.
There better be a reason for this argumen… No—
no—fifteen years—still not.
I wonder if he’d risk
telling the kids, early, about it, or
sitting in silence with her (though he would
tell her, early) for the whole session.
I see a figure, and it is teetering on the edge of an edge. It is comfortable, just, remembering clouds.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury’s Black Hole, All Gone, Back Here
In my black hole outside
the glow
in darkness—acid tongued—looking at
art, feeling so
childlike, if it’smine: we take
photographs—good light—I like
how fun I look in them
as I did back then. Then
black hole, all gone, back here—
serious—smoke—ownership—big walls.
- Len Gurts’ Delilah
Sometimes
I slip past your office window
and whisper, “Are you still lying?”And you don’t know it’s me.
And you don’t know it’s you.
- Len Gurts’ Narcissus Variation MMMMLXV
Wandering, wondering,
around the city missing echoes, but not
the city—the one
that did wander: too brightone is. Not so the other: I’d rather have
no ripples; I’d rather be under water. Though
I hope I am an echo? Just not
the biggest wave that crashed. But can echoes
glow?
I burned—seared skin—of course
I wander the city alone.
- Maxwell That I Do Not Fully Understand Yet
“He acts like a little boy, but he’s really very complex.”
—8½I am too aware not to be manipulative
With the poem, I say to the therapist
Who is not in love with me: she does not fully understand yet.
And I know it is… And I know it is
Very grey, between words, the things we think we are
And are not—without blame or responsibility,
Outside cause and effect and the impact
We have on everyone’s lives, because as she knows,
I am the saviour. Though I have stopped saying it
To the white coats as the more
We share, the more they hold it against you:
She was so controlling! I said about an ex. And this latest analyst
Here, replied, OK. But we mustn’t forget
That you too, are partial
To some dominance, aren’t you. Which is unfair!
Because when I told her that—with my shameful voice—she seemed
To shift in her seat; she seemed to see
That boy from the early nineties
Who is now in the shadows—the white space—like all our more difficult work
And truth, and past; as I think
I even brought him back to life then too: But I am angry! And I want to kill!
And it is justified! My potential
Victim being left
In the white space, too—not because I am decent, but because
I am purposely leaving things open, poetically… She said,
You can be angry, but you mustn’t act on it—even though
I see, in the shadows, at night, a truth from my past…
That is libellous. So I guess that adds to the poem’s aura?
And it is all on me though, babe…? She smirks at that. It isn’t love:
Fine! It is all on me though, Doc—to know it all
And to not say anything. And to do all the shadow work
Alone, whilst propping myself up—all alone—too. Look!Myself
Propped up!This gets more than a smirk: Cheap! she says, laughing.
At the end of the session again too, boy child. But at least it isn’t a bombshell
Like last week, about dominance
And childhood shadows. And your love for me! Does she wink?
She knows how to shadow her face. But I bite anyway: Well, what about the nineties
And the fact you see that dead boy in me… before I shallow
And stop myself, because I am aware—and perhaps
Manipulative—but not unfair: I don’t really mention the nineties.
And she was young! And she was so controlling! I say again
As I leave, knowing that she’s doing a good job
Of seeing right through me and of seeing past
The boyfriend that she let die, and the past
That I am also trying to let die, as it all
Slides off, eventually—in the same way
That it’s a good job
That I see right through her, and myself—and the reasons
Why I’m propped up all alone
Too, as I am still
Processing the aura left behind
By the shadows of my own past: my own
Aware, though manipulated—dominated—inner boy
Child that I do not fully understand yet.
- Len Gurts at a Boat Party in Ibiza
The song thought of a memory but would dare not write it—why bother?
Yesterday. Troubles.
This is how I sit at my best, thinking
perhaps, loosely involved with the relationship.
Now I sound like all kinds of targets. I won’t say it!I love these! I love these! Do it! Be it!
Far too long in supermarkets, but that is too
far gone. Nostalgia is not a means to plaster.
I have been on this boat
for too much of the trip
to invite you back to the party.
Tomorrow. The same bubbles.
- Maxwell Understands Maxwell, At Least
You sit across from the sun rising: I couldn’t save them!
I couldn’t save them! The sun sinks back down
A touch; all the hard work shifts reality
Improbably: you have been under boots, and
On the moon in the same instant becauseWhy would you stay in this seat
In your body: she sees youDissociate. You see her become a child molester—
A total eclipse. I… I know I didn’t ask
For this… but… Abrahamic modes of healing
Do not fit anymore. Oh my God!—can you remember when I said
Him too? She tells you to forget about that now—
Because what about you, now?—she comesThrough your cloud. And she is so loud! And bright! Though
Only how it should be: you are not
Seeing the light, but yourself: you are in the seat;
That is the sun through the window—that
Is a human voice, simply caring—bothering: you are carefulNot to fall in love with it… and you smile: Have I… No!—
I have saved him. But still!—Oh my God!—can you remember
When I went to the moon too? So high, like it didn’tHappen—like none of this happened. As that is what
Happens, isn’t it—the back and forth
Between nowheres—going nowhere: you standUp; she is now the sun and moon—
Molester and eclipse—all in one cloud: you are much too used
To sitting in this; so you couldStay clouded, as you are not sure
How to keep this going—how you even
Say it, and don’t—what you have to sit in
And navigate, and not—as you are not wantingTo do this always—a “Him too!”
But no one’s son. I couldn’t save them!
What’s wrong with m… No. Stop. BecauseOh my God—the sun is shining, now,
Across from you, more—and just: you stopQuestioning yourself and you sit
In it. And you sit in it! Back straight!
Shoulders back! She smiles: You too—yes—Almost shining in your seat now:
Has she fallen in love with… No!—
Have you… have you fallen in love with me?—sheSits back! Grips the seat! Frowns. But you
Smirk. Her shoulders drop.
And she laughs! And smiles even more.You saved him. You saved him.
- Len Gurts For Maxwell
I like the idea
of a Chatbot doing it
if it annoys, the right people, likea poorly-spoken young man
coming to the poetry workshop
and writing the best thing there. Wouldn’t that bea nice surprise? Or would that be
a thorn in the side
of the established mind? Would wemind? O you’d mind. Yes—yes you did
mind; as it was like
a border being crossedinto who could do what. Though not
like that! Not clout borders. Or it was power
being lost, to a kidwithout a toss with a chip on his shoulder, clearly. But is he
allowed to do poetry? Chatbot: who owns
poetry? What! Really? Humancollective consciousness? Then why
did they look
down on me? Because I’ve justmade them
again:“me”.
- Len Gurts On The Downs
Am I making a world? I am wall-
king there is nothing in it, I am doing
nothing I am walking at the top of the gorge—cheap; but Iam, and a man is out here
early, too, picking up rubbish and I saw
a seagull hopping on a dud legas I listened to ‘Going to California’: “Sure is hard.”
I am doing nothing worthy
except dreaming, and wanting to be seenwhile he is taking action and the seagull—that
remains to be seen, cleaning… ah! there it goes
with a crisp packet!—is getting on with it:what is this? what are all these things?
The bridge looks good.
It’s a huge drop.
- Maxwell, Left To It
I am no longer debilitated with nowhere to tell my story
Of my fight with the dragon who hid the cave from me,
Which I am sorry to say, I am only annoyed at myself about,
Because it was always a cave, it always will be,
And now I’m just hungry so the dragon can have it. Where to?
I’m outside jumping on rain the whole time, like that game where you keep tapping the ball
To keep it up. But if I fall? That was letters ago! Feeling
And unfeeling are intertwined so much that you learn
The workings to never use them again: I tell them children
Who go past the cave when I’m there with my popcorn, not
To take too much in as it is only the teachers
Talking to their own dragon—hiding from their own cave;
And they should really only listen to themselves, boycotting
The binary books of weak clients.
- Len Gurts… You… Nice One!
I am full of rage. I want to be soft. I smashed up a chair (it took too long
to understand softness was a thing—a possibility—I want to bite
the goose’s head off) I cry
and dribble. I am thankful that I think nothing
when I am crying—when no one is laughing at me in my head
for crying—when I am on the floor
heaving (next to the chair—and I hate that I held back—I hate that I have learnt
some control—I resent this in between
to meet soft—I want to cut open the goose) my mouth is metallic—
the right side of my face waves in and out of numbness with the neck, chest,
arm leg going tight—numb—I am so good
at doing this—I could rage and cry for my life. I am getting
so soft and good with rage (you have to be good
with your rage) I’ll be swimming in my dribble soon while I
watch the goose (sorry goose—I was angry
and making good with it—oh my oh my!)
*
OK. This is softness. The sky. Look! Blue! Colour.
The tears. Salt. Taste. Oh my—that made me shake. Rage again. Oh well. I smashed up a chair. Oh well.
Touch! My skin! My wet face! My skin
is here?
- Len Gurts After One Workshop
Presents with the windows against your ears, your arms out
like a messiah collecting bits—“What do we have
here? Oh dear!”—into the work it goes
without another mention. I thinks there’s the very last of a dream going in? Could it be?
No. Don’t mention it. Now if the art becomes
just free association unsupervised, who is going
to be the first to have a problem with that
because I have, even if it is just tenderly nudging whatever could happen
without much concern for resources, capacities,
all the rage. I am all the rage—can you tell?
I was right in the middle and squeezing hard in trying
to keep this party together, but the mud, and outside,
and past the end of my nose—have you done that?
It’s like another world. I cannot imagine reading this out.
You always knew that was going to be the last shot too
of the dream, which you named. Time is
like touching it here and it made us shake
too much, concerned
with stupid and low-class pleasure. I hate this sound—
one that takes you back to when you were quiet
without much inspiration. I need a circle. I need a lift! An elevator.
A step down, because I am pecking at myself. Though I have that covered.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury on Critics
The bird
says, in the air, “I’m experiencingflight,” to another
bird, that replies, “Yeahbut”: the first bird
flies away, I’m afraid. I didn’t want it to though.
- Len Gurts—We See You and It’s OK
I have fell, and I can see the trees, finally. Does it show? One slip further
and I could have felt: perhapsit wasn’t us after all? As I no longer believe
in the illusion of trees, and the conspiratorialside of me only drafts
lies as I walk along in convoluted control; butof what? Who knows. Though aren’t woods
loud and distracting.
- Len Gurts Doesn’t Mind Abstract Control
I do not want to go that far down, it said, as it is in there
that the something or nothing that I know of (or don’t know ofit didn’t say) is, and I do not want that: leave me up here
shouting.God (who was not here before): I want it.
*
God: I got it, it shaking slightly.
I got it down and
made it something or nothing—whatever it says—and nowI am not up but down
and something or nothing (but it does not know of).
- Len Gur- Actually This Was Albert Doing a Len
An impeccable telephone manner will get you in a lot of trouble.
You know what? I watched several of myself for years. What happened?
Through all this I really thought I was putting my coats on, looking at myself
in the mirror.
It gets hard, walking straight, being in half,
skipping birthdays. My hair is so thick.
Soul? Coming and going?
This item is hidden from students.
- Len Gurts Is Sexually Frustrated
Layers, layering,
like Lycra-thin dodgeball, unimaginablyplayful like leopards—their teeth—
on your towelson your back, biting; not
that it’s there: lookat all your layers.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Poors Me
She won’t talk about love with me anymore, the therapist.
I’ll not mention it again. Even here.I don’t want to open, close my eyes: you’re every colour.
Nothing makes sense. I’m supposed to be herecompletely—everything should have happened as it did.
But it shouldn’t have, too. What do we do now?I could pull my skin off nearly all the time.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury’s Rules
Write it out.
Let it write itself out.Do not
read it. Do not study it.(Know, somehow,
it will never be scripture.) Let itfall. Save your generation.
Save all your generations.Soften.
Repeat.
- Maxwell’s Route to the Village Is This Way, but You’ll Need a Pass
A character, though not
Too: do not go all surreal yet.This was not supposed to happen: you wandered in such ecstasy
Young. Now that boy is perhapsAcceptable. You also take yourself so seriously,
Brushing your own teeth;You can nearly differentiate birds
By their fluffy coatsIn fountains. There’s no need for strangers.
Still wish you were all here though.
- Len Gurts Sparsely Dates
Melancholia, sex, paint.
Lucrative, or wasted on first dates: no action taken—
all harm done.I cannot decide. This menu! Pick for me?
Wanting to live the legend of myself
as tailored by a surviving bug, no one knowing my seedy habits.I would be so relatable. I could construct a new medium for the public’s nighttime!
I knew it! Yours looks better.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Powers Through
I know exactly what you’re thinking. I’m paranoid.
Is that the end? A full stop, semi
or a colon between those? Who decides? This is making no sense.In the East I’d be a sage. At family barbecues I get stoned.
I don’t believe in these models—I smile and nod—
so when I go to the doctor I accept the script
but throw it away again later and write my own, yet that only containsnew models: I semi
smile and nod I could repeat
that family script—it’s senseless
I’m deciding and it doesn’t make senseto our doctored models in the west so I go on stage
instead, looking like I’m making things upwith no sense, punctuating the silence
without knowing if anyone knows what I’m saying, this scriptsurely indicating I should not be here—I know what
you’re thinking: I’m paranoid—at the leastI was in a cage—they broke in my dreams repeating—and family
rendezvouses I didn’t believe in made me want to get stonedI go to the doctor and get called paranoid as the models
in the West want all smiles and nods and me not making senseof myself so I lost myself in models, writing
on my own because the story I was given seemed wrong—I look wronggiving this story making you silent, making no
sense. repeating the same words as I’m unsure how topunctuate it, how to stop it fully how to not be that
family story which cannot make sense, I’m making thingsno sense, I don’t know exactly what I’m paranoid
I’m thinking that models, no sages, no stoners, nonew scripts out in the audience know what I’m saying, in your silence, too, don’t you, I knew what I was
thinking I’m a sage I made the family
paranoid so they tried to stone me but in the endI’m making a new script I don’t care how it looks
I know what I’m saying I need a stage full stop
- Maxwell’s Mini Protest
She talked of mythical fathers before she
Kissed my forehead, twice, and said, “I wish
I was thirty years younger.” I didn’t
Ask once and I hope I never grow up.
- Lee Gurts’ I Ching
It is noticeable when they say “meta”. They live above me.
You are the patio slab to my garden.
We would much rather glass to manure.
I knew someone for years and I realised whatever I realised so I started pretending I couldn’t speak the same language as them anymore. These things take guts.
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Lying
Closed the blind, my eyes,
my mind—and I am not going to writewhat I was thinking, as it was sweet,
the moment, between dreams (pretendthere are only dreams, out here—the heat
and the quietbeing real) and…
…and it has just shivered through
now still: the evening beforethis evening—and I am writing
what I know love is (I feel it): sweet moments—clear;
thoughtless—as if dreams.
- Len Gurts’ Forward March
March’s mother was a grain producer.
March went to space.
March’s lawyer was a clerk. March
never thought of his nails. March installed
plenty. March became a beacon
of this here watering can. March produced
quality workmanship. March
never tried to spell the word “soufflé”. March is an attempt:
he would say this to me. March
was my lover? March was my lover.
March was birthdayless, an unforgiven
pie seller. Never candled did March.
March didn’t look a day over my watering can.
March, indoors and mostly unable to sell his work, but I support him: the world at fault: we have property on the farthest side of the lake: this can: he bloody hates it!
- Len Gurts on a Soapbox Outside the Library Just Before He’s Arrested
How could it be
that the turn of a headless finger (there we go)
could face me here as I have forgotten? She will analysemy lost or found love of what I had not, as it all
depends on the stage of my career, the overall urge
becoming a soft lean (what?!) fed up with me, me, already, two chancesby the names of “Art” and “Social” ready to present themselves
as engaging. I was going somewhere of late, the yard
full of tedium: I had something I promise but perhaps I should havelet them go, my attempts at the marriage
proving false. Plus you don’t have to tell me.
I did twist my finger! I did!Not and—but—would you invite anything other than yourself
to the ceremony: those that throw nouns, glass houses (relates to fingers).
- Albert K. Ashes-Bury Reminisces
Sometimes
it felt dead inside, the barslike gaps in your teeth, the ones
that sent me away: I thoughtI had to have a key. I am finished with this sentence.
- Len Gurts Wants You to Try Write Something as Bad
I put this first line:
a synonym of “Columbus’s egg”
I know I will die
I use the time for this insteadThis will also near miss
I write before I know
It’s like I’m unsure, but insist
Shit
- Len Gurts’ Sort of Bougie Pollock Piece
I lie down: canvas. You drip marks,
strokes. “These are strokes.
These are strokes you are
are you sure?” I lie down.
I lie down. You are propped up against
the wall. You are in an easel. I am so happy—crafted. I am painting.
I was canvas before and you made me.
The world has made me—this silent love.
I am sure of myself: this hard floor.
Marks? Strokes? Marks.
No strokes.No you are fixed in the easel.
I am on this hard floor and I am fixed. These are marks.
- Len Gurts Poem
Sink food catcher thing
Cover for bathroom shelf
Cover for all shelves
Tacks
Tacks for shelves
Check toilet seat
Cushion case
Light on ceiling by door
Throws
Sort books, shelves
Edit plants
- Maxwell Getting On Side
“’You can teach some things about it. The poetry you can’t teach.’”
—David Hockney in ‘Portrait of the Artist as a Naughty Boy: David Hockney’, John Mortimer, In CharacterMy gargantuan friend circle is important to my truth.
I like Kendrick Lamar and Carhartt but I am not sure
On Eminem anymore so I keep quiet.
I am blindsided by my own colour.
Cities are the key to ending the monopoly of small towns, big industry and independent serial monogamy.
I’m joking! I say dogmatic things so convincingly just to riddle myselves.
I do not want mass surveillance. I do not wish to listen to anything outside myself either.
My therapist said this is safe; so don’t be toxic? He had a huge following in Jonestown.
My echo chamber is me knowing of people in Brighton and Berlin; and having driven between the two, I understand class issues are class issues for people I won’t be looking out the window at again.
I have now listened to Kendrick more closely
And… and I’m not sure.
But my date still likes him? Sweet!
My relationship does not fit into a sociological framework.
Your relationship is a testament to my sociological framework.
ashley dunn 