tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22527079358514402512024-03-18T03:04:06.699+00:00 Ian Badcoe Poetry Ian Badcoe writes poems and lyrics.Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.comBlogger264125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-33534544133163915362024-02-11T11:25:00.004+00:002024-02-11T11:27:14.214+00:00Your life need not make sense<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheY6re2k5CQKUl-3o_Gkn34aVmFXagqSFXduOnQiPnZdLETSggq33vnSqoFTRZtlADPYIRC4UFP5f39Mbo6cw3cnAqCgjrLvoIcOrca5HUEAcVszVWfUrwgLyzgqnwOW486H961ae9iysr2cq-p6EQ8qWQnPPb6eolWilrdvCajHwDW9CwxTVGEzWB3g/s1280/antique-car-g587e9c4e3_1280.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1280" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheY6re2k5CQKUl-3o_Gkn34aVmFXagqSFXduOnQiPnZdLETSggq33vnSqoFTRZtlADPYIRC4UFP5f39Mbo6cw3cnAqCgjrLvoIcOrca5HUEAcVszVWfUrwgLyzgqnwOW486H961ae9iysr2cq-p6EQ8qWQnPPb6eolWilrdvCajHwDW9CwxTVGEzWB3g/w320-h200/antique-car-g587e9c4e3_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I recently had this one published in the newly reactivated <a href="https://riggwelterpress.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Riggwelter</a> many thanks to the incomparable Jon Kinsman.</p><p></p><p><u><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Your life need not make sense</u><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p><b>Origin story</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p>We are foam on the surface<br />
of the boil of evolution, and you are fitted,<br />
crudely, in a survival-of-the-fittest-shaped hole<br />
and although so many armchair Fascists suggest<br />
this means your only valid role<br />
is to beat, subdue and rape<br />
this is not the case.<br />
You need not be the wolf<br />
(who are not like that anyway.)<br />
<br />
<i>Fittest</i> never meant <i>most buff<br />
</i>or <i>supreme conqueror,</i><br />
Darwin and consequent theorists<br />
have always meant <i>most suited to the day<br />
</i>and when the afternoon is spent<br />
building box forts for grandchildren, then...<o:p></o:p></p>
<p><i>why Grandma, what strong genes you have...</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p><br />
<b>Making a life</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p>So you build a society<br />
upon the froth and initially all you want<br />
is edible roots and grains enough<br />
for through the winter's bleak<br />
<br />
but in a society people speak<br />
or snub one another<br />
and people start to own things<br />
inherit<br />
acquire that younger lover<br />
on the side<br />
<br />
and people hide<br />
or worse take pride<br />
in their tiny peccadillos<br />
and before long<br />
the heap is sorted<br />
every person in their place<br />
every foot<br />
firmly in the face<br />
of someone underneath<br />
and you smile and say you are happy<br />
with the boots<br />
all pressing down.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p><br />
<b>Making a buck</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p>I will trade these beaver pelts<br />
for a new iPhone, I have I think<br />
a ton of them<br />
encrypted<br />
with a blockchain and stored<br />
in an envelope which I keep<br />
beneath the mattress<o:p></o:p></p>
<p>and I earn them, of course,<br />
on the gig economy<br />
where nothing is forever<br />
or even for the day<br />
and why would you want a pension plan<br />
why would you believe that you<br />
or your nation<br />
would ever last that long?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p><br />
<b>Coherence is not required</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p>...as we stroll along the shore<br />
salt sea-spray in our hair<br />
and the five star hotel is still burning<br />
over there<br />
the currency we bought when we arrived<br />
might now get us shot on sight<br />
and who knows whether the street kitchen<br />
we used for food tonight<br />
will still exist tomorrow<br />
or take my walking boots in payment<o:p></o:p></p>
<p>but this is a great holiday<br />
axiom zero still holds:<br />
we exist<br />
and what more do you want?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p style="margin-right: 9.0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-54295859870547225632023-04-13T22:37:00.005+01:002023-04-13T22:37:47.634+01:00NaPoWriMo 2023 - 13 - A Study of Political Developments in Europe from 1945 to the Present Day.<div style="padding-left: 20%; padding-right: 20%; text-align: justify;">I think I will have to admit I have missed a few days of NaPoWriMo now. This is ignoring all prompts and just turning the surreality dial way up...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7oN70Mbkq0Ep5MFRD54j9TE2uXMsH99pvO5Dj-XSlViFIYJpYqq5aG-MZNzWxy8fLJC4mCQfTXSC-Ag9i__hQd1kJxZud8Fp5Z19v9sD8V__nG6sTD4lrG3l1TFbXpX97WZoq2TAAQPvmzEWGj16fsHGwytychCpK2m8s9BWis2tU78ACM3lsawRKw/s600/bananas-coloured.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7oN70Mbkq0Ep5MFRD54j9TE2uXMsH99pvO5Dj-XSlViFIYJpYqq5aG-MZNzWxy8fLJC4mCQfTXSC-Ag9i__hQd1kJxZud8Fp5Z19v9sD8V__nG6sTD4lrG3l1TFbXpX97WZoq2TAAQPvmzEWGj16fsHGwytychCpK2m8s9BWis2tU78ACM3lsawRKw/s320/bananas-coloured.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="padding-left: 20%; padding-right: 20%; text-align: justify;"><p><br /><br /><u>A Study of Political Developments in Europe from 1945 to the Present Day.</u></p><p><b style="font-size: 45%;">Performance note</b><span style="font-size: 45%;">: to be recited in one breath without hesitation, deviation or passing out.</span></p><div style="font-size: 45%; line-height: 1;"><br /></div><br />For those watching in black and white I was standing on the ceiling of the Arc de Triomphe eating my usual which is banana and eggplant pizza with a side order of irreconcilable longing and if you're in America you probably believe you know what eggplant is but in Europe eggplant refers to the sensation of driving a rented removals van rapidly through a long-abandoned mountain tunnel with one eye on the road and one eye nervous on the fuel gauge and anyway I was standing in the basement of Nelson's Column eating my usual which is banana and eggplant pizza with a side order of irreconcilable longing and you probably think that Nelson's Column is military but in fact it celebrates the decisive victory of the British Public over the checkout queue in Marks and Spencer and I was standing on the ceiling of my local post office eating my usual which is banana and eggplant pizza and you probably feel that by now you understand the role of the removals van but for those watching in black and white a removals van is like a pantechnicon and for those watching in black and white a removals van is quite like a panel truck and for those watching in black and white I was standing on the ceiling of my local meteorological office and eating my usual and it was raining and it had always been raining and I felt a sensation of irreconcilable eggplant and it was raining and it was pizza and it was cold.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br />Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-87735430082217605852023-04-10T15:41:00.002+01:002023-04-10T15:41:34.695+01:00NaPoWriMo 2023 - 9 - Taking it under advisement<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqymkSrkK_k5IAkduuhNSHqAIC8qGjEl_5eqg_AdCPAjBnalezT6A3zd8CvvfbcPu2KHjkLLF8oR085_pU11yTOcgQ1-3tj_OinbqfJ_2v8wSYNuw6EPY6PcrrTeVsTKm6J8aTkykwAL4N31rd5U6gt1mRaaH0GWu0lnJcexXYRs0lMK_BGA7pX7_tcw/s1093/BakewellCake_(cropped).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="1093" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqymkSrkK_k5IAkduuhNSHqAIC8qGjEl_5eqg_AdCPAjBnalezT6A3zd8CvvfbcPu2KHjkLLF8oR085_pU11yTOcgQ1-3tj_OinbqfJ_2v8wSYNuw6EPY6PcrrTeVsTKm6J8aTkykwAL4N31rd5U6gt1mRaaH0GWu0lnJcexXYRs0lMK_BGA7pX7_tcw/s320/BakewellCake_(cropped).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>(I have not skipped a couple, I kept them private because they fell out kinda personal...)<p></p><p><u><br /></u></p><p><u><br /></u></p><p><u><br /></u></p><p><u>Taking it under advisement</u></p><p><br /><br />the first rule of dealing-with-the-particular-thing-<br />the-thing-that's-secret-to-myself-and-that-<br />I-do-not-like-to-talk-about-<br />club, is we talk about it<br />that is the advice</p><p>at any rate,<br />that one sex blogger gives, documenting<br />how she's lived her life<br />radically reimagined<br />and somewhat exposed<br />these last five years</p><p>and been happier for it<br />who talks<br />about the dirty underside of her mind<br />the very not-talking being<br />what enabled<br />the "dirty" judgement to persist<br />and possibly it works for her</p><p>in some degree<br />because exhibitionism<br />which I so don't have</p><p><br /></p><p>so I take the limited supply<br />of advice<br />as well intentioned but with a big<br />pinch of salt</p><p>and the advice I give is:<br /><br />avoid magical thinking<br />--such as believing that the aforementioned<br />talking-about-the-unspeakable<br />can fix everything--<br />because it always seems like<br />if we could only address WXYZ<br />then everything would be lovely<br />in the garden</p><p>but this<br />is a failure<br />of imagination<br />and the post-WXYZ world is still a world</p><p>(or garden)</p><p>still messy and dirty and filled<br />with human beings, complex,<br />and not all well intentioned<br />and there was no way<br />that merely sorting out the WXYZ<br />was going to fix that</p><p><br />no, my advice is:<br /></p><p><i>walk on the grass</i><br />whether the sign says otherwise or no<br />our pleasures are limited<br />and none of us know<br />when we'll go</p><p>bare feet on damp grass<br />your father running the sprinkler<br />but that was then and now you are the father<br />with no sprinkler<br />because ecology</p><p>and in this newer world in theory<br />sometimes you want but think you should not have</p><p>a Bakewell tart for example</p><p>of the more industrial kind<br />with solid sugar icing to at least<br />a quarter of an inch<br />but you can</p><p>because,<br />ultimately,<br />apart for those we choose ourselves<br />there are no rules.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-41333545091539241112023-04-06T15:03:00.003+01:002023-04-10T15:32:25.030+01:00NaPrWriMo 2023 - 6 - The Post-Industrial Research Assistant's Tale<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNq9IkTkSjj3hJAA08___DYfqXizcwTdpl3WLo0mTVMN33Ak3pW0klrz2_6KV-M5sZxblabEOyYo739DU3d3yFelTv-mB4SLVc4PpwvQ_ZF_uN4Sd_Owq-c5Bey1FtIxJ8l2601wabB0pm1wNLNjPO3GNsQCVECNPXuSVmTl10kI-viRKnfIJWaoj0w/s500/protester_12.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="260" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNq9IkTkSjj3hJAA08___DYfqXizcwTdpl3WLo0mTVMN33Ak3pW0klrz2_6KV-M5sZxblabEOyYo739DU3d3yFelTv-mB4SLVc4PpwvQ_ZF_uN4Sd_Owq-c5Bey1FtIxJ8l2601wabB0pm1wNLNjPO3GNsQCVECNPXuSVmTl10kI-viRKnfIJWaoj0w/s320/protester_12.png" width="166" /></a></div>This has been half-written in my pile for *ages*...<p></p><p>It came from consideration of how a university department is, like most small communities, pseudo-independent of the larger world in which is embedded. Concerns of the dept. are not necessarily concerns of the wider world, but every inhabitant of the dept. is also an inhabitant of the world in general, and brings all that baggage with them.</p><p>In this poem, society has (semi) fallen apart but the department keeps on keeping on in a slightly revised way, ignoring to some extent the turmoil in the street...<br /><br /><br /><u>The Post-Industrial Research Assistant's Tale</u></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I wake and follow my routine</div><div>every window in the department has it's crop<br />tomatoes, cucumbers, French beans<br />and I go round with my basket<br />and watering can. It's a trade<br />I like to think I plants aren't enslaved<br />but rather there's a meaningful exchanging<br />of water fertilizer and well-lit, sheltered positions<br />for produce: veg and fruit --<br />and we may as well admit to weed<br />since there are no University authorities anymore.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've found I can grow<br />almost anything as I have learned<br />to be slow and patient so I don't tire<br />of watering, or picking out the weeds<br />I have no problem germinating seeds<br />as I can set their perfect temperature<br />on the incubator salvaged from biophysics<br />and later move them round, between window ledges<br />the break room table<br />and half a dozen other sunny spots<br />as suits their thirst for light. But today<br />is shopping day,<br /><br />so I take my basket and go<br />into the town to do the deals<br />that spin the wheels of life.<br />I exit the quad<br />via the turnstile at the rear<br />because there's fewer people forcing leaflets<br />in your hand<br />although I still get ones<br />for transcendental cyber-feminism<br />and The Church of Happy Nihilism<br />which apparently is off Brewer Street<br />and I make a note to avoid that route on<br />-- check the leaflet -- Thursday evenings<br />useful.<br /><br />The High Street is, from the sound of it,<br />in its usual disorder--<br />two Parties of National Unity<br />(don't ask me which)<br />are trading insults and half bricks<br />which means I cannot get to Tesco's<br />which all-in-all is good<br />because although I do keep flogging<br />that particular horse corpse,<br />the repeated mental pain<br />of going round the empty shelves again<br />and occasionally giving the checkout assistant<br />a tomato<br />so hungry does she look,<br />is not a happy morning in my book.<br /><br />But High Street is out today<br />so I make my rather more cheerful way<br />to the Anarchist's Market<br />where the great thing is<br />to a mind like mine<br />that the sellers cannot legitimately say<br />the trade I offer<br />is less than fair in any way<br />and so they just obliquely opine<br />that for their part they feel<br />I ought to offer more<br />and I never tire<br />of this semi-comic back and forth<br />as we circle round the deal.<br /><br />As usual I can get corned beef<br />and not for the first time wonder<br />does their supply chain extend all the way<br />via cliques and communes<br />and counterculture shipping lines<br />to South America?<br />Who knows, but corned beef comes<br />and fresh veg goes<br />and life goes on and so...<br /><br />I return,<br />via the caretaker's garden<br />to leave a cucumber in the honesty box<br />and take a handful of new potatoes<br />which you cannot grow on windowsills.<br /><br />All of which leads me to conclude<br />that it's corned beef hash again<br />and thus I keep the department fed and they, in turn,<br />add me to their published papers<br />but now I brew tea in the break room<br />where Maria and George are frowning at output<br />from the quark telescope array<br />Oh no! I joke,<br />don't tell me that far out in space<br />the Wolf's Star Faction have turned this way?<br /><br />There is a slightly embarrassed pause...<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-47046094090866419292023-04-03T16:17:00.001+01:002023-04-03T16:17:04.954+01:00NaNoWriMo 2023 - 3 - "Vonk..."<p><u></u></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfsWK9BmR9ZeFBqd153rruehV2Mhtisodif2uVKMCiZ2p96W3IoLiFFscqHEihga7luP4Jx4Bth-EjrLWcjxsK52C21gF-KXJFyS43bVy1qpH-Diyk638SlCz-RgQ1xS8WilJzLw06GlwBeWVLr3hx6JcTG4K5ZQt7649CoXgY02Hfddt5GvqD83rpg/s1920/bath-duck-toy-1594485879RWX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfsWK9BmR9ZeFBqd153rruehV2Mhtisodif2uVKMCiZ2p96W3IoLiFFscqHEihga7luP4Jx4Bth-EjrLWcjxsK52C21gF-KXJFyS43bVy1qpH-Diyk638SlCz-RgQ1xS8WilJzLw06GlwBeWVLr3hx6JcTG4K5ZQt7649CoXgY02Hfddt5GvqD83rpg/s320/bath-duck-toy-1594485879RWX.jpg" width="320" /></a></u></div><u><br /><br />"Vonk..."</u><p></p><p><br />...the bird on the duckpond calls<br />the other inhabitants disconcerted.<br />"Vonk. Vonk! Vonk!!!" this individual blurted<br />and it looks like a duck,<br />walks like a duck,<br />swims like a duck...</p><p>...it is just the quacking that's awry<br />and the other avians wonder why<br />this singular bird cannot conform.</p><p>They probably do not mean it harm;<br />they just would prefer, if it must "vonk"<br />it would do the decent thing<br />and keep it to itself.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-68761926749209775902023-04-02T10:56:00.001+01:002023-04-02T10:56:36.595+01:00NaPoWriMo 2023 - 2 - Fresh orange<p><u></u></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_bA58b7erPFr7iRHbVq-B8-AwWfP58thXyy9m8oi-yAndprNsBXbbUll4F8weq0B-K1JQeXTm3_Y_EDzI5I1CeZyioAfxHROHqSBOTzVaOG2BAaBJjabDmQ274eIRtLureIJsj-DLAFbJ82HoGAXrT3k3ugR1dpzscvyCcdFmhc6YOUZrvYTTsv9OQ/s800/pngegg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_bA58b7erPFr7iRHbVq-B8-AwWfP58thXyy9m8oi-yAndprNsBXbbUll4F8weq0B-K1JQeXTm3_Y_EDzI5I1CeZyioAfxHROHqSBOTzVaOG2BAaBJjabDmQ274eIRtLureIJsj-DLAFbJ82HoGAXrT3k3ugR1dpzscvyCcdFmhc6YOUZrvYTTsv9OQ/s320/pngegg.png" width="320" /></a></u></div><u><br /><br />Fresh orange<br /></u><p></p><p><u><br /></u></p><p><b>I - </b>Orange is an <i>emergency services</i><br />colour, and here in the soft drinks aisle<br />of twenty-four hour Tescos</p><p>and three a.m., that 'incident' feeling<br />is happening again,<br />the faint subliminal questions:</p><p><i>Was that a flicker<br />of strobing blue?</i> <i>Do<br />I hear distant</i></p><p><i>walky talky distorty voices<br />saying "Lima tango"</i>--because<br />they're always going dancing</p><p>in South America, I don't know why--<br /><i>"Lima Tango <crackle><br />the <squelch> <squeal> respondingover"</i>?</p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><b>II -</b> And orange<br />is an electric Kool-Aid thing<br />distorting our perceptions</p><p>with not-so-subtle misdirections<br />here, where we're still in Tescos<br />and the really early morning,</p><p>and nothing is true<br />beneath these too fluorescent lights,<br />beyond the windows night</p><p>fills the car park and light<br />of a different quality floods from<br />overhead and neither of these lighting regimes</p><p>is wholly real. Neither illuminates.<br />Reach out one finger and touch<br />a bottle of Robinsons no apostrophe double concentrate--</p><p>it has no temperature<br />it has no shadow<br />you clearly can't believe</p><p>reports from the outlying regions</p><p><br /></p><p><b>III - </b>and legions of people<br />have striven, without the intent<br />of building this precise experience.</p><p>They've designed the unreal light<br />for an unreal store, the murmur of the air-con,<br />the muted swish of automatic doors,</p><p>the weirdly dampened non-echoing<br />of staff restocking, bleeping and stacking,<br />their footsteps directionless</p><p>on synthetic floor and you...<br />you are still staring at seven thousand<br />near-identical brands of orange squash, have</p><p><br /></p><p><b>IV - </b> no saffron-clad Tibetan monks at hand<br />to guide you with Zen aphorisms and show<br />how in fact you'll never ever know</p><p>the real from the unreal<br />the being from the imagining<br />and how</p><p>there's always a observer effect,<br />the viewer is not separate<br />from the film and the only way</p><p>to know the world is to live it<br />as part of the motley cavalcade,<br />who--like the most primitive sea creatures--<br /><br />allow the ocean of experience<br />to wash right through their bodies<br />not separate from minds.</p><p>Just let your hand find any old bottle,<br />brave the bleep-synthetic-voice-how-many-bags,<br />and leave. There is still time, outside,</p><p><b>V - </b>you should be out in it.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-87113037168014746422023-04-01T10:26:00.004+01:002023-04-01T10:26:55.088+01:00NaPoWriMo 2023 - 1 - once we're cyborgs<p><u>once we're cyborgs</u></p><u><br /><br /></u><div style="margin: 0px;"><p style="margin: 0px;">once we're cyborgs</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 3em;"><i>I am standing outside my house, </i></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 6em;"><i>unable to release the door handle!</i></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;"><i>Just put me through to tech support...</i></p><p style="margin: 0px;"><br />once we're cyborgs</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 3em;">twenty thousand Japanese girls</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 6em;">wearing the same left arm</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;">as their idol</p><br /><p style="margin: 0px;">once we're cyborgs</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 3em;">the preface to fucking requiring</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 6em;">some tech-savvy, negotiation:</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;"><i>if I configure myself like this...?</i></p><br /><p style="margin: 0px;">once we're cyborgs</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 3em;">as many forms for people</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 6em;">as there are ideas of people</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;">the whale, the tree, the somebody-new-four-times-a-day</p><br /><p style="margin: 0px;">once we're cyborgs</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 3em;">beeping</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 6em;">something's always quietly beeping </p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;">and you never know if it's you</p><br /><p style="margin: 0px;">once we're cyborgs</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 3em;"><i>I don't know...</i></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 6em;">flexes arm at fitting room mirror</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;"><i>...is it a bit too "Bond villain"?</i></p><br /><p style="margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0px;">once we're cyborgs</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 3em;">virus scanners</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 6em;">and ad-blockers:</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;">life and death</p><br /><p style="margin: 0px;">once we're cyborgs</p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 3em;"><i>Darling, </i></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 6em;"><i>your father crashed </i><i>at the supermarket </i><i>again</i></p><p style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;"><i>can you go in your truck and pick him up? </i></p><br /><p style="margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-61002521623264997962022-03-16T19:02:00.003+00:002022-03-16T19:02:52.423+00:00Do you have the ticket / we all are always never going home<p>I have two poems <i>We all are always never going home</i> and <i>Girl with degenerate matter earring</i> in <a href="https://www.corporeallitmag.com/ianbadcoe" target="_blank">Corporeal</a>, and another in their sibling publication <a href="https://www.engenderedlitmag.com/ianbadcoe" target="_blank">En*gendered</a>, so I recorded this performance of one from each...</p>
<hr /><br /><iframe allow="autoplay" frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/1228051780&color=%237d3592&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true" width="100%"></iframe><div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Interstate, "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Garuda, Verdana, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 100; line-break: anywhere; overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap; word-break: normal;"><a href="https://soundcloud.com/ian-badcoe" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Ian Badcoe">Ian Badcoe</a> · <a href="https://soundcloud.com/ian-badcoe/do-you-have-the-ticket-we-all-are-always-never-going-home" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Do you have the ticket / We all are always never going home">Do you have the ticket / We all are always never going home</a></div><br /><hr /><br /><div><p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px;">Nonbinary bus image from:<br /><a href="https://libragender.tumblr.com/post/645406176154189824/trans-and-non-binary-buses" target="_blank">libragender on tumblr</a></p>Featuring bus and bus station sound clips from:<br /><a href="https://freesound.org/people/Julien%20Matthey/sounds/112357/" target="_blank">Julien Matthey</a>, <a href="https://freesound.org/people/abrahemp/sounds/564721/" target="_blank">abrahemp</a>, and <a href="https://freesound.org/people/Ubehag/sounds/232020/">Ubehag</a> on Freesound</div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-42387424589159091202022-01-24T16:15:00.002+00:002022-01-24T16:15:33.616+00:00TINAG Sound Recording<p>To celebrate the appearance of my poem TINAG in <a href="https://www.selcouthstation.com/single-post/poetry-the-alice-bomb-tinag-by-ian-badcoe">Selcouth Station</a> here is a recording of me reading it, with a few virtual co-conspirators keeping tabs on me from a safe distance...</p><p>If you are wondering where this poem comes from, I was thinking about the difference between "gaming the system" and living life. People who treat everything as a game are often difficult or even dangerous people. Military/security organisations will sometimes treat the whole world in an overly game-theoretic way, sometimes just for strategic insight, sometimes embracing horrific outcomes for minor tactical advantage.<br /><br />On the other hand, however, you've got to have <i>some</i> theory of the world... <i>some</i> framework within which to pick a move... It's just important not to see the whole thing as a zero-sum game: where the only possible victory is somebody else's loss. The universe is not like that, and if you are a little person, without a lot of brilliant solo moves available, then non-zero-sum cooperation is the only way to go.</p><p><br /></p><hr /><br /><iframe allow="autoplay" frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/1202727448&color=%2306448e&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true" width="100%"></iframe><div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Interstate, "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Garuda, Verdana, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 100; line-break: anywhere; overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap; word-break: normal;"><a href="https://soundcloud.com/ian-badcoe" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Ian Badcoe">Ian Badcoe</a> · <a href="https://soundcloud.com/ian-badcoe/tinag" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="TINAG">TINAG</a></div><br /><hr />Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-16387195422792002072021-11-19T10:03:00.007+00:002021-11-20T16:38:49.396+00:00Time core initiation in...<p>I won't post this poem's text, because it has fancy formatting, and also is available here: <a href="https://www.streetcakemagazine.com/uploads/2/4/7/1/24713274/issue_75.1.pdf" target="_blank">Streetcake Magazine, Issue 51 - part 1</a> </p><p>However to celebrate publishing that, I recorded a performance of the poem with some simple sound effects, and that came out pretty well.</p><p><br /></p><hr /><br /><iframe allow="autoplay" frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/1162469089&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&show_teaser=true" width="100%"></iframe><div style="color: #cccccc; font-family: Interstate, "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Garuda, Verdana, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 100; line-break: anywhere; overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap; word-break: normal;"><a href="https://soundcloud.com/ian-badcoe" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Ian Badcoe">Ian Badcoe</a> · <a href="https://soundcloud.com/ian-badcoe/time-core-initiation-in" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Time core initiation in...">Time core initiation in...</a></div><br /><hr />Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-57378135333986315342021-04-29T20:28:00.005+01:002021-06-09T09:20:47.611+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - XVIII - And as she...<p> <u>And as she...</u></p><div><br /></div><br />...starts to sprint she pulls her self,<br />one foot sticking<br />slightly, out of time -- the external world slowing<br />between one footfall and the next --<br />as Einstein takes his cut. She annotates<br /><br />her future path with tense thought and big, square<br />[brackets] to show where she will go,<br />years of relativistic combat practice mapping<br />how she'll pass, barely noticing, through plate glass<br />and continue<br />via the eighteen-inch gap between two trucks<br />which would be crashing<br />if time dilation left them time to move.<br /><br />The world ahead is going blue<br />as she -a-c-c-e-l-e-r-a-t-e-s- and she can see<br />the gun, rising. She's going to be too late but again she<br />--a--c--c--e--l--e--r--a--t--e--s--<br />faster now than ever before, and she cannot see<br />in ultraviolet<br />but she already knows where everything is and how she is<br />-- in front of the motorbike and behind the limousine --<br />leaving a tunnel in the air which collapses behind her<br />with the voice of a titan.<br />Through the other window --<br /><br />and now she is in the bank, among the gang,<br />balaclavas, weapons, bad minds;<br />normally she'd be flooring goons<br />at this point<br />or flicking biros from the desks towards heads<br />which would snap back<br />when hit by cheap office supplies<br />doing multiples of speed of sound<br />but she has only one target now<br /><br />so close<br />a gun, horribly wrongly, pointing<br />at the only thing in the world which matters;<br />she might make it<br />-- might tear that hand off at the wrist,<div>or maybe swat the bullet in its flight--<br />or she might not<br />and if she is too late,<br />she simply will not brake, but run<br /><br />into the side of the armoured vault<br />like a comet with a grudge --<br />scour everything back down to the bedrock<br />give the ants their chance -- and choose<br />not to live on in such a haunted world<br /><br />of which there is nothing left now<br />except a man, a gun, a girl<br />and the need<br />to *a*c*c*e*l*e*r*a*t*e*.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-60290514009588558442021-04-28T11:50:00.000+01:002021-04-28T11:50:18.157+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - XVI - Unmake<p> <u>Unmake</u></p><br /><br />Undo; undo; undo;<br />unspin the planet; undawn the day; unturn<br />the season; unproduce the play; unsing all songs,<br />we're out of time and key; unknow those few<br />close friends, whether platonic or carnally;<br />undo; undo; undo;<br />regress your life and lives; things<br />you must unsay; undo; undo;<br />this is all wrong; unbind the electrons; deorbit the moon;<br />unburn the stars; decolonise the new world; disinhabit Mars;<br />unsummon the demon; undo; undo; undo;<br />I can't be having with this.<br /><br /><br /><br />Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-28299390839053936992021-04-22T12:51:00.005+01:002021-04-22T12:52:24.602+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - XIV - Maybe I should stop taking the pills<p><b>Maybe I should stop taking the pills</b></p><br />as I was discussing a moment ago<br />with the lady beneath<br />the grating in the floor<br />they cannot see her by the door<br />where the nurses station lies<br />and I do not let the nurses<br />or the penguins<br />know I'm talking to her<br />because she's covered in dust bunnies<br />and a very private woman. <b>Maybe<br />I should stop playing this game</b><div>it's eating so much of my time<br />but strangely compelling<br />and I've made progress,<br />manoeuvring my avatar from the spawn point:<br />straightjacketed in the padded room,<br />through consultations, medications,</div><div>group and art therapies,<br />to here, where it's clear beyond the institution<br />there lies an outside<br />even if some grills, code-locks,<br />and surprisingly muscular psychiatric nurses<br />away; and <b>maybe now is a day to reconsider assumptions</b><br />because it's surprisingly hard to tell what's real;<br />what's not; and what, although illusionary, conceals<br />some aspect of a truth. Like the penguins.<br />Who would have thought<br />there were do-gooder nuns<br />behind the feathers and fish obsession. And that they<br />would be the solution, to the sedatives problem.<br /><b>Maybe I should stop<br />reading the magazines?</b> But look, see<br />here's an article by someone like me,</div><div>only fitter and more sexy, saying that he<br />solved this very problem with one simple trick.<br />That's slick. I most try it with Dr Andrews.<br />I'll let you know how it goes... <b>except...</b><br /><b>maybe </b><b>I will stop writing this blog:</b><br /><i>You should stop taking the medication </i>- says one comment, and<br /><i>Ignore that, he's a liar!</i> Says the next...<br />and having contradictions laid out in text<br />is strangely unhelpful. Has the first guy spoken to any penguins?<br />Does the second know the woman beneath the grate?<br />Or Dr Andrews? Is either closer to a date<br />when an orderly will key a code<br />and open that final grate<br />to the brightness of the lobby,<br />the heady freedom of the carpark, beyond.<br /><b>Has either of them stopped taking the pills?<br /></b><br /><br /><br /><br />--</div><div><p>Disclaimer - I've never been in a psychiatric institution, but I have watched Season 6 of <i>House MD</i>.<br /><br />And seriously this isn't about mental health, but more about our general impressions of reality and truth, and where we find them, the choices we make, what sources of "truth" we subscribe to...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-9608254471195012682021-04-22T11:23:00.002+01:002021-04-22T11:25:45.832+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - XIII - h3reǵ<p> <a href="https://scontent-lhr8-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.6435-9/56905111_2294991194123097_2181485224750219264_n.jpg?_nc_cat=108&ccb=1-3&_nc_sid=0debeb&_nc_ohc=tptyujAw10YAX-4rHqD&_nc_ht=scontent-lhr8-1.xx&oh=df650a0f7adeb17bac7f4b484b2d2578&oe=6094848C" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="800" height="331" src="https://scontent-lhr8-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.6435-9/56905111_2294991194123097_2181485224750219264_n.jpg?_nc_cat=108&ccb=1-3&_nc_sid=0debeb&_nc_ohc=tptyujAw10YAX-4rHqD&_nc_ht=scontent-lhr8-1.xx&oh=df650a0f7adeb17bac7f4b484b2d2578&oe=6094848C" width="400" /></a></p><br /> <p></p><u>h<span style="font-size: xx-small;">3</span>reǵ</u><div><br /></div><div>It is true that he should not be called<br />the king's wife,<br />but he should register a register shelf<br />- to obtain or adjust a shelf<br />[see this, please edit]<br /><br />when he flows<br />(or shelves on shelves (rules))<br />in magazines<br />where the area is the usual register property,<br />so royal to rule in this way<br /><br />- he is called Ryan Rex, a state.<br /><br /><br /><br />--<br /><br />Explanation, I tried to make a little story using the English and non-English words in the diagram, then I passed it through Google translate a dozen times...</div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-10754368632364307542021-04-22T10:05:00.002+01:002021-04-22T10:05:19.295+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - XII - New, improved model army<p> <u>New, improved model army</u></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Infantry Drill Regulations</b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">This manual covers a wide range of basic standards for the infantry. Topics covered include: Orders, commands, and signals. Combat leadership. Combat reconnaissance. Fire superiority. Deployment for attack. Advancing the attack. The fire attack. The charge. Pursuit. Attack of fortifications. Holding attack. Defensive positions and entrenchments. Deployment for defense. Defensive counterattack. Delaying action. Machine guns. Ammunition supply. Mounted scouts. Night operations. Infantry against Cavalry. Artillery supports. Entrenchments. Patrols. Marches. Training and discipline. Protection of the march. Camp sanitation. Protection of camp or bivouac. Ceremonies and inspections. Honors and salutes. Bugle calls. Bugle call music notations. Bayonet usage.</span></p></blockquote><p dir="ltr">never been in a trench under bombardment,<br />never fought a land war in Asia (tm), but have<br />encountered<br />manuals<br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p>Over 1000 manuals were produced during the 14-18 war.</p></blockquote></blockquote><p>the moment<br />out in the forward trenches<br />when the instruction book arrives<br />and the Captain thinks he'll find out<br />what he's doing</p><blockquote style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;">Finally! The updated manual,<br />could have done with this last week,<br />when Anderson's squad got caught out on the wire,<br />but now I've got the actual pages<br />here in my dugout and I'll read<br />it if the artillery barrage eases up<br />a little<br /><i>Sergeant! Stop blubbering man! Try to keep quiet while I read...<br /></i>Now let's see, is there anything about<br />drowning in mud<br />or when all the medical staff have dysentery?<br />No... Well what is in here?<br />What's this: "Threat from Machine Guns", let's see?<br /><i>Fuck. What--</i></blockquote><p>the authority figure Captain<br />so the other authorities like to think<br />secretly missing his Mum<br />and publicly sinks as far into the quag<br />stinks as badly in the latrines</p><blockquote style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 9em;"><i>No nothing sergeant, just thinking out loud.<br />I am sure it won't apply to us...<br /></i>I wonder if they have a chapter<br />on maintaining the will to live?<br />On remembering what was the point?</blockquote>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-81273303164419604432021-04-18T12:39:00.002+01:002021-04-18T12:40:02.420+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - XI - An ontology of everything (excerpt)<p> <u>An ontology of everything (excerpt)</u></p><br />the wind; the wind in rushes; the wind in rushes<br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">at low to moderate speed;</blockquote>the wind; the wind in corn; the wind in corn in fields<br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">where rabbits were born;</blockquote>the wind in burrows; the wind in earth-dug tunnels in general;<br />the wind past irregular entryways, heard from within;<br />similar, but felt; similar, but seen (c.f. leaves; litter);<br />the wind; the wind when breezy;<br />the breeze in willow trees; willow trees in spring;<br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">willow trees in autumn;</blockquote>the breeze across water; the breeze through trees<br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">onto the water; ditto but in reverse;</blockquote>places beside water; docks, boathouses and jetties;<br />the wind on water when it is more than a breeze;<br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">the wind making ripples on water;</blockquote>large bodies of fresh water,<br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">where the wind leaves a long still wavy stripe </blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">along the whole length;</blockquote><div>similar at sunset; similar under moonlight;<br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">or when any sort of light source aligns with the stripe;</div></blockquote><div>subset of this when alone; when in a crowd;<br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">with one person; </div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">with a particular person; </div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">with you.</div></blockquote><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-63876014322925422882021-04-17T16:33:00.002+01:002021-04-17T16:33:31.303+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - X - Dierdre Frank, writing as Bernard Mane...<p><u>Dierdre Frank, writing as Bernard Mane</u></p><div dir="ltr"><u>reviewed by<br /></u><br /><u>Edmund Drake, writing as Elizabeth Loften</u><br /><br /><br /><br />A book-like book of wordy lines I read<br />it on the train in Leicester signalling<br />my great cerebral worthiness to all<br />newspaper readers in my view. I will review</div><div dir="ltr">this for the TLS because I know<br />it's a pseudonym of the Prof who supervised<br />my Ph.D. and he will broadly blow<br />his gasket the moment that he reads<br />the words I'll write.<br /></div><div dir="ltr">I have already listed certain phrases<br />not damning in themselves but from which<br />certain words -- "commonplace", "quotidian" -- will jam<br />right in his unswallowable craw, or more like<br />caltrops beneath his -- there's another<br />"pedestrian"...<br /><br />...but really this is wasted effort here<br />spending my time to damn a new-wrought book<br />which before I pick it up already spends<br />longer on<br /><br />"About the typeface"<br /><br />than on<br />the author's<br />bio. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-84674473503642219062021-04-16T12:00:00.000+01:002021-04-16T12:00:03.799+01:00NoPoWriMo - 2021 - IX - Reasons not to kill everything...<p><u style="color: #1c1e21; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Reasons not to kill everything...</u></p><div><span style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><u><br /></u></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><u><br /></u></span></span></div><span face="Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There have been mass extinctions before. They're not even that rare: moments in the fossil record where everything disappears, one Friday afternoon, and mostly never comes back. And yet here we are. Living. So life may not be that easy to kill. It may not even lie within our power, not a thing we can actually do: to crash the world so hard not even bacteria in the bedrock survive. Which is not to say we can't lose everything we care about: elephants and parrots and squid; not to say it cannot only be in one billion years, when the bedrock bacteria finally invent palaeontology, that they look at our particular stratum and say "Bloody hell! That was a harsh one..."
</span>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-85747896728581655092021-04-14T14:34:00.006+01:002021-04-14T14:34:47.202+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - VII - The fog being what it is...<u>The fog being what it is...</u><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>...the bellman comes and tolls his bell.<br />His creaks tread up the outside stairs.<br />The last few drunks lurch up from chairs<br />and stumble off to bunks and lashings<br />of blustery words from bosun's lips<br />on ships which may not sail in the morning<br />the fog being what it is.<div><br /></div><div>Between the chimes the sailors' feet<br />are fading flatly down the street<br />as the bellman tolls his mournful bell<br />but whether to summon or to dispel<br />some troubled spirit of mists and seas<br />is quite beyond my power to tell<br />the fog being what it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>I too had better rise and leave.<br />My tiny garret coldly waits<br />and I have tangled threads to weave<br />into tattered nets by the whale-oil's flicker<br />which only I shall light in my window --<br />but first I'll walk the bellman to the dock<br />the fog being what it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>We walk in silent whitewashed haze.<br />Familiar streets are strangely mazed<br />and the fog-horn shudders the vapour<br />wound around the cast-iron lamppost<br />and if neither of us tells a ghost story<br />it is only because we are living one<br />the fog being what it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>And see we've come down to the dock.<br />A fresher onshore breeze here blowing<br />vessels that rock and creak on dark water,<br />the bellman turns towards his light<br />and I ought to turn for home, except for<br />my empty window where the white sheets curl<br />the fog being what it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fog vapours and the mists compete<br />to drive me from the sodden town<br />drag me along the strip of salt-wet concrete,<br />bollards, mouldering rope, and ships<br />where a man can put his name down for the tropics<br />—tell the bellman he can have my nets—<br />the fog being what it is.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-87462131955443609162021-04-13T15:37:00.000+01:002021-04-13T15:37:26.714+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - VI - Artifice<p> <u>Artifice</u></p><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"According to our view,<br />the creation of a genuine evolutionary artificial artist<br />requires the development<br />of an Artificial Art Critic" --<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i style="text-align: left;">Adaptive Critics for Evolutionary Artists </i><span style="text-align: left;">--<br /></span><span style="text-align: left;">Penousal Machado, Juan Romero, María Luisa Santos,<br />Amílcar Cardoso, Bill Manaris</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This piece is quite, quite exquisite<br />in its notion of being without <i>a being</i><br />a sense of moments recorded<br />from a life or otherwise but recording<br />all the same with its implication of recorder<br />and medium and the conscious or unconscious<br />(peri-conscious, if you will) selection<br />from a greater whole and even the sly suggestion<br />of an audience, while at the same time<br />those elements explicitly omitted<br />from the framing and presentation. Delightful<br />and I would certainly <%= adjective_clause(choose_recommend, "gush") %><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-81236263486641484552021-04-12T15:05:00.002+01:002021-04-13T15:37:40.419+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - V - Environmental factors<p> <u>Environmental factors</u></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Terroir</b> (French pronunciation: [tɛʁwaʁ] from terre, "land") is the set of all</i></div><i><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="_Tgc">environmental factors that affect a crop's epigenetic qualities, when the crop</span></i></div><span class="_Tgc"><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="_Tgc">is grown in a specific habitat. Collectively, these environmental characteristics</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="_Tgc">are said to have a character; <b>terroir</b> also refers to this character.</span></i></div></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc">-- Wikipedia</span></div><div><br /><br />The metal mesh waste bin on Creely <span class="_Tgc">Street</span></div><div><span class="_Tgc">has overflowed, some years ago<br /></span><span class="_Tgc">and the spill of fast food cartons, papers, napkins,<br />bones, expectorated gristle, apple cores, newspapers, cigarette butts,<br />small plastic bags from shops around the corner,<br />drinks cans; weird plastic/paper coffee cups<br />and pointless wooden stirrers for the same<br />has formed a mound, here in the angle<br />between the bench and the </span>raised<br />civic flower planter</div><div>of contaminated earth<br /><br />--and time has gone to work:<br />bleached then mulched the paper down,<br />drifted dust and grit and tiny specks of earth<br />around and into all the hollow places<br />in the pile, deposited spores and other replicators<br />--bacteria, fungi, moss and lichens moving in--</div><div>to do their thing<br />with the fundamental building blocks of life,<br />until now<br />this morning for the first time<br />a shoot, a tiny leaf.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-74239997830951967042021-04-12T10:08:00.004+01:002021-04-12T20:12:30.292+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - IV - Fifty<p><u>Fifty</u></p><br /><br /><b>Fifty </b>shades of electric diamanté<br /><b>Forty-nine </b>velleities, in Thursday yellow cloud windowscape<br /><b>Forty-eight </b>multiples of zero, of naught, of nothing to see here, beyond the naked woman<br /><b>Forty-seven </b>scares of depleted Uranium nerve-agent contrail bliss<br /><b>Forty-six </b>postcards from Europa, come in, the methane's lovely<br /><b>Forty-five </b>unique ideas you've somehow heard before<br /><b>Forty-four </b>of this<br /><b>Forty-three </b>pages of advanced technological lifestyle enhancement<br /><b>Forty-two </b>answers, we need more answers<br /><b>Forty-one </b>disease vector asymptomatic typhoid Mary Christmas<br /><b>Forty </b>nights in the some other wilderness than this<br /><b>Thirty-nine </b>degrees of freedom<br /><b>Thirty-eight </b>degrees of Canadian bacon<br /><b>Thirty-seven </b>openly prime numbers<br /><b>Thirty-six </b>sets of thirty-six six-sided dice<br /><b>Thirty-five </b>brand new ways to stay post-apocalyptically alive<br /><b>Thirty-four </b>seconds, and counting<br /><b>Thirty-three </b>revolutions<br /><b>Thirty-two </b>nice round powers of two, for that one computer in your life<br /><b>Thirty-one </b>genders, plus or minus one<br /><b>Thirty </b>something comedy drama<br /><b>Twenty-nine </b>pots of kalamata olives, with garlic and sage<br /><b>Twenty-eight </b>years in a state of mind that's not Tibet<br /><b>Twenty-seven </b>games for one to three players<br /><b>Twenty-six </b>player pianos, fighting in a basement<br /><b>Twenty-five </b>gold rings<br /><b>Twenty-four </b>paths from your door to certain or uncertain doom<br /><b>Twenty-three </b>shades of tortured innocence<br /><b>Twenty-two </b>shades of Berger Eggshell Silk<br /><b>Twenty-one </b>resistance organisations, that don't add up to one opposing force<br /><b>Twenty </b>days of rain, low cloud obsessive<br /><b>Nineteen </b>again, if youth isn't pointless now<br /><b>Eighteen </b>and never been beaten with rubber truncheons, but there's time<br /><b>Seventeen </b>percent, of people who expressed a preference, said...<br /><b>Sixteen </b>seconds and counting<br /><b>Fifteen </b>young men playing a game with oddly shaped balls<br /><b>Fourteen </b>memories of things that never were and mother's madeleines<br /><b>Thirteen </b>crows, black cats, ladders and horseshoes<br /><b>Twelve </b>disciples, one of each and three of some<br /><b>Eleven </b>ways to be yourself, in simple lessons<br /><b>Ten </b>voices arguing on the mission control Tannoy<br /><b>Nine </b>to form a fellowship and ring round everyone they know<br /><b>Eight </b>exquisite fetishes we cannot quite admit to yet<br /><b>Seven </b>percent solution and Holmes understanding far too well, when it's<br /><b>Six </b>seconds and counting<br /><b>Five </b>for the symbols on your control interface<br /><b>Four </b>Kelvin and stable for a while<br /><b>Three </b>musketeers, all for one and one four seven point six oh nine<br /><b>Two </b>seconds and counting<br /><b>One </b>and only one and that's not you<br /><b>Zero... </b>where we've been going all along.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-21990725986171740742021-04-11T15:19:00.002+01:002023-05-16T15:24:52.530+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - III - A brief future history of dooms ironically unforetold<p><u>A brief future history of dooms ironically unforetold</u></p><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;">"I was from my mother's womb / Untimely ripped"</div><p></p><p style="text-align: right;">-- Macduff to Macbeth,<br />immediately before killing him.</p><p style="text-align: center;">"I am no man!"</p><p style="text-align: right;">-- Eowin to the Witch King of Angmar,<br />immediately before killing him.</p><p><br /></p><p>And this is why we have not faith<br />in prophesy or prophets, mystic devices,<br />special pools of water lost in buried caves.<br />We do not stare into the waves<br />of quantum bollocks yet-to-be.<br />I don't listen to you. You should not listen to me<br /><br />because it isn't that prophecy lies<br />although the powers know it's false it's true<br />and ambiguous beyond all that, no<br />the problem is that prophecy has to go<br />into the future of a whole world<br />and that's so unwieldy and complex<br /><br />not to mention rich with things undreamed<br />in any philosophy you understand<br />or care to name but beyond all that,<br />I shall win this game and soon:<br />I am an gender-swappable, polymorphic, weapons delivery framework,<br />and this is a banana;<br /><br />prepare to die!<br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-32397652302890375262021-04-02T22:39:00.002+01:002021-04-02T22:39:22.492+01:00NaPoWriMo - 2021 - I - Across the Universe<p> <u>Across the Universe</u></p><br /><br />"Even light, which travels so fast that it takes most races thousands of years to realise that it travels at all, takes time to journey between the stars." -- Douglas Adams<div><br /></div><div>And you should take the time<br />to travel, really travel I mean<br />not just down the road to the chemist<br />but look at the light,<br />the light! Tunnelling</div><div>through the black, so fast<br />that it has no time in which to travel<br />no time to experience the journey<br />no time at all<br />as it hurtles through the frozen universe<br />because the speed of light<br />which can be considered the rate of propagation of events<br />the rate at which the Universe Itself (tm)<br />carries information from place to place<br />the rate of recalculation<br />underpinning everything<br />but look at the light<br />watch it set off on a journey of a billion years<br />not fearing the reaper<br />or anything at all<br />light<br />born at the wall<br />at the edge of what is possible.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2252707935851440251.post-2370378032788555912021-03-05T11:47:00.000+00:002021-03-05T11:47:06.007+00:00We singing the body eclectic<div>Hallam has released videos for three of our songs now, so I think it is past time for me to start curating a playlist of them...</div><br /><hr /><br />
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/videoseries?list=PLhJWIs18UOUgAaSsGqWjIVyV-GGVCjvIU" width="560"></iframe><br /><br /><hr /><br /><div>In here we already have:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Walking to Alpha Centauri</b> - in which our hero, having given up their humanity in the cause of an epic mission, begins to doubt...<br /><br /><b>On End Times Boulevard</b> - being a rumination on the end of the Universe and the possibility of running into an old flame there...<br /><br /><b>Soap Bubble</b> - a poem about climate change and other economic-style bubbles we have built our fragile civilisation on...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Ian Badcoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17879338128615763148noreply@blogger.com0