BARDO : A Place Where The Horses Go

Collaboration project with Michael Schnitzer : Coming soon

WWBT TOTE BAGS

New tote bags from WWBT

Loose Talk Costs Lives

Loose Talk Costs Lives

EP Launch

6th December

Brudenall Social Club

Leeds

LISTEN

Man licking a cigarette in regression (The coming into existence of existence and everything around me)

Bus Stop perpetuates man

Man facilitates mouth

Mouth engenders tongue

Tongue constructs lip

Lip manifests hand

Hand creates fingers

Fingers adorn cigarette

Cigarette constructs road

Road provides feet

Feet contain legs

Legs support torso

Torso marries sleeves

Sleeves divorce neck

Neck surprises limbs

Limbs accept October

October builds perspective

Perspective portrays dimensions

Dimensions arouse depth

Depth impose A

A suggests B

B equals thought

Thought massages bus

Bus elicits bus stop

Bus stop perpetuates man.

POEM : The Never Hour

The space in between seven and eight

is loosely held together by artificial light.

The familiar blue prevails over insentience

as the gravitational mass multiplies

at the centre of MacDonalds.

A fellow customer asks if my top lip is real.

Some things never fail to be original,

and some things simply fail.

Too many brooms sweep away an hour that never existed.

A lip embossed on a cheek

A girl adorning the polyester of previous hours

A group incessantly trying to copulate with time and light

produce only an incestuous sunrise

Someone takes a photograph of me

thank you.

Walk home from work 30/10/10

There's talk of Meerkats and naked legs.

A man encased in wood

yells intermittently at the transient crowd

in colloquial chestnuts.

The path is bathed in a teenage downpour on wheels.

The surface is dry

and the windows are dazzling - mini universe.

Eyes flicker as the book stares back with the pretension of a

transfixed horse

constructed from the shoulders of mosquitoes.

I draw on my senses and wonder if awkwardness existed before mammals.

6 o'clock has the feel of tension wrapped in bacon.

These roads are drowsy.

Poem : SSRI

Gravity, gravity, gravity
I love you
because you always
pull me down
you boundless swine of humility
you unfathomable pancake
I swear
that if I did not know you
I would certainly
want to marry you.

Poem : MM

5:45,
and the city is breathing slowly.
The body travels on the mind's parisomony
and buses turn into synapses
slowly turning on the introspcetive lights of neurons
that try ardently to be self aware
of oncoming traffic.

A strange ear drives past
A bell rings

The mechaninc hum of space
A tissue
Soft eye lids.

My teeth feel like expensive fur coats.

Buildings resemble the unfamiliar tusks
of a walrus, resplendent
with a premeture twilight.

The odd eye twitches.

The backs of the seats are
a very charming blue.

The underneath of shadows are
a very charming blue.

The inside of my mouth is
a very charming blue.

Poem : Nomenclature

Nomenclature: the infinite principle perspective that holds the wax of lyrical lampshades that instruct you to look into the shadows of transparency.

Nomenclature: the insects wing that's stapled to the hat which often plagues my shoulder with cold thoughts.

Nomenclature: the burning foot of the elephant, the man who smoked a cigarette and placed his nose on a bloated lemon, made from a million drawn lines.

Nomenclature: the action of creating a seehorse with the head of an envelope.

Nomenclature: Jesus fucking christ! the romantacising of semantics that construct these futile icecreams.

Nomenclature: a universe of nonsense that we categorise in fur, as we slide apathetically down the glass stomach of an angel.

Nomenclature: Barbara Streisand, you are being unreasonable.

Nomenclature: let's get this party started and satiate our hedonistic head-on-shit-stick.

Nomenclature: socks and knees

Nomenclature: sans without sans

Nomenclature: the knife without a shower, the fork without a blade. A chair for the idle.
A means to make my moustache ring.

Nomenclature: a catalyst to make the telephone tickle my lips.

Nomenclature: a circle with squareness. A sparkling contradiction.

Nomenclature: not being able to sleep. Excessive sleepiness.
Numbness,
numbers,
nonchalance.
Keep moving, jewellery box.

Nomenclature: no men can hear,
moment of seeding,
no mention of lecture,
gnome in a reflection,
a Roman clutching his ear.

Nomenclature: The novelty of the theatre with women encircling the churches.
The memory of the acute,
the collapsing cylinder,
the comfort of a clue
and to know the front from the rear.

Nomenclature: what are you doing? your eyes awake for the duvet as the sun buries itself beneath you.

Nomenclature: and there it is, the indefinite principle, the skin that alludes me, the abundance of sardonic circles that resemble their inhibitions when confronted with the flame of the thumb!

Nomenclature: you have become autobiographical without ever raising a dimension of reason.

Rebel : Issue 6

Ventral interview in issue 6 of Californian arts magazine Rebel.

A great arts and music publication.

REBEL

Peripheral Liquid Sumo

Commissioned art works

Poem : Gluten and Mustard

The most ordinary of men

are made entirely out of steps

leading to a concrete singularity

sitting effortlessly out of reach.

We engage in an exchange,

unfathomable faces of Icelandic rooms

and three layers of gravel.

The mindlessness of stars are born into the adoration of the body.

A verbose queen with twice as many noses,

sifts through these failing advances.

The creator laments from an apartment in the trees

as his muscular discs contract

with gravitational shift.

Two moons orbit his jawline.

I don't trust anyone who take out their eyes before laughing.

Poem : Untitled

The thoughts of a battery allude me

metallic intelligence

with intangible indifference.

As the upside down pyramid

floats in the history of heads

the species perpetuates

with apple juice logic.

Poem : Parsimonial pathways

The blind dog

looked at me today

via the eyes of her nose

with orbits of white contemplation

and beautiful mechanisms.

The walls remained untouched,

and her world

perfect.

Poem : Eleve times Eleven

The bee falls into a prism

and reflects the spectrum of the unconscious flower,

a Euclidean flavour of the tongue

that recurs in the eyes of table legs.

The tree collapses into a cube

as we steal a handful of dreaming spheres repeating.

The boy who wishes he was parallel

is held rigid between the concept of breathing.

The pretense of brain cells creates magnificent waves,

leaves twitch like muscles,

before a ravishing complexity of vibrations arrive

and your cheekbones lift.

Wolf Wind

Wolf Wind, the independent publishing collective based in Kent, are now selling Ventral zines through their new refurbished website.

Check out the art work co founders Rob Jones and Phillip Hawkey

WOLF WIND

VENTRAL ZINES

ROOM 9

A selection of Ventral art works in high quality canvas prints are now available at
ROOM 9 ART DEPARTMENT.

To find out more contact them directly at :

Room 9
Gibraltaarstraat 47-1 (geen winkel)
1055 NJ Amsterdam

Telefoonnummer : 020 7791484
BTW : NL1504.29.034.B01
KyK nummer : 34242679

POEM : Dead Dog Floating

The night weighs heavily
like the stomach of a whale.
Undulating gimmicks
wash up onto invisible coast lines
like socks.

My feet are bathed in pretension
and leathery neon lights.

The metallic motion moves loudly through the streets
and exchanges nothing but dry imagination.

Replicating the tree
that's oblivious to it's existence
we fail to construct
incomprehensible staircases
that descend into tropical climates.

I can think of a lot of faces
but not a lot
of what to do with them.

The China man devours me

soft bread

whislt offering me only salty verisimillitude.

Where have the planets gone?

Where are the mountains?

Where are the clouds on which to escape?

Somewhere in the caverns of the mind
the lumionous dog
speaks in burning relics.

POEM : Via the eyes of a bird

The eyes of the bird fold with no sharp corners
and the mind
and the mind
swims like an eel in an empty head.
The nihilism grows
like toenails.
The sky pushes emotions in another direction.
A man with the face of a coin
seeks eloquence in his misfortunes
but inevitably falls into
the mist of a glue stick.
What trends are we following?

The basic concept
of the terrified eagle
is stuck in our throats
the beak of intellignece
is resonating like wheels
on the legs of a tangled shoestring
I am not sad
there is simply smoke in my eyes.

Poor Argus
I can empathise
but the intricacy of a peacocks feather
deserves more light
I rid my nose of all this paper
and smell the lavender.
The person who isn't here
is certainly somewhere else.

There is irony connected to our differences
in the search for equillibrium.

The universe is quite content
in the shell of a tortoise
that is neither thankful nor patient.

The space between your nose and my eye.

The ether simply ripples
like an aimless limb.

Everything else is insignificant.

David Essex

And in this epoch of metaphysical exploration into the borderless space of time and heads, we will all succumb to the intrinsic infinity of David Essex.

Mixed media on canvas.

Poem : Somewhere there is a sofa shaped like discord

The woman's stomach is empty

her cheekbones

squashed

like decaying bovine structures.

Her expression is indifferent,

yet her venetian eyebrows

seem vexed.

There is a spider in the corner of the mouth.

For a time

after we became properly acquainted

I became one of her organs

I was never the organised whole

just a proportion.

Firstly

I rested in her bronchioles

and contributed to her asthma

for a while afterwards

we didn't speak

so I gave her a new t.v.

This became awkward

when the t.v license

fell out of her eye.

One tuesday

I opened her Nucleus Accumbens

and told her a joke

I polished her placebo effect

until she crumbled through the pores of her skin

and I coughed

repeatedly.

Once

after I turned off her nervous system

she appeared to laugh immensely

at the state of the toilet.

We laughed so hard

that I turned partially

into a kidney

I knew that soon

it would all be over.

In the afternoons

motivation almost ceased.

I cooked an omelette

and defrosted the basal ganglia.

Our eye movements slowed

and we thought about existentialism

to the point where

we forgot

most of the facts.

Poem : Perfect Melon Square

Disillusioning as it seems

your presence appears circular

like the charmed particles of purple.

A torrent of synthetics and stars

three holy kings

extracted after boiling point.

Your head

lays burried beneath a sky of tarpaulin

on the cusp of rotting tomatoes.

These onions are often mistaken for constellations.
We resist
both sunshine and soap.

Bananas hang like prayer beads

with rust-coloured mosquito vectors

commonly worshipped in supermarkets.

These trees are unleashed from cars

under the dirt of a thousand Chinese metaphors

entombed in sequence

holding green the powdered roots

of transubstantiation.

As lost
as the unseen hexagrams

of palatial yogurt pots.

The Clinic Presents

Semiotics exhibition in Lewisham, presented by The Clinic.

Big thanks to Sean, Rachel and Sam for having us down.

New Collages

NEW COLLAGES

The Bullshit Mechanism