March 26, 2007

the off-beat has started

Tony O’Neill

Peter Wild

Chris Major

Sean McGahey

Hello WWW – This is a truly amazing issue of Savage Manners!! I’m humbled by the quality of poetry and fiction that’s on your screen!! It’s amazing that regardless of influence, background, or past literary clashes – We all want to tell it as it is!!  



PAUSE ~ Chris Major

March 26, 2007

20 years ago,
Mr popular all ‘A’ s,
football and rugby stalwart,
tests easily passed:
maths, physics, biology,
Occasionally seen leaning
on his dead mum’s
walking frame,
a rigid rudder
steadying drunken lurches
to the ‘offy’ and back,
the pathetic text
of an unlucky life,
yellow highlighted
by liver damage.
today at his flat,
a 6 week screen saver
of clouds and sky,
was finally broken
by the movement
of police and paramedics……

I was down vuh canal on mee own. I can’t say as I know why I was on mi own but if I was on mi own it was probly cos Noo-Noo’s dad was playing up and locking Noo-Noo in her room again which is wot he did most of vuh time cos he was mental and muslim and all vuh rest of it.

I do know what it was I was doing voh.

I was snipin.

Snipin was one of me most favrit of games. What you did if you was playin snipin was: get down on vuh ground and drag yourself around like as if your legs were dead or gone or summat. Snipin was best after vuh rain had rained cos ven all vuh ground was wet. Snipin was vuh best when you had to snipe froo vuh mud. You knew youd had a good snipe when yr cloves was reekin at vuh end of vuh day. You had to get down on vuh ground and narrow your eyes and pretend like you had a rifle or some’ing and you were movin to some better vantage point cos you had to tek someone out. When I say tek someone out I mean killem. Snipin was all about killin. 

So. I was snipin. I was up on vee embankment and I was eyeing vuh canal vis way and vat way when I saw vuh fumb making his way down vuh path tward me. Vuh fumb was a sad looking cunt, no mistake. He lookt old to me and he walkt like he was carryin vuh wait ov vuh world on his back. I dint fink all vat much of him. I lookt at him and I fought about whevver he could be mi target or not – mi snipin target, I mean – but vat was all. I was finking about what I was doing and so I dint fink too much about vuh fumb, leastways till he dropped down onto his knees in front of vuh shit tree. He dropt down to his knees, right – and I tell you I can see vis clear as day – shit squeezed out from under his knees the way toofpaste squeezes out the end of vuh toof paste choob. But the shit dint seem to bovver him or anyfin.

Stopt me in my tracks voh, I’ll tell you. You dont see someone drop to veir knees in a pile ov shit every day now, do you? I forgot snipin quicksmart. I forgot snipin an I was all eyes. Vis next bit, fink of me like I was a big, bulgin eye. No arms or legs and no head and no nuffin. Just a eye watchin a fumb. Okay?

Vuh fumb reached into his pocket and took out a piece of wood about so big by so big. Vee eye vat I was fought ay up. What’s he gonna do wiv a piece of wood? What he did was vis: he unfolded a knife – and duh knife was about vuh same lenf as duh piece of wood which I now understood to be vuh handle of duh knife. Vuh fumb took duh knife and he started sticking it in vuh trunk of vuh shit tree. It was well psycho. He was stickin duh knife in vuh tree like vuh tree was someone vat he really fuckin hated bad. Was well weird. Dint end vere voh. Soon as he was finished stickin duh knife in, he let his hand fall and he let duh knife go, duh way you would if youd just forgotten what it was you were doin. Duh knife dropt to vuh ground just behind him but he dint even look at it. He had his hands up, both of em, and vey were checking out vee hole what heed made in vuh shit tree. Was ven vat I started feelin all sortof proprietorial tward vuh shit tree cos – I fought ven – who was vis fucker comin along and stickin his knife in our shit tree?

I dint get too far wiv vat fought cos den he did what I fought was vuh weirdest fing yet: vuh fumb put his mouf to vee hole in vuh shit tree. Vere I  was, lyin vere up on vee embankment watchin vis dolly cunt stab vuh shit tree an make an nole and ven he put his mouf to vee ole and I tell you I dint know what vuh fuck to make of it, I dint honestly. For a minute I fought he was eating duh bark and ven I fought maybe he ‘d made a mouth in vuh trunk wiv his knife sose he could kiss vuh tree and ven I just stared wiv mi mouf open and mi eyes wide cos I dint get it, I just dint get it at all. Vuh fumb had his mouf up against vuh tree and his eyes closed and he held vuh trunk duh way youd hold up a trophy if you was a football champion or somefin. He stayed like vat voh, on his knees wiv his mouf pressed up against vee hole heed made for about five minutes. I cunt take mi eyes offof him. I cunt, honest. Vere came a point voh when he lowered one of his hands into vuh shit at duh foot ov vuh tree and he plunged his hand in and took up a good handful of vuh wet dog shit and – for one horrible fuckin minute I fought he was gonna smear it over his face or eat it or somefin. But he dint. He had vis handful of wet dogshit and he brought it up to dee hole an at vuh last minute he jerked his head away and filled vee hole wiv vuh shit. He held vee hand vat ‘d brought vuh shit up over vee hole and he lowered his uvver hand and plunged vat in shit and he brought up annuva handful of shit and he plastered vat over vee hole and he lowered his first hand again back into vuh shit and so it went on until heed got shit all over vuh trunk of vuh tree and all over his hands and all over his coat and his trousers and his face. Vuh fumb was totally covered in shit. Was fuckin horrible.

When vee hole was covered, voh, vuh fumb – who looked a sight by vis point – got to his feet some’ow and sortof drunkenly wandered off. He looked like mi dad after mi dad ‘d had a night on vuh sauce.

And me? I just lay vere watching him go, wonderin what duh fuck it was I’d just caught an eye full of.

four years
three months
a handful of grey hairs
and you are still dead

two wars
one president
(still hanging on)
one word
became ten thousand
ten thousand one hundred thousand
one hundred thousand
too many to count
and you are still dead

a child was born
learned to sit, crawl, walk,
call me daddy, her eyes and
shining dark hair an eerie echo:

her penchant for pranks
laughter and mischief
an inheritance of her mothers
her brooding silences
and volcanic rages
a bequeathment of my own

all of this, and more
has staked its claim on the world
and you are still dead

the short stop
the three of clubs
jumbos clown room

the gold room
the burgundy room
all are still standing
in Echo Park and Hollywood
it is business as usual
while you are still dead

the men who sell cocaine
heroin and pills
are still selling to others
the economy of poetry

the cocaine is still wonderful
the heroin exquisite
the pills still a shortcut
to enlightenment
and intimacy
but you
you are still dead

the girls we knew then
some now must have husbands
or children and houses
or maybe they’ve gone mad

or pole dance or turn tricks
or remain in the same place
and right now as I write this
are loaded and talking
with machine gun tongues
and far-away eyes

not thinking of how
your touch was once alive
and their skin was your playground
your personal property

all traces of you gone from them
dripped out of them
wiped away
their holes filled with new cocks
and new tongues and fingers
while you
you, you
are still dead

I thought of you last night
fitfully, 1am
of how nothing remains
of the person I knew
except bones (interred in Cambodia)
an email address (obsolete)
and a handful of pictures
which grow older each day

it hurts to see you
once so alive and so real
reduced to an idea
fuzzy, indistinct
like Elvis or God
an abstraction, a mirage

how strange
that these words
that I write for pleasure
or penance
are my only way
of enjoying your company now

four years
three months
a handful of grey hairs
and you
my friend
are still dead

The UK is currently suffering from a new outbreak
Of “bullshitness” in the form of cheap sex books.

Details below:

BOOK(0-12)ass and Cunt,ss———-cliquewankerism
increased by approximately 16% after co-administration of cheap sex books ( Study 1011)
This level of interaction is not considered to be clinically significant.
However, in a few subjects, severe nausea and vomiting
were observed when the cheap/dirty/ beat sex books were given simultaneously,
but this did not recur when the dirtywanker#01 dose was given 1 hour before administration of a good beating..

News Flash

March 20, 2007


The magnificent return of Scarecrow.

peter wild

Peter Wild ~ The Independent

>The doctor prescribes you an
anti-idiosyncrasy pill
which will leave your face with
a nonsensical looking grin.
>The second stage of the
pugnacious word virus numbs
your lips and narrows your eyes.

The militant microorganism
Minimizing your mind to
The size of a pea!
You’ll mimic society
You’ll fit right in
Middling new life style
Passable new friends
With mercenary plans
Of stealing your melancholy
Ideas of happiness

Part 1 Vere ‘s zis tree down by vuh canal and vuh tree was full of shit. When I say shit I don’t mean actual shit I mean shit what people ‘d froan away. Shit like irons and kettles vat dint work no more. Shit like fuckin bubble wrap and what do you call it, polyfene. Vere were vese long polyfene choobs sortof hanging over some of vuh lower branches. Noo-Noo said dey lookt like elbow length gloves left behind after some swanky party or summat but I fought vey lookt more like arms what had been chopped off. Someone had even tossed an old bike frame into vuh tree and from where weed sit you’d fink vuh bike ‘d burrowed its way in, deep.  

Vere ‘s other shit too, shit I dint see at first, shit what Noo-Noo had to point out to me. Vuh bloody mice frinstance. Not vat vere were bloody mice in vuh tree. Bloody mice is just what Noo-Noo called em. Vere were bits of cotton with tails, bits of cotton what had been soaked in blood, lookt like. When youd seen em once you cunt miss em. Noo-Noo said vat vuh bloody mice lived inside of my mum and my mum flung em out once a month and veyd all scurry down to vuh shit tree cos vey were glad to be out of my mum but Ide just tell her to shut up. Shut up Noo-Noo, Ide say. Vat usually did vuh trick.  Anuvva why vuh shit tree was callt vuh shit tree – all vuh dogs vat get walked down by vuh canal liked to do veir business in among vee exposed roots at vuh foot of vuh shit tree. Noo-Noo reckoned dat it wus duh smell. Vuh shit tree stunk. Noo-Noo reckoned vat duh dogs got a whiff of vuh shit tree and nen ney cunt help emselves, dey had to go. And – dis is Noo-Noo as well – cos dogs are essentially clean and decent and polite creatures, dey go where duh other dogs have been so as not to make vuh mess any worse. If people were like dogs, Noo-Noo ‘d say some’imes when she ‘s off on one, dee whole world would be a much better place.  

Vuh shit tree really did smell bad. It want just vuh shit. Vere ‘s another smell underneath vuh shit. Sometimes I used to fink it ‘s vuh bloody mice mixing with vuh shit but uvver times I fought it were somefin else. Vuh smell was so bad. Like a fire. You know when you walk twards a fire and you can only get so close cos of vuh heat and vuh smoke and you have to lift your arm up and cover your eyes to stop vuh fire and vuh smoke from making you sick or burning your eyebrows off or somefin. Vuh shit tree was a bit like nat. All vose people walking veir dogs had to stand off by vee edge of vuh canal while vuh dogs did veir business. Even me and Noo-Noo cunt get close. Whenever we tried we always had to stop cos vuh smell made us wanna gip.  Even saying everyfin what Ive said voh I still fought vat vuh shit tree was sort of magical. I know how gay vat sounds. But. So many days vat summer before vuh last year of school me and Noo-Noo and sometimes Scarfy and Doughnut but mostly me and Noo-Noo played down by vuh canal and whatever we were doing vere were always times when Ide look down at vuh tree from up on vee embankment and see vuh shit tree for what it really was. What it really was was magic. Me and Noo-Noo ‘d sit vere an squint an say what we could see like in vat quiz show mi gran liked to watch. Ide squint and say summat like about how vuh bloody mice were in fact candles, candles like what youd find on vuh King of Noway’s Christmas tree. An Noo-Noo ‘d squint and say vat vuh polyfene choobs were like some kind of alien tinsel. Or duh bubble wrap was angel hair. Or vuh bike was a sort of clunky, mechanical Father Christmas. Weed go on for hours some’imes. If we stayed late enough, vuh cars from duh motorway gave us fairy lights. Its probably hard for you to see or even fink about but vere were definitely times when vuh shit tree was beautiful. Beautiful and magic.  

And we weren’t alone in finking what we fought.  Apart from duh people who walked veir dogs we dint really see anyone else down vuh canal. Vat was one of vuh reasons why it was so great down dere. Was our kingdom. Me and Noo-Noo were vuh King and Queen of vuh Canal. We did what we liked and want no-one around to say oy or stop it or leave off or anyfin. We did as we liked. Even after duh summer was over if we bunked offof school we’d be down vuh canal fucking about. Vuh canal was like our second home or summat. Was a place we could go to to get away from whatever else was happening. Cos it was just duh two of us voh or vuh free of us sometimes if Scarfy was along or vuh four of us if duh Doughnut man was around and cos we knew vuh lay of vuh land anyone else who loitered stuck out like what mi mam would call a sore fumb.  

Which is why, when we started seeing sore fumbs all vuh time, it became like vuh most important fing vat had ever happened in vuh history of time. I say vuh most important fing. We’re pretty stupid, me and Noo-Noo. We’re pretty stupid cos it took us ages to do vuh maths. You know what I mean when I say vuh maths dont you? Two an two an two an two. Stuff you add up to work summat owt. When I say it took me an Noo-Noo ages to do vuh maths I mean vat it took us ages to put everyfin togevver. We started seeing sore fumbs every day. We’d be in vuh middle of some’ing and Noo-Noo’d say, Fumb. She’d say Fumb, I’d say Where? and she’d say Vere! like as if I was stupid. Or sometimes I’d say Fumb and she’d say Where? and I’d say Vere! like as if it was her what was stupid and not me. We took it in turns, mostly. We’d see vuh fumb and we’d stop what we were doing and we’d watch for as long as it took vuh fumb to passus by and ven weed get back to doing what it was weed been doing before vuh fumb came along.  I cant say as why we dint follow any of em. I dont spose we fought vere was anyfin more to it van sore fumbs walking by. We just dint is vee only answer I have to give you.  

Summat happened voh – summat what I’ll tell you about in a minute right, if you just old your horses a bit – and after vuh summat happened, me and Noo-Noo talked about all vuh fumbs and we boaf of us fought vere ‘d been more to vuh fumbs all along, we just dint fink to mention it to one anuvva, you know? After vuh summat happened, it was obvious wot all vuh fumbs were doing. But until vuh summat it want obvious. If you follow me.  Anyway. Vuh summat wot happened was vis:

The Brutalist 

“acte de guerre”

on the mass market
of beat wanna be poets!
They’re gonna fuck about with
Our words &  minds!

Following on from the fucked up weekend ~~is theMundane Monday and the morning after pill…~~Nothing but nothing but nothing around me….~~Spent half an hour staring at some kind of bird on a garage roof~Didn’t find lightenment…~~fucking bored shitless

The Brutalists

March 14, 2007


The Brutalists were formed by writers Tony O’Neill, Adelle Stripe and Ben Myers during the long record-breaking heatwave summer of 2006. All are active members of the literary underground, publishing their work via a plethora of books, anthologies, fanzines, websites, readings and weblogs. They are as influenced by music as they are writers, citing shared (but disparate) influences such as punk and post-punk, Dan Fante, ragga, jazz, Velvet Underground, Billy Childish, Black Flag, Herbert Hunke, Joy Division (and countless others)…Brutalism calls for writing that touches upon levels of raw honesty that is a lacking form most mainstream fiction. We cannot simply sit around waiting to be discovered — we would rather do it ourselves. Total control, total creativity. The Brutalists see ourselves as a band who have put down their instruments and picked up their pens and scalpels instead. The only maxim we adhere to is an old punk belief, which we have bastardised for our own means: Here’s a laptop. Here’s a spell-check. Now write a novel. 

Brutalist writing is open to anyone who shares similar ideas about the role of literature.The debut Brutalist work is Brutalism #1, due for publication Feb/March 2007. It will feature six poems from each writer, each tackling their respective Northern town where they grew up (Blackburn, Durham and Tadcaster respectively).We’re here to take scalps. Adelle Stripe is a performance poet/fiction writer from Tadcaster, UK. Her work has appeared in Full Moon Empty Sports Bag, Laura Hird, 3:AM, Vomit In The Mainstream, Rising Poetry, Scarecrow, and Savage Kick. She edits the definitive Brutalist weblog, Straight From The Fridge and will one day release her secrets to the world in paperback under the banner “Things I Never Told Anyone”. Adelle hopes to retire to the country and become the only female professional rat catcher in the north, sometime before her 35th birthday. 

Ben Myers is a published author and poet. He has published many books including a collection of journalism, a number of biographies and one acclaimed debut novel The Book Of Fuck (Wrecking Ball Press), collectively published in five languages. Ben was born in Durham and currently resides in London, UK. He has been publicly beaten up three times in his adult life. Another three times it was ‘a draw.’ Tony O’Neill is the author of the autobiographical novel Digging The Vein (Contemporary Press/Wrecking Ball Press), the short story collection Seizure Wet Dreams (Social Disease), and an upcoming collection of poetry Songs From The Shooting Gallery (Burning Shore Press). He was born in Blackburn, Lancashire and currently resides in New York City. He is currently hung over and listening to Suicide’s ‘Dream Baby Dream’.