the grind issue ii

7/14/2019 The Grind Issue II

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WELCOME TO THE GRIND

Since our inception in October 2013 I have been asked by many people what exactly The Grindis. I would give the stock answer were a journal of ction and visual art for artists in Scotlandand the Scottish diaspora, to which the usual response was why?

A very good question for which I had no good answer until our launch night in December 2013in Glasgow. At the launch I met one of the poets we were planning on publishing in our inau -gural edition. We chatted about literature, the bands playing on stage, the journal and so on. Wethen broached the topic of how we had put The Grind together; on obsolete laptops, 30-day tri -als of InDesign, through late nights and excessive working hours. I chatted to the poet amiablyfor some time before we parted company.

That night at home I received an email from him requesting that his name and his poetry beremoved from the journal. Aghast, I agreed to do ask he wished, but also asked what promptedthis action. He told me that he did not believe that people who work full time should be under-taking creative endeavours such as The Grind. Before he had seen the rst issue he decided thatbeing associated with us would damage his reputation; that there was no way we could possiblydo his work justice. I removed his poetry from the j ournal and went to bed.

It was at this point, months into the process of launching our publication, that I realised whyThe Grind exists.

We are here for the kind of people who work unmanageable hours in jobs they despise for wag-es that keep them hungry.

We are here for the kind of people who use their Masters degrees and PhDs to clean piss off oftoilet seats; the kind of people who cannot afford to dedicate their lives to the pursuit of art atthe expense of all else.

Were here for the kind of people who will sacrice all else for the pursuit of their art.Passionate people. People like us.

Were not here to support the kind of people who tells others they cannot write, draw, paint,shoot or create because they have to work at the same time. That is an intolerab le and myopic

view of the arts that we refuse to subscribe to. Were here to give people a voice and a platformthat they may not have had before. Were here to collaborate and bring people together, avoidingthe schiamachy and cliques that plague the arts. We just want to help people get the recognitionthey deserve.

The working world in the 21st Century is a cruel, unforgiving place. It gobbles up time and youth,infantilises people, turns creative minds to mush. You work more so you have more money so

you can work less so you can focus on art which costs money so you work more. It never ends.It never will. All you can do is try your best and hope beyond hope that amidst the avalancheof responsibility and minimum wage you nd something you can hold on to, something thatmakes you happy. We want to help you get that thing that makes you happy to as many people

as possible.

Fumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchenPour myself a cup of ambition and

Yawn and stretch and my life is a mess andIf I never make it home today, God bless.

Aesop Rock (channeling Dolly Parton) 9 to 5ers Anthem


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CONTENTS

Richard Martin - Visual ArtRoy Moller - Poetry

Aimee Fox - PhotographyEva Abercrombie - Visual ArtBecky Catterson - Visual ArtPaul Docherty - PoetryCate Inglis - Visual ArtDeclan Malone - Visual ArtMichael Morrison - Flash Fiction

Alishia Farnan - PhotographySam Kolinsky - PoetryMarina Tselepi - PhotographyIain McCall - Visual ArtJames Duffy - PoetryCraig Scott - PoetryTracy Ryan - Illustration

Ben McAteer - IllustrationKim Campell - Visual ArtThomas Clark - PoetryMichael McCann - PhotographyEmi James - Flash FictionLiam Dunn - IllustrationJim Ferguson - PoetryStewart Craig - PhotographyCamila Cavalcante Pereira - PhotographyNatalie Stypa - PoetryCharis Edward Wells - PhotographyCaitlin Higgins - PhotographyCraig Thomson - IllustrationRobert Sanders - Flash FictionRonnie Macintosh - PoetrySu Grierson - PhotographyKat Gollock - PhotographySophie Wills - PhotographyMorgan Downie - Illustration and poetry

ank you to our contributors, our readers, and our constant supporters.

ated and designed by Gordon Johnstone and Declan Malone.ver by Cate Inglis

itter: @thegrindjournalcebook: facebook.com/thegrindjournalw.the-grind.co.uk

Issue II

For Scotland


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Fiy yards rom flat Cly

a hyper squirrel dabetween a parked black cort

o City Council reuse bi

Trough river air, aviaries ras last reverberations

rom the Christ Apostolic Chur

and then, at mid-day, nothing st

Shipyard cranes are pinc

o a pink crab turned turConstruction cranes in mid-sal

are abandoned by their arm

Some vessel must have screwed awtoday, cleared the quaysi

le us wasted in its washipped out o seroton

ROY MOLLE

(ABOVE AND BELOW LEF

(SHIPPED OUT GLASGO

RICHARD MARTIN

(LEFT)


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te blanking/ nouveau people/Cronyism Place /clothes city cringe/ Tis high in big entire horrible ground o over-cov-d chic go expenses time/ Its unstable deal reinvention/ Te Glasgow you junkie about bloated /new-aced, much-weighedsgow borderline/ Style alcoholics/birthright catastrophic/ plastic and high bag architecture lie/ confident shit, the

de-himsel image/the merchant is ragged/ sold pinnacle city/social councils yuppie haul her inclusion/ratty Style Glas-w/ in dumping days negative calamity/everything money/ wrong bumbled city destroying o colour /ashion in banging/I dey bestial lording/the apologists or everything o the other/New real-lie urban/skin a social hell crime/gaunt de-

e living/accept reashioning/increased to durable motis city/ industrial worst/gone common galore/ephemeral clean.

AMIEE FO

(BELOW

UT ACROSS GLASGOW)


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EVA ABERCROMBI(BELO


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BECKY CATTERSON(BELOW LEF


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Hal the tenement clawed down,

three living room walls loom overthe rubble and stoor;

gold flock

over orange swirlover green bamboo.

Once private backdrops to huddled amily

welcomes and alling outs, now insideout and peppered with drizzle

and dust.

A central bright patch marksa missing mirror, the aces and their reflections

packed away in newsprint.

Tree gaping black hearths wheezeevening air, ungrateul

or their liberation

rom wally dugs,amily photos

and hopeul Christmas stockings.

A wee calendar hangs squintover the fireplace on the green bamboo.

wo West Highland erriersand a tartan ribbon guard the last fluttering page.December. Hal the days stroked off in blue biro.

Te pen is gone,and the careul hand that raised it

now hangs January in a sheltered flat,

or presses pale against hospital sheets.I shrug against the north

And preer instead the thought

that in sunshine it touchesthe tousled hair

o a Melbourne grandchild.

PAUL DOCHERTY(TENEMENT - SOLWAY STREET, GLASGOW 1973)

CATE INGLI(BELO


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DECLAN MALON(BELO


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MICHAEL MORRISONAW CANNY)

an absolute truth that you cannot gag i you are breathing through your nose. My dentist told me.

ok round the table. My mother and her sister are intent on finishing the lunch in ront o them, flinching only an oc-onal nod o encouragement . I dont challenge my athers statement either, or all I know it could well be true. Te bill

ves and I pay it this time, mum needs to drive him back and its the least I can offer. We quickly arrange to meet at thekend, I say my goodbyes, turn and ollow the shore back to work.

e the oil-pop packet up with the edge o the mouse mat. Te red LED flashes in my periphery, indicating more than onece message is waiting. A green lig ht means the singular. I pinch thumb and orefinger together on both hands, count slow-o five. On the outbreath I pick up the packet and release two blue capsules. A bottle o water on the next desk.

dge the mouse and everything wakes up, simple as that. Te small envelope bounces away in the corner o theen. Electronic mail can never be worse than real mail. Te cards are all lined up, wedged atop the cubicle divider. Likeistmas cards, they offer well wishes on the birth o a son. I know that a real envelope sits in my top drawer too, money tosomething or Greg.

phone actually rings and I answer it beore I realise what Im doing.

n tell youve not opened my email you know. Pop through or a quick chat.

n the room, Im almost certain no one el se knows yet. I dont know how she ound out but Im making my way across ther towards her office. Don, says the small plaque on the door. Our offices are all named aer rivers. I knock and go in. Ithis coming, but I still eel like a cunt.

e a seat Steve.Te blinds on one wall are already closed. Opposite them a view over o the Forth, a seventy ootp. How is Patricia doing, not getting any sleep I imagine?A cold streak floats up my spine and my shirt sticks.

s good. Wee Gregs been a gem so ar, definitely inherited my love o a nap. Shes unolding something and reading it; insteadmiling and saying thats good Steven.

d did you get enough time off? Apparently our paternity leave is particularly generous.as fine aye, too short but...but you know how these things are. Need a holiday just to get over the holiday!s looking at me now. Holiday?

eant...well, youve got a wee one havent you? You know how tough those first ew weeks are.

sheets back on the desk. Glasses off. Stop it Stephen, stop it now. She leans in and I cant tell or definite, but I think thatdone. She knows. Te cards on my desk, cards rom colleagues Ive never spoken to. Tey rallied together, over a hun-

d quid in total. I just attached an image o a new buggy to the thank you email. Tree weeks paternity leave Steven. And...

s back to the sheet o paper. en other mornings and afernoons off this year; scans, doctors appointments and sickness .

at do I say? Nothing. I might as well have been looking aer a kid.

en. Shes leaning right orward now, as i shes about to hold my ucking hand. Greg. Does he exist? Is he real?

mething kicks in my throat. I shake my head.

atricia?

ALISHIA FARNA(BELO


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metal sitting as a ossil in the thigh bone o the veteran?

psake o a war sold to him as easy as a fish.n more helpless than at birth, these boys were plasticine

ulded, meted veiled ables by a smokescreen o money-spinners.ir deaths were inscribed on the throats o the merchants.emed shots scraping across those barrels, a alse muzzle flash

afflement searing the skins o newspaper. In Ypres, no sniperproduced a vote. No explosion o sinew helped shake rom

earth its hoard o dust. Te spitting lies o the at orests

ere mere children gathered up lost limbs o riends

lay in oxholes maggot-filled, veracity mislaid in homed-lettern. Fight the pin badges to remember these, the poor who dined

dirt and pine-trees, with stomachs bloated with split tongues.

Into wrist and bone the tag does dLike it were an hourly duty working to clockwork, it cu

attempts to halve, divide. Te hours do

Skin o white sheet is hauled across the mattrtaut as an aged neck. In other rooms like t

the cast iron beds are elders o stone sleepi

Maddening homework decorates the wa

the absolute downpour o previous soLater, at a pill-filled lunch, thinned blue ro

flake off shoulders as does paint rom bric

both as strips o rozen skin alling. Foreheads bawith ringes dissected, wrists scored and sides o hea

nipped neat by razors. A sea o hours see the scuffed so

o eet drown in the scrim o twitter and dribble. By nithe totem poles o bones are sucked back in to th

lonesome dens, where ornaments and urnitare bolted down (in sick, subtle homage to the unse

astronauts who in a radar green murk expl

the unspoken rontiers o inner space). A deathly cho

o caterwaul flushes through the n ights corridors, but nebeore a coin o moon has waited or the sun to finish weepi

AM KOLINSKYENCHES, LYING)

(SKIN, SECTIONE

MARINA TSELEP(BELO


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IAIN MCCALL(LEFT)


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s is the road that Ive spoke omany times. Remember?

lie-avoiding drunk smoking womanling to my window at dawn?

me has shied. Silent now.w crying at the black bags eet.

Now each tear is held like a secret

ause amilies are strong and they mustnt stay sadhey hang not knowing what is up and what is down.at night she still sits-a we eping widow waiting or

ther morning.

ll the times Ive spoke o this

ition Im in. In all the times Ive told youut this madness; about the oxes; the strange

mings o men about the postman passed out

he morning sn ow, Ive never told youwhat gets to me the most.

ry Saturday beore the game. Beore the goals arered. Beore the fights break out and the drunks areled into the street; a man comes or his son.

steps onto the street, always looking or redemption.is never absent, never late and never empty handed.ve never heard the words nor have I ever seen a place where

y are less necessary.

ubt I will ever see the end o anything onroad. Aer me

me other will take my place and stare athat is going on.y will sit on these old green steps and

ch the curtains drawn and the windows

ned or air.

AMES DUFFYHE CLOSE)

Please its time he says.Te crowd looks on at the cracking dawn.Cyril, who was here or one, took his glass and was gone.

I was totally immersed as the crowd dispersed.Te vagrants swayed on the street like fire flies

in circles at least a thousand times.

And I was losing my mind, so struggled outside

away rom the scratching lights that dig out your eyes.Short Skirt was crying there or reasons known-the lad has grown. Te man is gone. Te lovers flown

to another town when a bit o leg was shown.

Hurry up. Please. Its timeAre you alive or not?

My nerves are bad tonight.

Where have you gone tonight?Should I carry on like one o the boys?

Should I give mysel up to this noise?

I ran to a breathless alley. Laughter

echoed like a tease. A broken pint.A bloody wreck. A bloody state.A broken street and

the incessant sounds that tell me the flashing haze is here to carry another into

the morning.

(THE LAST DISORDER)


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I had a Benjamin Button style romance.We never had the chance to hold hands,

Or slow dance to slow jams,Make those ruitless bold plans.

It was always just;

Where is the nearest bedroom?or;

On your way home, could you shut the door, thanks!

Because we started at the end.

A wise Scholar called Shakira once told me the hips dont lie,And that Playboy Bunny tattoo on yours,

Was a clear message sent.

We jumped in,Went skin-on-skin and sin or sin.

I was bored o taking the stairs,

So I just hopped the li,o your expectations o me which,

Didnt exist.

We were moving too ast like a Woman birthing twins.

But where do I go now?!

Cos Im in your house.Your brothers dont like me wearing just your dressing gown.

I have one o my own shoes,

and a hoody thats a moody exes hand-me-down.

We must have skipped a couple o stages!

Like 1st dates, 2nd names,3 amily members just blatantly being r acist!

Te 4, 5 and 6 drinks and crying in the rain bit...?

We never did that.Now its sad,

Tat urgency has le us blinded we can see that we are mismatched.

Why do I eel loved when I eel smothered by someone I barely kiss back?

Im gripping on,

o anything at all.Like Stallone in Clifanger Im just avoiding the all.

Youre the driwood.I spotted the smallest chance o happiness pass by and I gripped you.

But my hands are weak.We met amily, had sleepovers, argued on the street..

Got jealous, talked reckless, I never listen when you speak!

My Benjamin Button romance.

oo weak,For 2 weeks.

CRAIG SCOTT(BRAD PITT STYLE AGEING)


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RACY RYANELOW AND RIGHT)


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BEN MCATEER(BELOW AND RIGHT)


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KIM CAMPBEL(BELO


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HOMAS CLARKELOW AND RIGHT)

Te dreglins, green, ae resh-brewed beer,

Ma peerie stove o pettie birns;In skies o snaw the orenicht comes,Yeve time eneuch or jist ane cup?

Sooth o the river, whaur aw is guid;

Lang syne, lang syne, ah kent that kintra weel,Te rivers flouers birnin reid at sunrise,Te rivers watters green as lilied Spring,

Sooth o the river, ah remember, ah remember.

A bricht muin sheens aore ma bed,

Tairs rost upo the grund, ah ween.Ah hyst ma heid, an stare at licht,

Ah drap ma heid, an think o hame.

East o Jeishi muntain, ah leukt intae the sea,Te waters blue an dancin, the muntain island brent.

rees here growen thick, a hunder gresses grushie,

Te autumn wind that souchs, an se nds up michty waws.Frae deep inside, the sun an muin,

Te Milky Wey are pilgrimers,

An ah am sonsie, seilie gled,ae leeve tae sing this sang the day.

Te third month ae Autumn, the nicht is cauld.Pleisantly inby, a carlie, lane an auld,

His lamp gan oot, at last hissel has lain,An sleeps in soond o beautiul rain.

Te ess steys warm lang eer ingle wilts,

Wae smuist maks beek the kivers an the twilts.Skybrek clear an cauld; he daesna rise,

Reid leas like rost lin thick roon whaur he lies.

(INVEETIT)

(SOOTH O THE RIVER)

(SLEEPIN OAN A NICHT O AUTUMN RAIN)

(THOCHTS ON A STILL NICHT)

(WALKIN FAE XIAMEN AN LEUKIN AT THE BLUE SEA)

MICHAEL MCCANN(BELOW LEF


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Britain lies smouldering in the Atlantic. Isolated and shunned. Te English countryside is peppered with corpses, animateand inanimate, and downed helicopters and planes. Te propellers and wings protrude rom the churned mud like a sunk-en fleet at low tide. Tere are deceptive signs o lie. Farmhouses have long since been ransacked and pillaged, their more

contemporary neighbours in the suburbs the same. Photos in rames positioned by opportunistic war journalists lie nextto abandoned toys and pools o black blood, their corners curled and their glass strategically smashed. Heartstrings pulledDonations accepted. Sometimes you see horses in the driveways where cars used to sleep. Te cars now sit in the middle o

roads, in ditches, overturned, burnt out, packed with corpses. Cars were the worst way to go.

Te tower blocks are pox-marked by broken windows and scorch marks, filthy against clear sky. A yacht floats lazily down

the Tames, serene and gentle, the bodies on the deck basking in the sun. Nobody cares about London now. Te Houses oLords and Parliament lie in ruins, the first to go when the rioting began in earnest. Politicians bore the brunt o the aggres-sion, the rage, the betrayal. Most went into hiding. Most were flushed out. Some say the last person to enter parliament wi

honest intentions was Guy Fawkes. Te government went underground, unwilling to relinquish control to the baying moball the while appealing to the international community or help. Our calls went unanswered, our reugees turned back. Britain was shunned. Cut off. Quite rightly so. Te once United Kingdom was quickly and quietly orgotten by the world.

Te clouds dri across the sky, occasionally obscuring the sun. When it shines the sun illuminates the shadows o a Londo

side-street long enough to reveal a man standing stoically. Enter our hero.Standing at roughly six eet he is neither imposing nor diminutive. His skin is darkened by prolonged exposure to the sun,

his hair prematurely grey in parts. His green eyes afford him an unsettling stare. His beard, only a ew days old, ages him byond his years. Black jeans are aded, boots are scuffed, leather jacket is lop-sided and shredded in places. A dark blue t-shireads keep calm and carry on. Te sawn-off shotgun hangs limply at his side.

Gunshots crackle in the middle distance as the last o London succumbs to the relentless onslaught. Te battle is firmly onthe ground and undoubtedly close to its inevitable conclusion. Our hero walks through Whitehall calmly, unperturbed by

the bodies piled up at the side o the road. He looks as i he would whistle were it not or the dangers o drawing attention himsel. At a crossroads, to the le, he can see two women and a man tear a soldier limb rom limb. Our hero turns right. Aew soldiers retreat rantically rom some unseen danger. Our heros boots crush against the layer o broken glass and cruo

coating the road. Rich and poor lie together indiscriminately.

He turns onto Downing Street. Te gates bent and buckled, an armoured car caught in them like a fly in a spiders web. He

steps careully through the wreckage and into the enclosure. Te door to Number en is open and a figure lies slumpedagainst it, breathing heavily with its ac e turned away.

Tere she is. Te woman he came so ar to see. He approaches the doorway and stops a ew eet shy and positions himsel iront o the figure. With laboured breaths Tatcher turns her head to ace our hero. A deep, savage wound in her neck slowleaks blood in time with her pulse. She looks at him calmly. He meets her gaze, unblinking.

More gunshots, not too ar away.

Neither o them turn to look in that direction. An almost indiscernible clenching o his jaw is the only indication that he isanything but an automaton. Tatcher opens her mouth slightly as i to speak. Unflinchingly he raises his shotgun and firesit into her ace. Blood slaps against the brass numbering and trickles down the door like rain on a windowpane. Te Lady i

not or turning, he says beore stepping over what is le o her body and entering the building.

He slams the door shut behind him. Te body against the door slumps to the side, quietly, without uss.

EMI JAMES(THIS GREEN UNPLEASANT LAND)

LIAM DUNN(BELO


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i smith style she dances in the kitchene filter tips glued to her nipples

od dropping off her chinbouncing small on the black floor

e eet were made or uckin dancinm the dj- shouts patti

es her swollen mouth

tches the bruise on her ear

w its time or a riothin would ever turn her offfires down a super lager

gs out Freedoms just another word or nothin lef to lose

s good enough or the little filter tipsking up her blood like miniature tampons

me that light bulb its too uckin darki want to do some damage

ant to do some real uckin livin damage

o c k a n d r o l l

M FERGUSONRAGIC UNREALITIES)

(2)

today its her birthdayshe thinks shes paul weller

but someones called the doctor

hes the man to put her right

shatter her dreams and bring her backto dreary pain and mindlessness

the meaninglessness o not being welleris hard or her to take-get her to the hospital theres nothing i can do

or paul this is a bad birthday

drugged up and out and downon the ward today and now and or ever

there it all goes rolling awayon different reality day

i you knew anything, youd never let them do it,

electricity- she says


34/56

hed her big time arse and cunthe good citizens o edinburghodern in everything but attitude)

ped the at man wearing purple shadested till he pulled a blade

n booted his testicles into his throat

bigger they come the sofer their balls, she whisperedded away or a late-night pizzaps with curry sauce

lychees, aye, definitely lychees

(4)

connected to the planetthrough a multiplicity o selveslast count she had 32 personalities

1000 pairs o shoes and a room ull o make upit was taking years to discover her true sel

but maybe it was the shoes and make up

that made her, maybe that was all she was

but no


35/56

k cave tragic soundtrack

er broken heartging her washingdamaged bra and lonely trousers

hering in the steaming kitchen

sauce or her chips

mething o a luxurywisheswas dangling

m the washing linehinkshat

is hung out to dry

some wasted ucker

STEWART CRAIG(RIGHT AND BELOW)


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AMILA CAVALCANTE PEREIRAELOW)


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i open my legssnow is alling in between

it melts beore me

NATALIE STYPA(SNOW)

i loved it how you say his nameyou almost blush and look awaycant throw his reason in the flame

this ship is sinking, getting lamehere between dover and calaisi loved it how you say his name

lets burn our insurance claimlets drink and go see cabaret

and throw his reason in the flame

you say i looked like porcelain

and pass some rench cheese on a tray

i loved it how you say his name

you promised we would want the samebut fingers are no birds o preycant throw his reason in the flame

you do not want to play this game[kant! keep your graphicness at bay]

i loved it how you say his nameand throw his reason in the flame

(BABY BLUE

OR:

CONTINENTAL PUSSY STYLE)


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puts his hand between her legs and startseyes wide open ocused on her breastcloses hers and thinks about descartes

hink thereore i am; does that suggest

she is in this moment, caught and helplesslyoted to his groaning orm

ose sweat is drenching her; till with a yelpfinishes, dismounts. outside a storm

hasing clouds and rain across the skywonders: what i i dont think at allucceed to kiss my thoughts goodbye

n he might groan and sweat and grab and sprawl

meanwhile i, in temporary death

uld rolic in a field o babys breath

E-LOVED)

CHARIS EDWARD WELLS(RIGHT AND BELOW)


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CAITLIN HIGGIN(BELO


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RAIG THOMSONELOW)


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ROBERT SANDERS(ESTLIN)

w does it make you eel theyre asking, how does it make you eel? you. you slide the blade in,ax coax coaxing out the nail. theres a noise, oh like the wet suck o ill-fitting alse teeth andad-wood-snap as the cuticle tears and the red drops pitter patter on the table. you lay them out,e through seven. theyre asking how are you eeling, how are you eeling now, theyre asking?ddled, alive, you say. grimace one twice three times or the cameras. the ghost o a peripheralrvous system chuckles, nociceptors the mere tickle o caterpillar tongues on old skin. im alonehis room no matter how many crowd round. no matter how many crowd round theyll ask what

ppened and no-one can be here. rom this ungathering a whoop ruptures, somewhere betweene-orgasmic ellipsis and post-rape clarity, as the tenth spastic rattle o keratin hits ormica. whato next is inevitable as kensh. what i do next is with nicotine slick hands peel scalp back romull. consider it a metaphor: those viscous roots, those digging fingers. but there are no meta-ors, just sensations palpable as flies on amine orphan skin. blue pill lips, guilty licked, swelled,ty, asking do you know what it is youre doing? art or terrorism? my arm, wet and numb as

w born, wet and numb as the thousandth penetration. my arm yawning, weighed down by theomise o what im doing, weighed down by the hammer im somehow clutching, heavy like itsoze or god. the first swing i miss, and brittle, gummy, my cheek crumples. this is not rebellion,t acceptance. my hands dont shake the second third ourth time and soon my mouth is justole. a whole; chasmal; pornographically so. my laugh jerks through thick glottal bubbles. my

utterings calcium grist. the blank hard rush o something escaping is me, alling. a head the heady head, the baptist, the revelator, occludes with cold marble. my jaw, partly parted, i realise sitskew on my chest and i wonder how, or a second orgetting the tableaux. sticky applause to wake but its not a dream i you never slept, is it? like it matters. art or terrorism. they stumble drunk

d ulgid rom the tangible, righting me, degloving me, sharpening bone and ocus and visionsimming. the airs gelatinous with semen tang. i prod tentative whats le o this ace, trailing li-ntious shards to oedipal holes. deliberate. like a plane hitting a building. a truncated uture. anenteration o me. what little i eel (how do you eel?) dances down my ront, girlish hands clumsymbling and i im not hard they make me hard. and i, splintered jabbing into the thinskin o bel-i hack mysel a cunt, glabrous and slick at my centre; gouge mysel something algebraic, a labianora o curious geometry, a delicious tight palsy distending inexorably. my first satorial glimpse,curiosity births incontinent and gaping prolapsed, im everted, filled with fists ill never see.

RONNIE MACKINTOSH(BELOW)


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He shiversin the flat,

in hat andmittens that

he would not

wear outdoors,regardless.

His eet shake,

in shoes that siton linoleum.

Shoes so worn

they are sore.Te only pair

he owns.Alone,

thankully(no one requiring

explanations), hesits and stares,

at the lack o things.

(ALONE)

In his mess, he sometimesmisses his long ago past

images flicker, then pass:career and child rarelyremembered, and a wie,

no longer sad but glad o it.A broken ace that chartspast courses, wrong turnings

strange mask or a clown.Sleeping and waking with nopurpose, day aer day,

in the same clothes, dankand black with grime and

decay. Rotting eet, seepinginto leather discarded by astranger to this nearly lie.And still, he drinks.

(LOST LIFE)

SU GRIERSON(BELO


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AT GOLLOCKELOW)


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OPHIE WILLSELOW)


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elt tacks, grey as ash, lid o the boxslid back labelled spikda neck piece, claw hammer, enamelledragments o urchin shellunamiliar shore kaldbaksvik, silver and fishskindriwood, iron nailsthe colour o dried blood fingers o timberwhale toothnotched with barnacles shakudo, shibuichi, white and goldragments o rubber, sea-wornsilvered as birch bark necklace, mussel and chainragment o trilobite, polished

gold o oakcluster

brooch, reconstructed ivory and readymade hairwillow pattern. the storm hit the

village on 13th November 1872. electroormed copper, silver and steela man sits, still as a deathmask

on the stove the kettle boils memory container, wood and eltvarnished leaves, peeled birch

glistens like fishskin necklace, marble, brass and leathera branch with flowers, a blossoming

industrial copy o the white ironwood, cotton thread and painta slate beach, vortices o shell

in dessicated nest o weed neckpiece, oxidised silver, industrial enamel and shell beadshere are the dead, greensilence o the outer island twin brooches, cachalong opal and silvertusked shard o antler. twigragment striated as bone

brooch, bioresin and chainthe pressed imprint o memorycatalogued as pendants

neckpiece, pigment, graphite and brassochre stone, lichened yellowthe dye presence o croatal

urill en, painted wood, iron and threadlands end, dog long deadnitrate emergence o wrecks

brooch, reconstruc ted ivory, bone handle (ready made) and limpet shell

MORGAN DOWNIE(ABOVE, RIGHT, AND BELOW)

(TOPOGRAPHIES)


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it is a disappearingthat mats my eyes,

that will be correctedby no lens.

i clutch at colour

like a drowning man,watch as all o milton

blurs and vanishes.

and at song i seemysel, hand cupped

at my ear as i i am

suddenly my ather,reusing any hearing aid,

allowing only the exposed

tympanum, bomb shocked,ainter and ainter,until only a drone.

yet the dreamsare all fire

and roarand i awake,

my tongue

rattlingin my skull,

a man

exhausted.

(CHROMOSOME 1

POSITION 1Q41)

hit in boillir stertenn bylgja ab nitrogne

tht plummet ab degre

unz ad tht kaldr palusab imaginari

hit biqiman transormarebon unselen

conteynenpa ad hit eigenn

beginning

hw cthe haa saihwantht twa tyrris alla

tht groot hengn siolor ototema

transormare

in chaos and- dunstunz inerus hit olltht absolutus sir

ap tht idwaiten incandescans

(HELIUM II ALTERNATE)


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(HELIUM II ORIGIN)OE Goth OF MEOE ON G FOE ME G MEON old Breton OE ON LG LOE Goth LOE MEAFON old Breton OE ONME

OE OE ON GothOE OE Gk ONOE D MEOE OE ojibwaL

OE Gk Icel DON L OE WelshOE L ArabicGk OE GkOE L

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the grind issue ii

Documents

kind of people

passionate people

grind issue

work justice

whythe grind

visual art

journal of ction

pursuit of art atthe