Saturday, 19 December 2009


An invitation to submit work for the first edition of patricide

Patricide is a new print journal devoted to documentary surrealism.

All interested writers and artists are invited to submit work for publication in this new journal with a first edition to be published in the first half of 2010 as a limited edition A5 perfect bound book.

Work should engage with the interface between documentary practice and surrealism. Written work should be within the range of 1 to 1000 words, images may take any form suitable for reproduction in monochrome (drawing, photograph, print, collage etc.).

Please submit work with the author’s/artist's name, brief biography and contact details to the following address.

Please could you pass this invitation on to any interested artists, writers or groups? No payment will be made for contributions but the copyright will remain with the author who will be clearly credited (unless anonymity is requested).

Thank you

Sunday, 15 November 2009

The Crowd

Abstentions, overwhelming, saying

"fill me with Vladimir Putin

to talk some ribs"

jumped on the civilized world.

Veterans happen

The question stops

I drank water

the rusting deportees

the history of words

when he reminded

wounded survivors

Tuesday, 13 January 2009

Friday, 19 December 2008

The Lecture

“Monsieur Went – how lovely to see you. I was beginning to think that something had happened to you. Everything’s ready for you – we have a projector… you will find the audience most appreciative.”

“Could I get something to eat first? I’ve been feeling…”
“There will be refreshments afterwards – come along Monsieur Went…”

Larry entered the bar, it had been rearranged slightly with a projector fixed to the ceiling and trained on a screen in front of the fireplace. A small group of strangers sat in the dark half of the bar – eyes peering out from amongst the stuffed owls and antiques. The only familiar faces were Mike War - smiling in the midst of the audience - and Georges Brassey, who was fussing around Larry, urging him to sit at the table adjacent to the screen. Georges opened the proceedings…
“Mesdames et messieurs – tonight’s lecture will be conducted through the medium of English. I have much pleasure in introducing Monsieur Larry Went from across the water…”

Larry had not prepared a lecture but he was accustomed to public speaking and having classes dropped on him at the last minute. It seemed uncomfortably natural to walk into a room full of strangers and start talking - that was the lot of the lecturer. He considered this a test, an initiation rite that might bring him closer to the secret of Godard’s death. He had nothing to lose now and could easily improvise a lecture – improvisation was his default mode. His lectures always pitted the idle ramblings of a man who knew half of nothing against an audience who were half-listening. Tonight’s audience applauded politely as Georges took his seat, all eyes were fixed on Larry. He noted the familiar self-conscious awareness his own body, his hair, his posture, his clothes. He could feel the audience summing him up and dismissing him before he had even opened his mouth. He straightened himself, walked into the blank blue light of the data projector, cleared his throat and began…

Hôtel Gai-Remuez

Larry was beginning to be confused by this over-familiarity and the mention of this ‘English friend’. He sensed that, beneath the surface of Georges’ friendly banter, there was an ulterior motive – that, despite the room’s homely atmosphere, there was a darker, more oppressive side to the Hôtel Gai-Remuez. He turned his back to the fire and looked behind – into the dimly lit other half of the bar and realised from whence this subliminal oppressive atmosphere had originated. While one side of the large ground floor room was sparse and barren, neatly and efficiently organised; the other side of the room was cluttered with a mess of furniture and artefacts. The other side of the bar was like the dark side of the moon, the right side of the brain, the view through Alice’s looking glass. Old glass display cases covered the walls, filled with the most incongruous bric-a-brac imaginable. Most prominent were a cohort of stuffed owls dressed in miniature lederhosen who were distributed throughout the curious cabinets that also contained an array of totems, idols and sacrificial objects: Pickled snakes, jars of rusty nails, gas masks, wartime red cross parcels, eggs, seed pods, plastic toys, musical instruments, wood carvings, wire sculptures, bottles, bones, feathers and medical implements. It was as though the contents of a dishevelled, nomadic memory had been extracted, displayed and categorised – it was a vision of the twentieth century that emphasised the fetishistic nature of human civilisation: Objects, objects, objects. Larry turned back to Georges and acknowledged the sight with an exhalation.

“Phew… quite a collection of… quite a collection. I’m sorry but I am travelling alone - tout seul – I do not have an English friend waiting for me. My brother – I travelled with my brother, but he has gone… Je suis tout seul et mon frère a voyagé à Davos…”
“Ah oui – you are all alone in Rolle. This man from Liverpool – I was believing that you may be friends, Je suis désolé - we have so few English guests here monsieur. But for eating – for eating you should go to Manigley’s place; the Restaurant Vaudois on Grand’ Rue”

Larry’s bag was taken to his room, he checked in, freshened up and decided that he would take George’s advice and head for the Restaurant Vaudois – maybe he’d even try the sausage – and, after a late lunch, he would start to look for Godard – start to search for the truth. Before he left, he caught Georges serving another cold beer to the silent Swiss sailor with the stained beard.

“Excusez-moi Georges?”
“Savez-vous Godard, Jean-Luc Godard?”
“Oui, tout le monde connaît Godard monsieur…”
“Have you seen him here in Rolle recently?”
“Mais oui, of course I have seen him in the town – he was at the fleuriste – he was buying Impatiente, a tray of them on Friday – what is it that you call them… busy… busy?”
“Err – do you mean Busy Lizzies? Do you know his address – could you introduce me?”
Georges shrugs his shoulders and taps the side of his beak. “Monsieur Godard doesn’t like – how should I say? He doesn’t like busybodies – you may meet him but… he is a private man, he is Vaudois.”

Tuesday, 9 December 2008

The Funeral

Larry hesitated in the doorway of the chapel of rest – he could see a heavy wooden coffin resting on a metal trolley at the front of the aisle. There were pews on both sides of the artificially lit, windowless room. Eric Satie music was crackling out of concealed speakers. A silent, shadowy attendant was standing outside the door – he was the only other living person about – Larry felt that he had better check that he’d got the right dead man.

“Can you tell me – who’s the?”
“Fellow called Monod”

That was the name that Williams had mentioned, Larry’s instinct about the time was right. Uncertain of what to do next, he progressed down the aisle, towards the open coffin.

The body was covered except for the bloodless head that rested on a plain white linen cushion. Larry stared in fascination at the waxy Monod’s face for several minutes when he suddenly sensed that he was no longer alone in the room. He turned and saw Sergeant Williams sitting in the back row, his head bent in thoughtful reverie – a slight clipping sound coming from his general direction. Larry turned and sat on one of the front pews – the mournful Satie music seeming to increase in volume.

It’s not a very large turn-out is it? – didn’t Monod have any friends? – If he’d have died in bed, he wouldn’t even have me – if I hadn’t gone to the police he wouldn’t even have had Williams – at least he knows how to behave at funerals…