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Updated: 2018-02-18T10:33:02.748+00:00


EXCLUSIVE • billy the kid's blackest bleakfast | poems r us


SIBLING IB: (PAT GARRETT) UNTITLED #2 from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB 
    (IBCD 002) (UK) 2018


    CD IB (IBCD 001 • 003) (UK) 2018 

EXCLUSIVE • yellow antipathy | poems r us


Originally here.

SIBLING IB: NEGATIVES from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK)

    from "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IB CD 001) 2018
    "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018

EXCLUSIVE • the ear of the dragon | poems r us


Originally here.   NAKED▼ SIBLING IB: MINDFULNESS from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK)   MIXES▼ SIBLING IB + GUS GHOST: MINDFULNESS (GHOST MIX) from "Bleachers In Dub"      CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK)▼ SIBLING IB + GUS GHOST: MINDFULNESS (EASTERN MIX #2) from "Bleachers In     Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK)▼ SIBLING IB + GUS GHOST: MINDFULNESS (IB's KEYHOLE INTERVENTION MIX #3)     from "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018     iUPDATEi ▼ SIBLING IB + NØ: MINDFULNESS (IB's DEGENERATE MIX • SLAPSHØT EDIT) from    "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018[...]

EXCLUSIVE • INDEX SIN CD 9 #5 | poems r us


Late night poem for Holly. Originally here.

    "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018

EXCLUSIVE • three inked nudes | poems r us


For the Mark E. I don't, by habit, subscribe to obituaries. Here, here and here.   NAKED▼ SIBLING IB: THE RETURNING BALLAD OF THE BURNT FISH BONE from "Naked On     The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK)▼ SIBLING IB: BUTCHER'S GIRL from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK) ▼ SIBLING IB: FAT CUNT from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK) 2018      UPDATEi     MIXES ▼ SIBLING IB: THE RETURNING BALLAD OF THE BURNT FISH BONE (IB's LONG JOHN     SILVER MIX) from ""Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018▼ SIBLING IB + SVEN WEISEMANN: FAT CUNT (IB's SPHERIC MIX) from "Bleachers     In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018▼ SIBLING IB + FAUST: BUTCHER'S GIRL (IB's RAINY DAY DRY MIX) from "Bleachers     In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018▼ SIBLING IB vs. KING TUBBY + SCIENTIST: BUTCHER'S GIRL (COPPER SHOT DUB)     from "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018▼ SIBLING IB • GUS GHOST • KEN RAMSAY: THE RETURNING BALLAD OF THE     BURNT FISH BONE (GHOST MIX) from "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK)▼ SIBLING IB: THE RETURNING BALLAD OF THE BURNT FISH BONE (BRØTHERHOOD    OF DUB REMIX) from ""Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018[...]

EXCLUSIVE • open invitation | poems r us


"MIX UP ON THE BLEACHERS!"Fourth instalment in this series on the BLEACHERS. In which we throw out an open invitation to all visitors: take a naked reading for a test drive, and create your very own mix. Whether you're quick on the DAW or simply a budding conjuror, there are no prerequisites beyond your enthusiasm for all things dub. All we ask is that you submit your end product here for download and potential issue on a strictly limited CDR. If you would like to participate in our project, we will be hosting naked readings on the bleachers for that purpose in the coming days, in addition to selected mixes by the Ghost Men. Originally here, here and here.   NAKED▼ SIBLING IB: MONK'S GIFT from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK)▼ SIBLING IB: AFTER SIBERIA from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK) ▼ SIBLING IB: TORRO! from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK) 2018   MIXES▼ SIBLING IB + GUS GHOST: MONK'S GIFT (GHOST MIX) from "Bleachers In Dub" ▼ SIBLING IB + GUS GHOST: AFTER SIBERIA (GHOST MIX) from "Bleachers In Dub"▼ SIBLING IB + GUS GHOST: TORRO! (GHOST MIX) from "Bleachers In Dub"    iUPDATEi▼ SIBLING IB + THELONIUS MONK: MONK'S GIFT (JEREMY RAVEN MIX) from     "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001 • 003) (UK) 2018▼ SIBLING IB + DELINQUENT HABITS: TORRO! (N∅ MIX) from "Bleachers In Dub"     CD IB (IBCD 001 • 003) (UK) 2018▼ SIBLING IB + LEGENDARY PINK DOTS: AFTER SIBERIA #3 (JEREMY RAVEN MIX)     from "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001 • 003) (UK) 2018    ROLL UP! ROLL UP! • JOIN OUR MIX UP ON THE BLEACHERS NOW! • ROLL UP!  [...]

EXCLUSIVE • billy the kid's last breakfast | poems r us


The third instalment in a series of readings on the BLEACHERS. Once more, with mystic instrumentation supplied by Gus Ghost. My mixing is still very rudimentary, to say nothing of the actual vocal recordings, but it is what it is. Originally here.

SIBLING IB with THE GHOST MEN: (PAT GARRETT) UNTITLED #1 from "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018

EXCLUSIVE • triage | poems r us


The second instalment in a series of readings culled from the BLEACHERS' back pages. Please bare with me. The naked essence of the recording may drift into the red on occasion. A streaker stepping off of the benches to tango up in blue. Originally here.

SIBLING IB: TRIAGE from "Naked On The Bleachers" CD IB (IBCD 002) (UK) 2018

EXCLUSIVE • mon uncle | poems r us


Brothers and sisters. Siblings all. As promised earlier, SibLINGSHOT ON THE BLEACHERS is pleased to present the first instalment in a series of esoteric readings culled from these very pages and brought to life by the magic of an ailing ethos digitalis. Ably backed by Gus Ghost, this first reading is dedicated to the legacy of Joe Meek. In addition, I would also like to thank brother jonder for his abiding curiosity and politeness in the face of rude dereliction. For those of you of a fragile disposition, a subtitled text can be located here. Thank you.

SIBLING IB with THE GHOST MEN: MON UNCLE | LATE NIGHT #2 from "Bleachers In Dub" CD IB (IBCD 001) (UK) 2018

kollaps #1


p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; }a:link { } musicIf you listen hard enough you will hear            the musicit is there in the punctuation:            the comma, the semi-colon;most of all it lives, hides, in the full stop            period.A rosebud unfurling             runaway cargo in a primed syringeelastic delay at the junction            between clenched fist and elbowA moment of clarity            where once there lurked clouda prelude to a rude excision            the post-mortem of a kissIf you listen close enough you will hear[...]



"To perish there among the crabs and anemone sewn across the dark seabed."
(image) It was the Hallmark spectre of a Christmas looming which officially stamped the demise of one era. The ushering in of another.
     It led him around the corner and into an Early Learning Centre.
     He was tangled in the process of re-education of sorts, the pushchair snagging on the tails of hand-carved wooden crocodiles, when he locked wheels with the mother of a good friend he had once ill advisedly fucked.
     "The Campbells Are Coming" wheezed from a loudspeaker mounted just overhead. Small change, at least, from the obligatory psalm.
     It gave him pause to prepare a smile.
     She waved back at him, her hand fluttering like a stricken Robin.
     She in charge of twins, granddaughters, he his only begotten son.
     They exchanged small talk.
     She looked at him stiffly and asked if he knew that Alan had died. A cardiac arrest.
     He felt an odd discomfit settle in his throat like acid indigestion and wished for a cigarette.
     Alan never smoked in his life. Well, once, perhaps. When they were kids.
     Both of them green. Overawed by phosphorous igniting.
     She asked him if he was alright.
     Neither of them spoke for a time, each of them too ashamed to swap further pleasantries. The game of pass-the-parcel on hold indefinitely, a truce, no gifts in their baskets to bestow upon the infant Jesus.
     He remembered how they had flattened pennies of the railway line running behind their parents' bungalows. How his father took his own life with a rope not long after his own dad had died. How they drifted apart until an awkwardness stood between them as strangers.
     He remembered screwing this woman's daughter one fragile night in December. How she had tasted on his tongue. The trembling in her thighs.
     He remembered how close they once were as nine-year-olds.
     Never less than at home in the Wendy House in the back of her garden.

the night before the night before the night


"Desperation is the raw material of drastic change... Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape."  
- william s. burroughs

"An Experimental Approach to Understanding Burnt Fish Bone".

It was the ballad of the burnt fish bone, an obtuse riddle at best, which took Pablo Dillinger and Jody the Hat over the edge and out to the island.
     The hull of their boat was painted red on the outside.
     Crudely carved out of soot blackened planks saved from the church fire. Pegged together without finesse.
     If the paint was an afterthought then so was the sail, strung rather than rigged through sad masts, the pair of them hunched under it at the oars like two crows in a half destroyed nest. Frantically rowing in spite of a robust wind.
     The Hat peered out across the water and spat into the palm of one hand, the oar falling back in its pivot.
     Pablo Dillinger let out a curse.
     Tortured more by the waves lapping up between exposed channels running the length of the boat than outraged by his comrade.
     Terrified lest they go under.
     To perish there among the crabs and anemone sewn across the dark seabed.

siblingshot on the bleachers


'cause sometimes half-assed

is better than nothin' at all...

new year's spoiler | 2nd coming, or the return of a spectacular non-event


the chimney ruse is just a con

While there may be scant few who remember, and less still who give a f@ck, it does not escape me entirely that nearly a decade has rushed by since I broke my promise to defile the bleachers with a bespoke reading or two.
     Well. The ego has shrivelled, the eagle never did land, but the idea which first began percolating down through the topsoil all those years ago to where exhibitionism lies buried continues to fester like human papilloma virus nursing a grudge deep below the skin.
     The monkey may be rusty, his performance wavering, but feed it a couple of tabs of Viagra and the organ still grinds.
     And so. This year coming, plans are afoot to resolve the unconscionable and break out the mic. The logistics remain hazy. The physics untested. But rest assured, the programme is scheduled. There will be a gnashing of teeth. Amen.

spek weh

"weh put the wee in weegie."

"thrill to the glottal stop!"

festive fun on the bleachers!


hey siblings!

fancy a little festive fun on and off the bleachers ?

Simply print off as many labels here on the bleachers as ink allows and cut them to size. Watch those fingers, now... Then, using one of mom's discarded needles - clean zone this season ? A visit to grandpa's may be required - carefully prick
a small hole in the centre of each circle and string together. Voila! Your very own XXX-mas decoration! Go on! Fill your friends with envy!! Happy holidays!!!

66° 32' 35" north in keds


one of these days i'm 
gonna get organized

a christmas carol


“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.” - charles bukowski

I squeezed the trigger and watched the fat cunt take two slugs squarely in the face. All because I did not want to get too close. His card was already marked. Terror. Not so much a stone as a sack of delinquent imps writhing about his throat. Wretched. Jockeying.
     Contagious as an curse.
     The first round, more fortuitously than by design, struck him between the eyes.
    The second hit him just above his right cheekbone, depositing on the wall behind him an inverted triangle of scalp the approximate shape of Barbados.
      It was the closest the cunt had come to a holiday since 1992.
      I felt all warm inside just like Santa Claus.

and the privileged will eat themselves


“Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside... remembering all the times you've felt that way.” - c. bukowskiRain threatened. An ugly purple glowering. I was listening again to some Charles - Bukowski not Ray - while my ex-wife dressed the truculent seven-year-old between coffees. '90 Minutes in Hell', via Nothin' in Sacramento.      Three short damaged pieces. I did not get so far as 'May Make Paris Yet' before the doorbell chimed.     The visitors are slick customers. Bearers of gifts. Their sleight of hand when trick or treating is easier overlooked.     Things are seldom what they seem.     The outcome is often a far cry from small change cultivated.     " on the outside with blackened channels, charred tansgressions touching 1mm at the bone."     Swine flu in the mouths of fish.     The hand-written note on the back of a folded playing card unsettled me.      It conjured for me notions of plague. Bubonic transmissions. That "1 mm", though, seemed altogether too modern. Anatomically precise.      The metric overture to an excision.      Last night I had a dream. The Chinese had invaded. Or maybe the incursion came from dead space. Pregnant realms deep under. Whatever.      Twenty-three to thirty of us were detained by day in a 're-education centre'. Permitted home under cover of darkness to complete an assignment. The Chinese were coolly efficient. Suave and clinical in their Jimmy Chu suits. Papier mâché Mao Tse-Tung masks.     I had a crush on a female translator with obsidian eyes and a bull horn.     She promised excellent head without once delivering on it.      I did not complete my homework. The deadline came and went. I stepped over tables where the privileged dined. Plunged down winding lanes.     I walked hand in hand with the visitors.     Slept fitfully on corners.      The very next morning I was outnumbered by a gathering of Caucasians slyly unveiling beautifully executed Cartouches celebrating occupation.     They disembarked from a gaily painted bus.     Jewelled porpoises rode the wings through an ocean of supernovae.     Sperm whales the size of trawlers devoured entire galaxies like so much plankton.     "You, who have done, have done well."     The charming young woman behind the bull horn beamed.     I fled for the bus stop with my bottle of Peptic Liquid wrapped in a paper sack.      Aniseed. The Peptic Liquid, not the sack. There is a world of difference between heartburn and underlying condition. When I was a young man, I suffered from heartburn a good deal of the time.      A little Milk of Magnesia always worked wonders.      I sat down to the desktop monitor as soon as I'd made coffee. Punched open a tab. Googled the line as I remembered it.      The computer is growing too sluggish to be smartly useful, the beach ball spins and idles. Like its operator, it may require therapy. Psychiatric intervention.     The search yielded more than one result.  &n[...]



Family Visits


"I'll tell you what i generally do
- and this is kinda crazy -

well, we go round and visit a lot;
we go to people's houses..."
do what thou wilt.
illustration by ib.



He walked down the street and took a bus to the airport.
     No box of lights.
     The sun through the slatted fence blinked at him like a strobe. It made him sick to the pit of his stomach.
     The road once he got on it was uneventful.
     There was nothing to save him painted on the bricks sliding past.
     He got there and did not think to check in. He held no passport anyway.
     He went straight to the cafeteria.
     Watched the planes roll in only to take off again two or three cups of coffee later. No broken wings or supports in splints.
      It cost him twenty pence just to urinate against a wall.
      He got the bus home and disembarked with a sixty a day habit.

twin decastich for hauf blind fucks on a glesga sofa


p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; }a:link { } fat cuntThe fat cunt upstairs is limping againthrough the early hoursa three-legged elephant locked in a trunkpsalms from Postman Patrecited at the top of scorched lungshe would go over the balcony as at the Sommeso entrenched is he in his night of the souland his doctor has spared him antidepressantsa sick note rubber stampedon the flat screen rattling like an MG 08p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; }a:link { } butcher’s girlI am hankering after your calvesa butcher hamstrung at the foot of his larderthe indecent swell above the ankle of one laced bootthose dimples sleeping behind each kneeI am smitten by the timing of your tidethat erratic flow inside the seam of your tightsgirl’s shorts I am gladly bludgeoneda servant to your footsteps on the staira harvester of unspoiled fats, meat, marrow[...]

well well well


A torrent. A cloud burst. 
Cats. Dogs. Now and then, spit. 

An oily smear across the t.
A single droplet dotting the i.

The passage of water eats words
the stutter of consonants
a paragraph that can not swim

A voiding of the vowels.

diplomant 2.0


"Every truth passes through three stages before it is recognized. In the first, it is ridiculed. In the second, it is opposed. In the third, it is regarded as self evident." - Arthur Schopenhauer
All flight paths to perdition converged on P'Yongyang. A ridiculous haircut.
     He sat snuffling Cointreau like a spoiled little bitch. All that was missing was mink, a shard of ice off the shoulder.
     He sat trailing a long shadow.
     It spilled off the stool and onto the floor. Climbed up the washing machine and ate into exposed brick.
     An inky aspidistra itching to shed leaves.
     The decor was frigid. Magnolia. Baked tile. A tea-towel hanging next to the porthole window. A map of San Francisco in the shape of a heart. Pier 39; Fisherman's Warf. Bleeding out toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
     It was a night for arseholes.
     Buses in the rain.
     He got down off the stool and threw open the door. Fell twice, while cueing up George Jones.
     The cigarette glow mashed across his face.
     Aside from ghosts, he spent Halloween happy hours holed up alone. His left elbow practically in the kitchen sink. Flirting with anxieties.
     He could not wait to buy himself a dog. A Shih Tzu maybe. Teach it to squat in a sandbox in the corner like an infant spilling out its pants.
     The right hand a paddle as eager to chastise as reward.
     Like a bitten ring left in the ashtray, the tail of a dress shirt caught in the closet, he gave himself away. From here, under the ceiling light, he could glance back between the years to count close friends lost.
     He missed each more than he missed his mother, his wife, that was the still pulseless heart of it.
     His legacy was a tumour ducking into a taxi like an engraved folding blade.



"you cannot shake hands with a clenched fist." - Indira Ghandi
Me and my dick have seen better times.
     I say this, in part, to rattle an acquaintance so anal grammatical treatises are practically dropping out of her arse.
     In the main, I mention it as a nod to fumbled moments better spent.
     That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, some say. That which doesn't quite snuff out the candle has a propensity to simply maim instead. My pissy old dick is not so much a monument as an embarrassment: wrung out; battered; a stub of rubber cod after years of legally prescribed chemical abuse. The head all scarred and listing like a middle-aged spastic trailing a shopping cart full of kelp home after dark.
     A target for sticks of two by four. Crumbling bricks.
     Well. I refuse to tie it up in latex as a gift. Leaking pearls before swine.
     It limps on as we all do. Tiny wind-up soldiers marching in circles. Straight off the kitchen table and onto the linoleum.
     A runaway jihadi hoodwinked into modelling a suicide vest.
     We are all of us, at the end of the day, survivors of sorts.
     Rewind the tape. Spit it out. The morning anti-psychotic. The gastro-resistant gelatin capsules.
     Doctor Feelgood is in rehab and unable to answer the phone.
     My tumescent appetite trembles on the wire.



"...don't bite the hand that feeds you, it's said. I'll chew the f@cking digits off the first paw that rattles my cage." - ibOutside in the quadrangles bees hustle atop the daisies.     Jockey and drone. Inch and fart.     Strung out. Buzzing.     Pursuing the amber dust which underpins their shantytown.     I sit nursing the hole in my tooth while the half shogun slam poet from Negril lays down his Mocha. Chases a crumb from the dreadlocks fizzing onto his lapel.     His giggle tumbles out the nostril like a finely tuned summer sneeze.     "Half past four is good," he trills.     A master at racket ball, he squashes the opposition with a well timed glance to the midriff. He prides himself on his athletic bent.      Less so, that priapic pilfering waist deep in the bowels of the lower third.      It's a long way down from the twenty-second floor.      The smile recedes abruptly and his eyes narrow as if surprised to find me there at all.      He offers me a finger of shortbread.      Berates the stricken of heart apropos of nothing and glances at his watch.       "Hmph," he huffs.       I look to the spaces lurking between bookshelves. Newspaper clippings. Marley's martyr. Despite ghosts past he is astonishingly far from advanced in years.      The skin peeking out from under crumpled linen a youthful laundered suit.      Up here in the ivory nest where the bumbling hover the reception is peculiarly rarefied.      I vow to flee before he smashes my ball down centre court. But not before I deliver up a map. Surrender it entirely. His head is still dizzy with hurricanes. That perfume etched in the seam of Irene's raw silk knickers.      Some fool's nectar.      It's why I read so little, these days. The fear of synchrony.      Religious intolerance.      Road rage.        Pygmy villagers brandishing torches to light the failing thread from one paragraph to the next.      "Ah well," he concludes. "I can't promise anything, but let me wish you all the best."      He reaches across the desk to clasp my hand.      The old magick.      Invitations. Ropes which maim and cripple.      Burn.      And, lodged in the corner of his eye like an aristocrat in exile, something which resembles disdain. [...]